It was a sad exit for David Norris, the man who would be president
BENEATH THE vision it is vicious. For all the fluffy sentiment of Irish presidential campaigns, the race to Áras an Uachtaráin is not for the faint-hearted.
While the candidates may waft along on perfumed clouds, the behind-the-scenes machinations are far from genteel. Others are busy getting hands dirty on their behalf. It’s called politics, it isn’t nice, and it can leave a nasty taste for some.
The sad exit of David Norris from the contest had a certain inevitability to it. Not just because of what came to light last week, but also because of doubts raised previously about his suitability for the office.
Past achievements, limitless self-belief and force of personality were never going to be enough for the flamboyant Senator, who, for all his years in Leinster House, underestimated the ruthless nature of the business he is in. He learned that lesson the hard way yesterday.
As he mustered all his dignity and relinquished his long- cherished dream, it was impossible not to feel huge sympathy for him. David Norris bowed out in a welter of cliché.
Some were already comparing the manner of his downfall to a Greek tragedy. He fits the bill.
Others were talking about the best president we never had. We’ll never know.
Our old friend, Shadowy Forces, entered the frame.
– Taken out because he is gay.
– Taken out because he represents the liberal agenda.
– Taken out because it looked like he might win.
– Taken out because he loved too much.
Maybe some, or all of the above, apply.
But the outcome stays the same: his campaign is over. Norris will not be the next president of Ireland. In a contest where it seems that bland is best, he was always going to be a risky bet. He referred to “the recent frenzy” as his reason for withdrawing from the election.
But did he really not see it coming? Did he think that opponents wouldn’t trawl his past? The weekend release of letters he wrote to the Israeli authorities seeking clemency for his former partner – who had been convicted of the statutory rape of a minor – followed the controversy over comments he made in a 2002 magazine interview on sexual activity between older and younger men.
His campaign, no matter how he explained it, was irrevocably tainted. There was no way back for him. The support he needed from Oireachtas members to get his name on the ballot paper began to crumble.
After days of silence – that didn’t help either – word came through at lunchtime yesterday that Norris would be giving a press conference in North Great George’s Street. A large media contingent gathered at the foot of the steps leading to his ivy-clad Georgian home.
Was he inside? There was little sign of life. The “Norris for President” stickers were still in the window, while his basement campaign office looked deserted. A single, blue, “Norris” T-shirt was folded neatly on the desk.
At 3pm, his old Jaguar car pulled up outside the house. Immediately, it was surrounded by photographers. Norris made his way through the throng, smiling but silent.
Most unlike him. His hands, palms facing backwards, hung by his side as he walked. He looked strained. The steps were closed off with red velvet rope. A microphone and lectern had been set up in readiness. Some neighbours joined the crowd, clearly upset for him.
Norris took his speech from his pocket, his silver watch chain glinting across his grey waistcoat. His hands trembled ever so slightly. In that letter he wrote 14 years ago on behalf of Ezra Nawi, “a person I loved dearly”, he said that he had been “widely mentioned as a possible candidate” for the presidency of Ireland. He wasn’t running for the job this year on a whim – the idea clearly was in his mind back in 1997. Norris believed he could win. Despite the initial setback over the magazine interview, he remained, by far, the most popular of the potential candidates among voters. Until the Ezra letter was published, he had the nomination within his grasp.
Now, here he was, back in his beloved North Great George’s Street, across the road from The James Joyce Cultural Centre where he enjoyed many a nutty gizzard on Bloomsday, bringing the curtain down on his ambition.
It must have been a hugely difficult statement for him to make. But it was a well crafted and emotional valediction – if short on detail. Not surprisingly, it was powerfully delivered. But up close, you could see the effort it was taking. “Here I am today outside my home where all my great journeys have begun to announce the end of my presidential campaign. This has been a most wonderful experience, despite the trauma and energy expended.”
Directly across from where he stood is the former home of Sir John Pentland Mahaffy. “Scholar and wit” it says on the plaque outside the door. Just like the man over the other side of the road. There wasn’t a hint of bitterness in his speech, just sadness at what could have been.
Among the ranks of the media were Vincent Browne and Sam Smyth. Norris was to have stood in for broadcaster Browne on his programme last night. Instead, Smyth stepped into the breach. It was a bit strange to see the trinity together in the one place.
When he finished his statement with a spirited quote from Samuel Beckett, he turned and slowly climbed the old steps to his beautiful front door. Then he spun on his heels, smiled and swept this arm in the air, like an actor at curtain-call. He gave a little bow, waved again and disappeared through the dark green door. There was applause.
Did the house lights dim when he went inside? Maybe not, but we know somebody put the kettle on because a neighbour rushed across minutes later with a jug of milk.
Just around the corner in the Gate Theatre, Noel Coward’s Hay Fever is packing them in. “A hilarious comedy of deliciously bad manners,” says the playbill.
Which is what David Norris used to be – with manners impeccable if mischievous.
Another reason for his undoing.
