For all the good things, Bertie is happy that you are happy. For all the bad things, Bertie is as surprised as you are. He has achieved oneness with your unhappiness and with your surprise. Tom Humphries on the master of meet and greet
So you want to understand the Zen of Bertie? First. To set out on the foothills of enlightenment, you must learn the true nature of teflonicity. You must listen to Bertie on the wireless. For all the good things, Bertie is happy that you are happy. For all those good things, you are welcome. For all the bad things, Bertie is as unhappy as you are. For all the bad things, he is as surprised as you are. He has achieved oneness with your unhappiness and with your surprise.
You may wish to ring in and criticise but remember always the damage you may do. A fallen flower never goes back to the old branches. Be tender. A mirror once broken, never reflects. And Bertie is the mirror of your soul.
He seems wounded, for instance, by accusations of speeding on the roads of the south-east. Bertie's driver is a garda. Who is Bertie to tell him to slow down or to move quickly? Be tender. It is the path to enlightenment.
This particular morning, Bertie leaves RTÉ and manifests himself on Nutley Lane atop a cavalcade travelling within the earthly speed limits. He is there. He is gone. It is mid-morning and he materialises at the snack table in the Treasury Building, an office complex on Grand Canal Street, his fingers hovering judiciously over the croissants. If he chooses a croissant, shall he bruise the soul of a rejected Danish pastry?
Next, he swooshes through the doors upstairs for this morning's press conference. His face is matted with make-up. On his right is the whippet, Micheál Martin. On his left, the disciples Charlie McCreevy and Mary Hanafin.
Micheál Martin speaks. Bertie sits and stares ahead in contemplation. When he glances up at Martin, the cameras all go clickedy-click at once. There is strange and soothing serenity in the babel of cameramen. Bertie looks up at Micheál a few more times. Then he has a few whispered words with Charlie McCreevy. Again the cameras whirr. A photographer urges Bertie to whisper more words to Charlie. He does. The cameras go off again. This is fun. Bertie nods solemnly to the cameraman. Gets a wink back. Oneness.
What is the sound of one hand clapping? If you want to know you must first find the joy in half a smile. Half a smile is what Micheál Martin gives when Bertie says that if anyone deserves five more years in his post it is Micheál Martin, Minister for Trolleys. And where is the joy in half a smile? First seek the other half of the smile. It is on Bertie's lips.
A stranger asks, may I enter your circle? With love, the Fianna Fáil press office replies: No you may not enter. This is only because we do not see you as being outside. Immediately the stranger is in Grand Canal Street enveloped in the loveliness of a Renault Espace and chasing Bertie towards Tallaght.
If you would like to eat an Aero, there is one in the freezerbox. Of course.
Parts of Tallaght are twinned with old Beirut but in Fettercairn we realise just how great is His domain. Here, the piebald horse of the highways has been housed and introduced to dressage and showjumping. The local kids are off the streets and pondering the justice of three faults for a refusal.
And lo, it is a photo-opportunity par excellence. Quick, shouts somebody, put that kid back on that horse.
Photo-opportunities are the highest good. Like water, they give life to all things. Like water, they do not answer back. By the way, all that stuff about never working with kids or animals, that's for beginners. Watch the master: the kid's name is Glen and he has a Bertie sticker on his forehead. The horse's name is Peggy and she has a Bertie sticker on her forehead. Bertie leans forward and whispers to the horse; the shutters click and whirr.
What's he saying? Perhaps this: After five years of prosperity, why the long face, Peggy? Bertie leads the horse and child around the yard and then strides towards the stables. He doesn't just remember the names of the kids since his last visit, he remembers too the names of the horses.
How's Chester then? I've no food for you today. Sorry Chester.
With the light slanting through the roof and the smell of half-chewed hay making rustics of us all, we realise metamorphosis has occurred. The Taoiseach has achieved the transcendent duality. He is half Bing Crosby's Father Flanagan, half Dr Doolitle.
There's no such thing as a bad boy. Hey look, I can talk to the animals.
Well, Chester riddle me this, what is the opposite of woe? That, master, would be giddy up.
And Bertie talks to the kids.
"Do you remember when I came out here with Noel Davern and Chris Flood. This was just fields. Now you've your own place to keep your own horses, haven't ye. And the guards aren't chasing ye. And have ye seen the big one down in Cherry Orchard (some nods). Keep at it lads."
We head for the people carriers, for the aura of Espace. We are skipping a quick hospital visit and heading straight to Dún Laoghaire for more photo-opps. Will there be more miracles today we ask? We are sorry now that we are missing the hospital stop. The halt and the lame will be up and about and doing endorsement deals with Nike by the time we hit Dún Laoghaire.
On the little mezzanine facing the pier there is a row of eateries wherein locals may disport themselves and pretend to be Italian. It is a place where people have much and yet are confused. West Coast Coffee Co. Caffe Moka. Roly's. Mao. Itsa Bagel. People sit outside and wear sweaters draped over their shoulders and have sunglasses high on their heads even though it is cloudy. Once upon a time, the only people you saw here were those about to emigrate.
Barry Andrews and (again!) Mary Hanafin stand waiting for Bertie. They are like two slender greyhounds about to be walked down the pier by their master. They are fidgety and anxious. They need their exercise. Bertie is taking his time at the hospital. Hopefully, the lame and the halt aren't being difficult.
