But what about the game?

In the week since the shocking attempt on Prime Minister Robert Fico's life, I happened to travel from one end of Slovakia to the other and back again.

The overwhelming sentiment I encountered was indifference.

I do not mean that people were oblivious to Fico's suffering: they were shocked when they heard the news, repelled by the act of violence against him, and no one wished him ill.

But this is not, based on my anecdotal (and entirely analogue) snapshot, a country on edge.

Four days after the attack, at an extended family gathering in eastern Slovakia, among people who are mostly supporters of the governing parties, the subject did not even come up.

Instead, there was the usual gossip, along with grumbling about the bureaucracy of regional government support and the allocation of agricultural subsidies. Clearly, no one sensed that the foundations of the state had shifted.

When I finally broached the issue by asking what I should tell family and friends abroad about this place – foreign media is now comparing Slovakia to 'a black hole', after all – all I got were sighs.

After a bit of prodding – and with, coincidentally, a ministerial press conference being broadcast live on a TV screen in the background, ignored by everyone – a few of the wilder talking points emerged: 'Don't you know that protesters in Bratislava [read: Gomorrah] have been holding up signs calling for violence against Fico?' (For the record, I have witnessed several of these demonstrations and seen no such signs.)

But this was half-hearted stuff: no one was really arguing that a placard at a demo, whatever it might say, motivates murderers. The conversation quickly moved on.

On the journey there and back, no one behaved or interacted in any way that was visibly different from normal.

In Bratislava, life continues as normal.

This is not the behaviour of a society that thinks the sky is about to fall. Rather, I suspect, it is a reflection, albeit unintended, of the detachment from reality that politicians have themselves conspired to create.

When you can go on TV, as one of Fico's closest Smer party allies did recently, and argue that "liberal circles" in America somehow conspired to arrange that the US Congress would pass a bill supporting aid for Ukraine on Hitler's birthday (and insist – apparently in all seriousness – that this is "no coincidence"), or if you can argue that George Soros is really controlling the government, or tell a crowd that the Slovak president is a "prostitute" for American interests, then you can hardly be surprised when your off-the-cuff claims blaming the events in Handlová on the media and the opposition are greeted with little more than a yawn.

This sense of unreality was enhanced by the anonymous, third-person post that appeared on Fico's own Facebook profile less than two hours after he was shot. It described the shooting as an "assassination" and reported that "R. Fico" was being transferred to hospital by helicopter. "The next few hours will decide," it concluded, melodramatically.

It was one of the few semi-official sources of information to emerge in the confused hours after the shooting.

Who drafted it? Who authorised it? Who posted it? We don't know and we likely never will.

More importantly, Slovak people do not expect to be told – about this or about how many of the other decisions that affect their lives are taken.

Naturally, when citizens are treated with disdain, they will adjust their attitudes and behaviour accordingly – sometimes in unpredictable ways.

One response (perhaps the intended one) is fear. Another is defiance. Yet another – and in some ways it is actually the default – is to shrug.

Slovaks know that the state is often tiresome, but also essential. They also know that quite a lot of it is theatre – and that the actors, when all is said and done, are not very good.

Take Fico's personal protection team, in their over-tailored suits and wraparound shades, who left an injured prime minister writhing on the ground, completely vulnerable to a potential second gunman.

Or the police and security chiefs whose custody protocols are so leaky that the prime suspect could be informally interrogated and recorded on someone's mobile phone, and the recording then leaked to social media almost immediately, without any consequence for those responsible – even though such actions could in theory prejudice a future trial.

Or the prosecutors who busy themselves indicting and jailing (in a single day, mirabile dictu!) a person shouting something offensive, but are unable to investigate a potentially fatal car crash in less than three months – or secure the conviction of an alleged murderer after six years.

Or the governing coalition leader who threatens other political leaders with violence, and then physically assaults a member of the public just hours after blaming others for inciting violence (and can also rest assured that he will suffer no consequences).

People see all these things and they draw their conclusions.

After Fico's assailant was charged with 'attempted revenge murder', the interior minister said the police were acting on the assumption that Juraj C. was acting alone. The suspect was then presented on Saturday, May 18, before the Specialised Criminal Court in Pezinok. The purpose of the hearing was to seek his continued detention.

To any normal person, the idea that a man who has just attacked and very nearly killed someone, let alone the prime minister, might be immediately released from custody might seem ridiculous – the hearing should have been (and was) cursory.

But the security circus that attended it was not. Literally dozens of police officers in full tactical gear – helmets, balaclava face coverings, body armour, automatic rifles and side-arms – swarmed the court entrance. But what, exactly, were they protecting – and from whom?

The suspect is, according to all the available evidence, a confused old man. Were they expecting the previously quiescent Levice pensioners' liberation army to bust him out of prison? Or maybe another old man (equally confused, but in the opposite direction) might attempt a Jack Ruby-style revenge-revenge killing?

Please.

No, that noise you could hear over the police sirens was the sound of stable doors being slammed shut.

By this point, most Slovaks had tuned out and moved on. On Sunday, the most-read story on the website of the Sme daily – whose readers, we can assume, are more politically engaged than the average Slovak – was not the condition of Fico or the future of the country, but an ice hockey match report.

The investigation then took another pathetic lurch, with the interior minister suggesting that Juraj C. might, in fact, have had an accomplice. The suspect's Facebook profile had been erased – after his arrest! But by whom? (The possibility that the suspect's wife might have done it, deliberately or accidentally, was dismissively ruled out as beyond her "technical capabilities", as if she somehow lacked opposable thumbs.)

After 48 hours of intrigue, it emerged that it was probably Facebook itself that had removed the profile. The company issued a nebulous statement half-acknowledging this, but clearly felt under no obligation to go into further details. This will no doubt fuel yet more conspiracy theories, but it is more important to our technological overlords – the same ones, let us remember, on whom all the governing parties rely for their direct lines to voters – to maintain the iron law of platform unaccountability.

The prime minister, thank goodness, seems likely to survive. Slovaks' indifference to politicians who treat them with contempt promises to be equally durable.