There was a moment of déjà vu on the Nine O'Clock News last Monday evening. The cabinet was meeting in Farmleigh House to devise a budgetary plan. As the ministers were chauffeured in the gates, it brought to mind another gathering earlier this year.


Last February, the Irish bishops met in Rome to discuss with the pope the problem of child abuse. There was something surreal, bordering on the ridiculous, about the pictures which were relayed from the Vatican.


The bishops, some of them togged out in cassocks, lined up to kiss the ring of Pope Benedict, resplendent in his white robes. From there, they retreated into conclave to discuss the damage wreaked by clerical sex abuse, and how best to address the issue into the future. The notion that these elderly men, their moral authority shot, could have anything to do with the protection of children in this day and age was absurd.


Yet once upon a time, their writ ran right across society. Power was wielded to great effect, and had been abused with devastating consequences. Now, they no longer matter. Even those who retain their faith, and maintain connection through clerics on the ground, pay scant regard to the musings of an out-of-touch élite, clinging to an out-of-date notion of power.


So it goes with the current government or, principally, the Fianna Fáil element of it. Once they considered themselves capable of walking on water. They had parented the imposter which was then known as the Celtic Tiger. Regularly, media from other countries requested an audience in search of the secret of their success. How had they done it? Were they really men and women, or actually giants?


They lapped it up, buying into their own hype. Naturally, their remuneration, the mark of their greatness, had to be raised to levels commensurate with their amazing ability. Weren't they entitled to it?


The disconnect from the citizenry which they forged through the bubble economy should have become apparent to them three years ago. In September 2007, a government-appointed quango ruled that the Taoiseach should be paid another €38,000 on top of his then salary of €272,000, to make him the best paid leader in the developed world. Despite the gathering storm, Bertie Ahern saw the hike as his due for the great job he was still doing.


The optics were all wrong. People were already being thrust onto the dole. Ahern was accused of being out of touch. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt and suggest he was already ensconced in the bubble of delusion where he has since made his home.


That, however, is no excuse for the rest of them. The optics on Monday spoke volumes. As the country totters on the brink of insolvency, highly experienced politicians saw nothing wrong in arriving in a cavalcade of state cars at Farmleigh, symbol of the old ascendancy, en route to determine the fate of the great unwashed. A couple of them stopped to toss out a few soundbites to the peasant media, before proceeding inside to determine who must suffer, whose lives are to be thrust into turmoil, and who gets off lightest. Are they really that out of touch, or is it that they are beyond caring?


Like the church hierarchy, they remain in office, but no longer command any real power. That has been ceded to the German moneylenders.


Like the church, Fianna Fáil has forfeited its moral authority. A party long possessed of a populist touch abused power to such a shocking extent it mortgaged the state's future for electoral success.


The ranks of the faithful have also been greatly depleted. Last week's opinion poll puts Fianna Fáil at 18%, the lowest point it has plumbed since de Valera's party was a pup.


The founder would not recognise what they have done to his self-styled national movement. Dev saw austerity as an example he, as leader, could give to the citizens, conveying that he was their elected servant. He knew better than to get notions above his station in a country struggling to maintain economic independence.


Somewhere along the line, his austerity by example was replaced with a sense of entitlement. Charlie Haughey had his personal delusions of grandeur. The other right Charlie – McCreevy – raised the sense of entitlement onto a higher plane. Salaries, the Mercs, the perks, the pension set-up, all were bumped up to what might be expected in an oil-rich kingdom, divided between rulers and serfs. And now, the sense of entitlement is so ingrained, it has blinded them to the most basic political instinct.


Neither is the disconnect confined to the Dáil. Fianna Fáil leader in the Seanad Donie Cassidy last week opined that senators were struggling to live on the €65,000 they are paid for a part-time gig. He apologised when the peasants reacted in kind, but his mindset was exposed.


It would be reassuring to conclude that the disconnect, the sense of entitlement, is confined solely to Fianna Fáil. But a suspicion arises that senior figures in the main opposition parties are just waiting in the wings to take their turn with the Mercs and perks. They may not suffer the same disconnect, but there is precious little to suggest they are equipped with what is required at a time of national peril.


Where are the signs of leadership on the most basic level? For example, what senior opposition figure has the guts to say something like, "No member of the next executive should be paid more than €100,000 at this time of great upheaval"? Who is willing to declare that public office now more than ever must be about what can be put in, rather than what can be extracted as a sense of entitlement?


The old order is rapidly changing. Fianna Fáil and the Catholic Church, as we knew them both, are bound for the knacker's yard. The worrying thing is nothing has yet been found to replace them. Give us a shout if you hear anything.


mclifford@tribune.ie