Simon Harris on The Late Late Show: Sanctimonious Waffling and a Migration Cop-Out
Simon Harris, the Tánaiste and Fine Gael leader, parked himself stiffly in a Late Late Show seat on RTÉ, facing Patrick Kielty with all the charm of a damp dishrag. What unfolded was a tedious hour of sanctimonious drivel as he rambled about Ireland’s “triple lock,” its vaunted neutrality, and his grating social media fixation—every word dripping with a contrived earnestness that felt as fake as a politician’s promise. Most damningly, he swerved migration entirely, leaving a gaping hole where leadership should’ve been.
He consistently said “being honest” throughout the interview.
Kielty kicked off with the triple lock—the UN-linked rule chaining Ireland’s troop deployments—and Harris unleashed a lecture so pompous it could’ve curdled milk. “It’s illogical,” he snapped, railing against Russia’s veto as if he were single-handedly saving Ireland from tyranny. The sanctimony was suffocating, but when Kielty nudged for details on what ditching it means, Harris flailed—muttering about “democratic checks” and “global principles” in a stew of meaningless jargon. No charm, just a smug void where a clear answer should’ve been, hinting at a future where troop decisions get murkier, not smarter.
On neutrality, Harris cranked the sanctimony to eleven, clutching the policy like a lifeline. “I’m in favour of neutrality, and so is this Government,” he intoned, his delivery so wooden it screamed rehearsal. Yet he couldn’t resist hinting at “modernizing” it, tossing Putin’s name into the mix like a tired bogeyman. The contradiction—how slashing the triple lock jibes with neutrality—hung there, ignored, as he oozed fake sincerity. It was a masterclass in saying nothing with maximum self-righteousness, a hollow act that fooled no one paying attention.
Then came the social media bit, where Harris’s sanctimonious streak hit peak absurdity. With zero charisma, he bragged about his “TikTok Taoiseach” days, claiming his online antics “reach the youth” as if he’s some digital messiah. The sanctimony peaked as he cast his selfie obsession as noble outreach, sidestepping the flak he gets for prioritizing likes over substance. It was less a conversation and more a sermon from a man who thinks a viral clip equals statesmanship—fake, forced, and painfully devoid of warmth.
The real scandal? Migration didn’t get a peep. Not a word on asylum chaos, tent encampments, or his own flimsy “firm but fair” rhetoric that’s collapsed under pressure. This wasn’t an oversight—it was spineless. For a guy who loves to pose as Ireland’s earnest fixer, dodging a defining crisis while droning about TikTok and neutrality is the height of hypocrisy. Too gutless to tackle the heat, or just hoping no one would notice? His silence was a louder indictment than his waffle ever managed.
As Kielty ushered him off, Harris shuffled away, leaving a stale whiff of sanctimony and evasion. The triple lock got a pompous shrug, neutrality a robotic nod, and social media a self-satisfied rant—all while migration, the issue he’s too craven to face, sat untouched. For an “accidental activist,” Harris came off as a calculated fraud: no charm, no guts, just a sanctimonious shell. Ireland deserves more than this wooden windbag.
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