Bertie arrives. His pace is that of a mechanical hare. The greyhounds chase after him, noses twitching. Bertie works the tables like a highly caffienated bus boy. In one restaurant, he has a happy encounter with Dermot Power, the executive who looked after the financing for the new Croke Park. There are anxious calls for a lip reader. What are they saying? Did somebody say Bertie Bowl?
Bertie heads towards the pier. There are two photo-opps waiting there. Bertie being piped on to the pier. Bertie eating ice-cream on the pier. Word goes ahead. Get the ice-creams ready, get the ice-creams ready. But people come towards him in a relentless stream. Well-wishers. Flesh pressers. Bertiehuggers. Groupies of Destiny. They hinder his every step but for Bertie to be hindered is to progress, to wear him out with people is to make him new again.
The only strangers are those who don't understand.
Before he can make the pier, he has to give a little impromptu speech on crime. Fine Gael spent most of their time in opposition ridiculing the guards. He doesn't know what good that will do.
Further along, he is confronted by Debbie Regan. Quick case study from the crevice: She's 29; in Ireland just over a year; homeless since February; recovering from an addiction. We lean forward. This could be awkward. It's not though. It's bread and butter. "I've been so many years doing advice centres and dealing with people," he says later and pauses to digress. "Listen, I was coming up Hill Street this evening and I met a few young people who are, unfortunately, addicts, and they are in Clancy Barracks in the homeless centre and we were talking about where they are going to go, very good young people. I'd a good debate with them, one of the girls said it's like you say yourself, a lot done but more to do, and I need a bit more for the homeless. The one good thing about political life, as I represent the heartof the inner city, we are seeing improvements. I met a woman this evening who after 20 years on drugs is two years clean. So when people confront me like that, well most of the time it's been like that in Dublin Central. It's never odd for me. People confront me. I talk to them. I think it's when you aren't there to be confronted you have the problem." So Debbie Regan and her problem is processed through his brain.
"Are you registered?" "I'm in a B&B at the moment, out at half-ten not allowed back before six. I want to know what you can do." "Well, we have to get you on the list." "I'm on the list but it takes six years in DúLaoghaire." "I'll tell you what, ask one of my people to take your name and the address of the B&B and we'll see to it." He squeezes her arm and moves on.
Debbie Regan is surrounded by media. What's your name and what's your story. She is surrounded by party workers. Same questions. I'm from Barry Andrews. I'm from Mary Hanafin.
Meanwhile on the pier, the piper is blowing up a little storm. What is the definition of a music lover, asks one of our number. It's somebody who can play the pipes but doesn't.
Debbie Regan has delayed the entourage. The original ice-creams have had to be dumped. New ice-creams must be purchased. Flexibility is the substance of resilient souls. The ice-cream handler returns, shoves an ice-cream each into the hands of Hanafin, Andrews and Bertie. The Taoiseach looks at his long and hard. Will it melt or will he make it disappear? A zen cone.
All the time the handlers are debating furiously the possibility of switching the Taoiseach to the other side of the pier and setting up another photo-opp. A windswept study with the Joyce Tower in the background, a picture which says that stillness is the master of all activity. This is unplanned but a good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip. They are stymied though. People are all over Bertie like filings on a magnet.
"I like being out and about," he says of this scene. "I always try all the year around to get out on Saturday or Friday, out around the country anyway. To be able to do it in a sustained way when the weather is halfway reasonable is very enjoyable. I think now I've been to 27 of the 42 constituencies, so its been a fair whack and not without it's controversies but . . ."
He is much handled yet repellent to handlers and fondlers alike. If they can do nothing with him, what then can they do? Last Sunday, he escaped their clutches and went to an under-12s match.
"I have to have advisers and handlers. I'm the divil's own for escaping them. They work hard on me and I cut loose. Yesterday, I went off and did my own thing. People say, how do you do all these things if you're not at your office. I would spend 60 hours a week at my office, one-and-half times anyone else. That's life. They're always on at me to follow programmes, follow this, that and the other. Once it keeps them amused, sure I'll do me own thing." Tonight he will escape for a few pints with his daughters.
First though, he says goodbye to Dún Laoghaire.
"Good luck," he says to Mary and Barry. Pauses. "And to Barry and Mary."
The rest of the day shall be his. Private time.
Privacy, though, is the root of all publicity. What if a celebrity photo-opportunity occurs and nobody comes? Is it an opportunity? Are they celebrities? Can there be photographs? So the phone rings at home. Good news. Nicky from Westlife will be canvassing with Bertie from our life in Drumcondra.
C'mon down.
You drive in, seeking enlightenment or a few paragraphs. Indeed, it is true, there they are. Nicky and Bertie, sharing their aura, sharing it just up the road from Fagan's pub. A gaggle of canvassers surround them. Snappers capture their image for history. Bertie has so much love to give, so much bonhomie. Going out of his way to give Westlife a bit of free publicity in the run up to an election. Any wonder the deftest punches just whistle past his ears.
A car pulls up at the corner. A stranger's head leans across.
"Hey, Bertie, what's all this hanging around street corners."
The Taoiseach's face lights up.
"I'm giving it up," he bawls back.
"Yeah. Good luck."
And the Taoiseach stands there beaming, rocking on his feet, happy as a sandboy. It is not necessary now for speech to come from the tongue. It is dusk. He is happy. The Bass taps are singing their siren song.