The notepad is a stroke of genius. "Your Note to Vote" goes the line across each little Post-it style notelet, each with the Royston slogan, "A fresh start in Europe". They are all destined to lie around desks, cars and bags for weeks.
His lads have stacked boxes of the notepads against a wall outside the Financial Services Centre. Even at 7.30 on a chilly morning, Armani-clad chaps who would normally walk under a bus to avoid a canvasser sidle over for a notepad.
Across the river Eoin Ryan is at Leeson Street Bridge with pens. A surly taxi-driver rolls down a window and takes one. Is that a vote for Eoin so, asks The Irish Times? "Deregulate us and give us a pen?", he snorts with rising indignation. "Them politicians, though", he bellows at his dazed-looking passenger, "they're afraid of their shite of us".
Two up to Royston then, with his notepads and his Dad who used to be a taxi-driver.
"I get very good support from taxi men. They're annoyed with Fianna Fáil, but I get on OK with them", he says.
This becomes a kind of theme with both candidates: Royston, apt to speak like an independent, as though he has no hand, act or part in Fianna Fáil's works and pomps; Eoin, regularly assured by admiring southsiders that he'd be a shoo-in if only he was independent.
Eoin is an easier man to find. Ring the polite people in his office, they establish his whereabouts and away you go. Rooting Out Royston, on the other hand, became the media game of the week. Royston was avoiding us, or most of us anyway.
Input from MI5, the CIA and Mossad established that he and Bertie were doing a spot of canvassing at some unnamed northside institution. Even the Taoiseach's office professed startling ignorance about where the leader was headed. Several dots had to be joined to nail the precise rendezvous. "They're terrified," whispered the moles.
The theory went that, with Royston riding high in the polls, further exposure to certain media was both unnecessary and potentially calamitous following some dodgy outings like the quiz where he failed to name the EU accession countries.
After some initial dismay - "How'd you find me?" - he was graciousness itself.
Politicians start horribly early these days. Both Royston and Eoin are out at 7 a.m., "being visible".
In fact, most people are astoundingly courteous, winding down the windows, taking the bumph, sometimes even speaking.
Sarah, Eoin Ryan's student daughter, is decked out in a "Goin' with Eoin" T-shirt and baseball cap and is a big hit with the boys. Builders' vans suddenly come alive at the sight of her. "Dad always does better with the girls", she grins. One up to Eoin, as Royston has only males at this hour - his two brothers, Simon and Fulton, and a couple of pals.
The score is 2-2 now, because Leeson Street Bridge is a fabulous horn-sounding, hand-waving, well-wishing parade. There's the snooker player, Ken Doherty, in his Land-Rover, Mary Harney in her limo, Julie O'Neill (general secretary at the Department of Transport) in a sporty Audi, John "the POD" Reynolds in his Carrera, a couple of ambassadors and a whole swathe of pin-striped lawyer and accountant types in fantastic, fat cars.
Says one to Sarah: "Sort out that Brady fella. Give him a slap or wire his jaw or something". Sarah grins inscrutably. So young, so shrewd.
In fact, given his high-level stunt tendency, the Brady fella - excuse us, the Lord Mayor - has a peculiarly low-key canvassing style. Whereas Eoin uses a relaxed introduction that implicitly invites engagement - "Morning, Eoin Ryan, going for Europe" - Royston confines himself to briskly handing out the notepads with an affable "Mornin' ", "How'r'ya keepin'?" or a "Thanks very much".
But it's early, and his recognition factor is high. The posters work. And as he's wont to point out, he has been around city politics since he was 11 or 12, handing out leaflets; been on the city council for five years; been a high-profile Lord Mayor for the past year.
This is his heartland and anyway, as he says later, apropos the merits of his media avoidance strategy, "if they don't know you from the parade and Dustin and what-do-you-call-it on Today FM, well . . ."
And actually, it's quite staggering the number of schoolchildren in cars who wave excitedly and want to chat.
By afternoon we've pitched up at Lucan Shopping Centre where we're ambushed by a Sunday paper ("Found him with some difficulty", says the grim-looking reporter), and Liveline is trying to get Royston to comment on some esoteric knighthood he shares with the President and the Taoiseach. No dice.
"Two weeks to go, and it's important for me to be out and about. There's candidates out there looking for debates, but there's nothing to be gained from going into a debate. This is where it's at", he says, gesturing resolutely at the shoppers and potential No 1s. "This is the way I do it, out talking to people and listening to what they have to say, and it's worked for me up to now".
Journalists always say they just want five minutes, he explains, then they take 20. So true. So when every journo in Ireland is on your tail, it all adds up. How the journalists see it, mind, is a man heading the opinion polls thanks to soundbites and stunts, destined for important public office while fleeing anyone who might ask a hard question.
So, for the record, here are some answers: the quiz was too rushed ; the "Bertie's Boy" tag is a myth. "I haven't canvassed with one of Bertie's boys since I started in February"; the mayoralty was not handed to him, he worked darned hard for it; Pat Cox is the politician he most admires; he's not going to say which European Parliament committee he'll be pushing for "because I haven't been elected yet"; he will definitely not abandon Europe for the Dáil; and all that wounding personal stuff emanating from "party sources" and "Drumcondra" is "coming from - well, you know yourself."
No. Who? "Ah, I won't go into that. 'The high stool merchants', as my Dad used to call them".
This week in the north city and Lucan the punters' questions were strictly local - housing, the state of the streets, litter. The sole question about Europe sprung on him in a long day was from the six-year-old whose mother wanted to crow that even the child could name the 10 accession countries.
When the child hesitated over a couple, Royston was able to put her right. Then the Mummy came up with that politician's heart-sinker: "What are you going to do for us in Europe?". This is a question, he'd said earlier, that was "only for holding you up. They're not going to vote for you. I can read them like a book".
In the brief pause, this reporter asked her what would she like him to do. She, um, wasn't sure. He then talked politely about being a "strong voice" and the need to be "full-time" in Europe and "to make it relevant".
Over in the Merrion Centre, Eoin Ryan was being told again by a succession of women that he'd be a great independent ("Fianna Fáil, no thanks"). One voter said it was evident that our European pols were eating far too well, and another was still upended by (a) the death of Michael Collins, (b) the Economic War and (c) the health service.
The most earnest approach came in the Frascati Centre, from a practice nurse who related a couple of hair-raising hospital anecdotes.
"Yes, I know about the health investment, but it seems to be going through a crack in the floor. Please, please tell me what's going to happen", she said passionately. "Hanly's not going to change anything. People need to come to the coalface." He listened intently. At length.
So who won the Royston-Eoin match ? Well, Michael McDowell publicly promised his No 1 to Eoin on Thursday night. On the other hand, there was Royston shaking Roy Keane's hand, repeatedly, the same night in Lansdowne Road (a job, mind, that used to be Bertie's).
"I'll have to go on to the pitch in Lansdowne Road this evening to meet the team. That'll be heart-breaking stuff," he chortled that afternoon.
Which would you want on your score sheet?