High above Dublin in Guinness’s Gravity Bar, the Labour leader showcased his party’s lofty ambitions
WELL, OF course Eamon Gilmore had to launch his election campaign in the Gravity Bar.
He specialises in it. Gravity is his middle name.
Anyway, where else could he go? Pearse Doherty is currently squatting in the Serious Lounge and Caoimhghín Ó Caoláin has a long lease on the Indignant Room.
Labour would be wise not to underestimate the territorial threat from Sinn Féin. But at the moment, they are too busy cherishing the differences between themselves and Fine Gael in an effort to make sure that Micheál Martin’s “tug of war government” tag doesn’t stick.
(Would that be the same Micheál Martin as the nice unassuming chap who now leads Fianna Fáil – the one who yearns for a “new politics” which is soundbite free?)
Speaking of cherishing, there was much fussing over the ladies by the party’s dominant silverbacks yesterday morning. This followed a flippant but harmless remark on radio by Pat Rabbitte about the gender quotient of Micheál’s new front bench.
Naturally, charges of sexism immediately ensued, much to the horror of the party. As a result, Labour’s women were stalked relentlessly by Rabbitte and Gilmore during the launch and callously dragged into photographs at every opportunity.
It was a very brave move for the strategists to stage their first big production number in the Guinness Storehouse. They knew that if anything went wrong the script would write itself for their political opponents: Labour – the party which can’t even manage a piss-up in a brewery.
The Gravity Bar is a popular tourist attraction. It cost the socialists an arm and a leg to rent it for the hour and a half before business began. But with its stunning views across Dublin, from mountain to sea, it provided an impressive backdrop for Eamon to showcase Labour’s lofty ambition.
Located on top of the Guinness Storehouse, everything about the place is dedicated to the pint of stout, which can be a bit off-putting at nine in the morning.
The Labour contingent were highly excited (although no alcohol was on offer, the mere sniff of drink was enough for some of the older campaigners). They piled out of Eamon’s great glass elevator and into the glass-walled circular bar to hear their leader’s call to arms before the hustings.
On the way in, flat screen TVs flashed the message “Gilmore for Taoiseach”. Shiny young people – Ictu Youth – wearing shiny red “Gilmore for Taoiseach” jackets acted as stewards for the occasion.
The candidates were coiffed and polished to within an inch of their lives, glowing beneath the television lights.
Most of the old hands sat in the audience, leaving the rookies and more presentable elders to fill the seats on either side of their leader. It gave a more youthful feel to the occasion. It also meant that Labour’s unreconstructed aul’ fellas could sit back and contemplate the ceiling, which is painted to look like the creamy head of an enormous pint.
Eamon Gilmore made his entrance when the bar was sufficiently packed with admirers. They gave him such a rapturous reception you’d be forgiven for thinking Elvis had just arrived on Jim Larkin’s shoulders and announced free porter for all the footless socialists of Dublin.
And who should be sitting (or suspiciously placed) on their own in the front row but three leading Labour ladies – Ivana Bacik, Susan O’Keeffe and Joan Burton.
My goodness, my Gilmore, but Eamon was overjoyed. Beaming like Pat Rabbitte when he feels a bon mot coming on, he bounded over to the giggling ladies and stood behind them, arms stretched so he had a hand on Ivana’s shoulder and Joan’s shoulder.
The cameras did the rest.
Then he saw Róisín Shortall sitting a few feet away and he made a dart for her and they chatted animatedly until the photographers moved away to capture Pat Rabbitte throwing back his head and laughing uproariously at the sparkling wit of a number of female candidates.
While all this was going on, three Labour gentlemen sat in the front row on their own, on the other side of the aisle.
Hardly anyone went near them. They were like three grumpy uncles at a wedding reception who had to be invited even though they would take the gloss off the big day.
Brendan Howlin, Tommy Broughan and Joe Costello.
“Break a leg!” Brendan kept saying, hopefully, to candidates as they passed. Tommy had even got his hair cut, although Tommy is the only man in Leinster House who gets his hair cut and it looks exactly the same afterwards.
Gilmore, wearing a new navy suit, spoke with his back to the mountains and his face to Dublin Bay.
“We will be publishing, day by day, sections of our election manifesto,” he promised, in a rather threatening manner.
It’ll be like the dance of the seven veils, but less exciting.
Then, round about Thursday week, the Labour Party will reveal the manifesto in its entirety. Although by then, there will be nothing left to tantalise the imagination. The mystery will be gone.
And some of us may have already lost the will to live.
Here’s a thing: the Chinese Year of the Rabbit begins today. Which is a bit confusing, because Rabbitte is an ox.
Whereas Enda Kenny is a rabbit.
Eamon is a goat, John Gormley is a pig, Caoimhghín is a snake and Micheál Martin is a rat.
Honestly, what more do you need to know about this election? Our job here is done.
When you think of it – the Chinese are a very perceptive people.
