In what must have been a difficult day for locals, most of Offaly emptied into Dublin to celebrate their Taoiseach
WASN’T IT pure mule, guffawed the jackeen wags, and weren’t the midlands accents a hoot? We indulged them.
It must have been a difficult day for the Dubs. As most of Offaly and the odd pocket of Laois emptied into Dublin, it was evident that the axis had turned.
This was about more than a mere change of leadership.
The culchies were back. Unmistakeably. They were the ones floating around in their finest summer clothes, perfectly at home in the capital, bearing the quietly contented air of folk who were giving the bookies a bad day at the races.
“Cometh the hour, cometh the man”, said Tullamore solicitor, Michael Byrne, attired in stylish brown linen, and quoting the classics – as you do – when seeking ways to explain the timeliness of Brian Cowen’s ascendancy.
“It’s like Cincinnatus coming out to do his civic duty. ‘He didn’t call for place or profit, yet now he finds himself in the highest office in the land’”.
They basked in the sun outside Davy Byrne’s pub, drinking Pinot Grigio and nibbling on crab sandwiches and gorgonzola; they colonised Doheny Nesbitt’s from 11am, where co-owner Tom Mangan, a Daingean man (that’s Daingean, Co Offaly, for there is more than one, you should know), beamed and recalled other great Offaly days like the time they took the McCarthy Cup back here in ‘94.
They took over the Alexander Hotel for the entire day, equipped with massive television screens, all the better to keep an eye on the local lad’s progress; they made their congenial presence felt in Buswell’s Hotel, where Ireland’s Number One Elvis impersonator, Greg Traynor from Edenderry (“and a good friend of the new Taoiseach”), gave us a belt of The Offaly Rover “in an Elvis tone” as he put it, which was a relief as there are only so many ways to extract originality from the “heather’s scented air” and “the peaceful Brosna calls our sons from far and near”, unless it’s on a mouth organ played by Seán Fitzpatrick from Galway via Mayo (“and a dyed in the wool Fianna Fáiler“).
The style was country wedding , the atmosphere was one of decency and goodwill, and in the discreet little clusters and connections, great wells of emotion and nostalgia rose and fell.
Senator Pat Moylan fingered his Pioneer pin, fended off a thousand requests for gallery tickets in a five minute span.
Rumour has it that he needed a trailer hitched to his car to carry all the CVs of aspirant ministers who called on his intercession in the last few weeks.
He also recalled being with Brian’s father, Ber, on the day he collapsed at a committee of agriculture meeting.
Among the Pinot Grigio tipplers at Davy Byrne’s was Tom O’Donovan, senior partner in O’Donovan Cowen solicitors, Tullamore, where the new Taoiseach took his first baby steps in a country practice in 1984 and left his name on the plate.
And in the exuberant crowd outside the gates of Leinster House, was Fr Tony Egan, the Augustinian prior based in St John’s Lane, via “the Birr side of Tullamore”, unrecognisable in his Offaly shirt, talking about “huge, huge pride tinged with a little sadness, because their lives are never going to be the same again”. And there too was Seán McGuinness – “I was the first one to canvass for Ber” – proudly wearing the suede cowboy hat that Ber and his bother in law, Eugene Wyer, brought as a gift from America 43 years ago.
“There’s a decency about today that’s incredible, a sense of goodwill and love for Brian and Mary, that’s overflowing”, said Tullamore senator, Geraldine Feeney, a Cowen intimate, a vision in white, cool Paul Smith and Chanel heels.
“This is the biggest day Offaly ever saw.”
Meanwhile, as the crowd at the gates unfolded an endless FF banner, awaiting the drive past of the new Taoiseach, chanting endless choruses of The Offaly Rover, they challenged anyone to say that Offaly is not the cradle of civilisation, citing Millennium Man (“a dashing wing back”), the Taoiseach, and Barack Obama as evidence.
Plus thwarting Kerry’s five in a row in 1982 with a Séamus Darby goal, added Mary Guiney.
When a Kilkenny garda could take it no more and wondered aloud about the precise depth of their hurling skills, they threatened to have him transferred to Craggy Island with their potent local influence.
Then they wrapped a tricolour feather boa around him, danced The Offaly Rover, and banged on the roof of the brand new Taoiseach’s flat, shiny Merc as he drove off to the Áras.
So. No more pure mule, thank you.
“You can laugh it off and you should,” said Diarmuid Byrne, Michael’s son and a Trinity student, “but there the expectation is that you wouldn’t be taken seriously.
“It’s like the equivalent of ‘Essex girl’. It’s time to reassess the provinces”.
Back in the Alexander, they were settling down for a few hours of pure happiness as they anticipated a visit around 10pm from their local hero.
