A Maddening Sadness

Early last week, when things were quieter and the world was still spinning, allegations and remarks were abound as they have been for some time. The evidence of Gráinne Carruth was being lamented as a bad day for Bertie in the newspapers as they executed their never-ending campaign of vicious and snide comment on the proceedings and revelations being uncovered under the nose of Judge Alan Mahon. Each had their part to play, with the main contenders being newspapers I dare not read for fear of the anger it may spark. The “opposition” too were guilty of pursuing a negative agenda towards the Taoiseach with their chief brooder Leo ‘the pussycat’ Vardakardarkar being the most vociferous of the feral weasels on the opposing benches. Enda was quiet but everyone knew he was back in Mayo trying to string a sentence together that wouldn’t be lost in the eves of Leinster House as is his monotony. Gilmore too was out an about, but they all paled in comparison to new-found follower and Senator, Eoghan Harris who came to Bertie’s aid on the airwaves, pulling off a mighty coup of being on RTE’s Pat the Plank one minute and TV3’s Nightly News with secret Bertie-lover Vincent Browne the next.

Overall though, everyone was doing the same as they’d done before. Pat the Plank even had sports ‘pundit’ Eamonn on to do some gaffs about how he thought Bertie measured up to Dunphy’s unquestionable standards (he failed on that note). John Waters was there too, although he failed to make a single point worth noting.

And throughout the weekend, everyone was gearing up for the spectacle of Enda making a piss-poor attempt at leading an opposition attack on the Taoiseach on Wednesday as the Dáil came back to work. But Bertie was busy in background. The master strategist had one ace in the hole that no one, including Bertie, could believe.

I was busy that morning. It was a damp morning as April began to test my patience with the weather. I’d just started to re-install a Microsoft Windows PC (what’s new there then!) when I heard the phone beeping in my pocket. “Bertie’s gonna resign - press conference called” came through. It wasn’t the only text I got, but the same line was apparent in all. Within minutes, several people in the office where I was working came in to say the same. My heart sank. I lost track of what I was doing and ignored the risk of viruses and spyware and went on the internet without protection to find out about this.

But it was too late. By the time I hit the refresh button a second time, the pigeons in RTÉ had spread the word. The greatest politician in living memory was resigning, giving his month’s notice to his boss, the people of Ireland. In what I have only seen parts of (as I’d be too emotional to watch the full speech) it was said that the Bert was very moved and emotional when addressing his critics and vowing to set the record straight on his messy affairs of some 15 years ago. I sat in the chair motionless. I was sad. I was depressed. I was sympathetic. I was angry.

For years I’ve been a staunch defender of Fianna Fáil. I first met Bertie Ahern at the age of 13 when he came to officiate at the opening of my local supermarket, where I was employed. I was the third person in the row inside the ribbon-clad door. He was a newly-elected Taoiseach and I was an impressionable young man. The warmth of his presence resonated with all the staff as he breezed through the civic duties and went on his way as quickly as he’d arrived. That was 1997. It would be a full 5 years before I’d meet this man again.

In the meantime I’d met Charlie Haughey who frequented my subsequent workplace several times. Although then he was in a frail state, the man was none-the-less a presence. When the time came again to meet and greet the Taoiseach, the white FAI shell-suit didn’t detract from the leader of the Irish Republic’s impression on me. Here was a man few tourists recognised, who slipped without cortège through the hotel and within hours was mingling with the townsfolk. When a group of American tourists asked me who the “popular guy in the sweat-suit in the bar” was, they found it incredible to believe that this was the Prime Minister of Ireland. “He’s so real” they gasped as they returned for a better look at him. Sure enough, Bertie was enjoying his pint of Bass from the freshly installed barrel fitted earlier that morning as he laughed and joked with the locals.

This was a man without heirs and graces. As an indifferent child of the 80s and early 90s, I had little to inspire me by way of politics. It was a polarised time, and the staunch support for Fianna Fáil in Kerry at the time was nothing by way of inspiring. But the chance encounters with this man made me realise that there was someone who could wrestle with the Unions by day, and drink with the people by night.

In the years to come, as I became more supportive of his fascinating régime, I would conclude, that it would be no challenge whatsoever for any citizen to wake up one morning, decide that in that day they would see the Taoiseach and fulfil that ambition without hindrance. Ireland has one of the most open political establishments in the world. Countless stories of how people met Bertie on nights out have been told and retold many times. He was genuinely a man of the people. Of course, the odd plain-clothes Garda was present at all occasions, but Bertie was free to move throughout the cities and towns throughout the lands in a way no politician in the world could enjoy. Friend and foe alike lined the streets and the bars when he came to town. There was always a magic. An enigma. A curiosity. A yearning for a glimpse of the man who gave us so much.

But on Wednesday last, all I felt was anger. We had betrayed him. Despite the allegations and the circumstantial evidence, it was the testimony and torture which Gráinne Carruth gave and received in the Tribunal that caused a stir in Bertie’s heart. As he pondered the anniversaries of peace approaching fast and the trip to America to speak to Congress, he decided he’d had enough. And on the steps of Government Buildings on Wednesday morning at 10:46am on the second day of April 2008, Patrick Bartholomew Ahern tendered his resignation to the people.

I felt sick. We have lost a great and truly magnificent leader.

Within minutes, Enda Kenny was on the steps of the Oireachtas calling for an election, flanked by his mob of gombeen-men. A vision that could only be described as the sorriest bunch of low-life scum in Ireland today. Kenny called for a ‘new mandate’ from the people of Ireland. This wasn’t just foolish - this was representative of exactly what is at the core of Fine Gael - no fucking heart. I rarely curse on this blog, but this time I feel I must make an exception. Right across the country, people who voiced their support for Fine Gael in the past were aghast at the Mayo man’s gaff outside Government Buildings. He nailed his colours to the cross, and looked like a failed and stupid man in doing so. At least Gilmore the Great had some kind words for the man who has been wronged and wronged badly.

As the country mourns the loss and the body-blow suffered by Bertie’s surprise resignation, let us hope that a candle will be held to the shadowy figures who plotted his demise. Editors and Blueshirts beware. The tide is out and now we see you. And as Bertie prepares to round off 11 years of Fianna Fáil unity and coalition government in a flurry of pomp and historic ceremony, I can only hope that the evil and sour bastards in the media and opposition are found out. Kenny’s card isn’t the only one marked and marred by this past 7 day’s events. It’s time to call time on these doom-sayers and bring Ireland back to the mighty country it once was. A place where people were inspired by politics and not disgusted by it. A time when true leadership went un-noticed amid our success. We’ll notice it now. And we will regret what we have done.

diarmy