Taoiseach's appearance enlivens the campaign but the shrewd rank and file know well the voters aren't biting, writes MIRIAM LORD
THEY BURST into O’Connell’s on Little Catherine Street, full of bluster and bonhomie. Little wonder they were drawn to the shop.
“The best hams in Limerick,” explained a local. “We’ve just won an All-Ireland award for our hams,” the butcher informed us.
Enda and Gay were lucky to escape with their lives.
It isn’t every day O’Connell’s – “queues out the door at Christmas” – sees two prize hams trotting up to the counter, offering themselves up.
“Do you use local abattoirs?” inquired the Taoiseach, like a ham to the slaughter.
Gay Mitchell, a mere rasher compared to Enda in the ham stakes, stayed quiet.
They trotted on, presidential candidate Gay trying to keep up with a party leader reliving his glory days of the last election. Anxious to appear every bit as energetic, Mitchell raced down Cruises Street. He saw a brightly coloured shopfront and veered left, towing Enda in his slipstream. Suddenly, the Man from Headquarters leapt selflessly forward, like a hero throwing himself in front of a bus to deflect a pair of wandering toddlers.
But it was too late and Kenny and Mitchell were already in the heart of Ann Summers, purveyor of saucy lingerie and sex toys. As the accompanying young Fine Gaelers guffawed outside, the two men looked around in the comforting twilight for a photogenic pensioner, only to be confronted by racks of skimpy knickers and a display of pink and black basques. They stopped in their tracks.
Enda took the initiative and furiously shook the security guard’s hand. Then they backed away. Fast. “What class of shop is that?” chortled Gay, rushing out. The students cheered.
The Man from Headquarters looked in need of a large brandy.
As this campaign nears endgame, the man carrying the flag for the biggest party in the State is running out of time.
When the election was declared, he dismissed charges that he came late to the party by saying the campaign proper was only beginning. Fine Gael would rally the troops and catapult him into the reckoning. It didn’t happen.
In Roscrea on Wednesday, a councillor pledged immediate action. “I have to hold my hands up. Maybe we, up to now, haven’t been as active as we should have been.” Now Gay is down to his last excuse: nothing matters except this final week. Never mind those opinion polls. All to play for.
Fine Gael is holding a series of rallies around the country. The first one was on Wednesday night in Limerick. Big advertisements in the local press: “Presidential Rally . . . All Welcome.” The faithful turned up in numbers in the Greenhills Hotel, but the general public didn’t bite. It was a sedate affair, with a jazz quartet playing in the Tiffany Room.
A smiling Michael Noonan was the first of the big-hitters to arrive. He could have been at Jean-Claude Trichet’s retirement dinner in Frankfurt, but preferred to be in Limerick. “I try not to go to many of those things.”
A platoon of Young Fine Gaelers from the University of Limerick were next through the doors, taking down the average age in the hall considerably.
Gay was next. “The party has its tails up,” he said, pointing out that he has fought 14 elections and hasn’t lost one yet.
People were too polite to point out that there’s a first time for everything.
The rally began without Enda, who was detained in Dublin.
John Cushnahan, former MEP, opened proceedings. He began a theme which would be a constant throughout the night – the media is not allowing meaningful debate and opinion polls are useless.
Tails up or not, from what we overheard, the shrewd rank and file sounded less optimistic.
“Too much to make up now . . . Dragon’s Den . . . very bad . . . Gallagher . . . too far behind.”
Noonan spoke at length about the economy. There’s a lot to do between now and the budget, he said. “We’re going to have a fun time in politics, apart from the presidential election, between now and December 6th . . . So by the time we get through all that, it’ll be time for Santy Claus.”
As for the election, Gay is “an astounding politician” who would lead IDA delegations “across north America” and missions “into China, into India and into southeast Asia.” They should club together and buy him a pith helmet.
Noonan reeled in his audience. “It’s Jim Mitchell’s birthday today,” he said, recalling Gay’s late brother and his achievements. “If you want motivation to get out for the last week of the campaign, there’s your motivation!” There were high hopes among the journalists when Gay approached the microphone. His advance script was magnificent in its folksy awfulness, supplying gem after cheesy gem.
Here’s a flavour: “A less well-off start didn’t stop Steve Jobs.
“It didn’t stop me. Because as someone said to me recently, being less well-off does lots of things to a person. But one thing it most certainly does not do . . . is make us thick.”
Mercifully, reason prevailed and Gay delivered a considered speech, majoring on his qualifications for the job and his knowledge of what it entails.
Enda pitched up just before 11pm. He was cheered to the platform and launched into a gung-ho speech for Gay.
Brimming with confidence, he gave the audience what they wanted to hear – a few good yarns, a dig at Dev, a genuflection to Michael Collins, a reminder of their general election triumph and an impassioned exhortation for them to get out and do it again.
Norma Mitchell was singled out as the power behind the throne. Gay’s “good wife” as he kept saying. “Get him up in the morning, give him a boiled egg and walk him around the back of the Áras!” Afterwards, the crowd queued to meet Enda then moved along the table to wish Gay the best of luck.
The candidate left soon afterwards for some sleep.
Enda stayed and worked the bar into the early hours.
The next morning, he joined Gay for that walkabout. Everyone he talked to wanted to discuss jobs and pensions and the economy. Nobody mentioned the presidency.
A magician materialised and made a penny disappear before plucking it from behind the Taoiseach’s ear. “Pity Enda can’t do that with the national debt” sniffed an onlooker.
Gay, surprisingly diffident, lifted his game in his leader’s buoyant presence.
On Wednesday night people were asking us: “do you not think Gay would make a good president?” Shaking their heads, they couldn’t quite work out why he is doing so badly.
And yes, he most probably would. This last week, if the troops provide the push they were promising, his standing should improve. But it’s a personality contest, as much as anything else.
And in the streets of Limerick, he paled in comparison to Enda.
A slice of salty bacon, next to a nicely maturing ham.