Well, my theory has to do with class and it begins with Tom Parlon's description of how he heard that the leader of his party, Michael McDowell, had failed to be re-elected to the Dail and had announced his retirement from political life. Parlon had stepped out of wherever the count was and was having a drink and a sandwich in a nearby pub when a huge shout went up from the crowd watching television . . . they were, I gather, whooping with joy.

He looked at the television to see what had made them so happy and saw they were whooping at McDowell's electoral demise.

What interests me is the striking similarity to an anecdote the late Liam de Paor told me about the 1977 general election. He was in a pub in Drogheda which was a dangerous pub to be in during the count since, in each corner of the pub, all watching the same television and all getting drunk, were groups of men diametrically and bitterly opposed on Northern Ireland.

Suddenly they were all united by one great cheer. Conor Cruise O'Brien had lost his Dail seat.

I wonder what you think those roars expressed? Do you suppose it was class resentment bursting out against what are perceived to be the accents and vocabularies and general demeanour of a ruling class . . . resentment at the self-confidence that springs from privilege?

Well, there must have been some of that in it.

But this is a very small country and people in general know the score . . . being somewhat 'posh' doesn't at all mean that you have any actual power in Irish society. Far from it.

Everyone knows that what matters is being on the inside track, being politically well-got and being well-furnished with gombeen skills and contacts. Everyone knows that, in every locality, one man and his extended family used to collect the rates and now own the supermarket, the petrol station, and the fields on the outskirts of town where getting planning permission for an immense housing estate will be no problem. Everyone knows that that kind of strong party man, a likable man, a man who loses a fortune at cards or at Cheltenham but spends a little bit on sponsoring trips to Lourdes for local invalids . . .

everyone knows that he runs the country. Him and his pals.

Of course, the middle classes have the professions sewn up and make a fair whack out of medicine and the law. But that's not power. They think . . . especially down in the Law Library . . . that they are where it's at but that is not the case.

Well, were the gleeful roars expressions of personal dislike? I don't think so. Not for a minute. There is some real respect for intellect around the place, and insofar as it was known that Conor Cruise O'Brien was a truly distinguished thinker, author and international public servant, the distinction would have counted in his favour. Michael McDowell was obviously far more able and effective than about 95% of his colleagues in government. But that's not why the two might, in another world, have been hugely popular figures. It is a question of the local relish for large personalities. Authenticity is prized . . . being a 'character, ' being someone with a forceful and preferably combative self. O'Brien and McDowell never sought to charm, nor to tread softly in the short term for long-term advantage. Both believe they are right, more or less all the time. In my opinion, that kind of egotism usually awakens regard, sneaking or otherwise.

The problem is righteousness.

Unfortunately, there's no way of running a controlled experiment to find out whether there would have been the same kind of gleeful roar if it hadn't been the case that guntotin' nationalism was a particular target of both men. In point of fact, Southern Ireland has never in recent times supported Northern republicanism, except for a short while after Bloody Sunday in Derry and during the hunger strikes, yet the 'armed struggle' is still, somehow, the locus of heroic nationalism. And its determined enemies, such as O'Brien and McDowell, are therefore seen as anti-national.

But in general, and leaving the North out of it, if there's one thing that gets the Irish voter down it's the whiff of moral superiority and I think that's what the roars were about. The whoopers were taking their revenge against Michael McDowell because he seemed to them to have dared to be holier-than-thou (which the Greens were too, of course, but their policies were all talk so it didn't matter). In fact . . . and I wish I knew whether this is true of other societies comparable to Ireland . . . not only is moral superiority unacceptable in public representatives, moral inferiority is positively prized.

When a TD is caught out in skulduggery or double-dealing or welshing on debts it reassures the voter. It makes the voter feel he has power . . . that he has chosen to allow the return of the miscreant to the Dail. Not only are the electors expressing their sturdy indifference to Dublin's, London's and the world's standards of morality, they're making sure that they themselves can never be looked down on by their representative. And . . . yes . . . we arrive back at class.

Once upon a time, our 'betters' had power over us and looked down on us. Well, our governors still have power but, by allowing them dubious personal morality as well, we at least make sure that they cannot claim to be our betters. Our betters we get rid of. In the camaraderie of stroke-pulling and other forms of criminality, we are all one.