The lectern wobbled and Michael D’s speech went flying to the floor. “Leave it,” he called out in ringing tones as people ran to gather it up for him. “Leave it! I don’t need it.”
So the script lay abandoned at his feet, witness to the oratorical skills of Michael D Higgins as he launched into his speech. Michael D is enough of a performer to know that when something goes wrong, you don’t let it trip you up: you use it as part of the performance.
It was the late 1990s. He was now in opposition and addressed this conference with a spirited defence of local government and local arts officers, of whom he had been a great supporter as Ireland’s first minister for the arts from 1993-1997.
He played the audience like a piano, speaking gently and sadly about those who accused him, as minister, of having been an empire builder.
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Then, building up to a full Laurence Olivier crescendo, lovely accent and all, he roared: “They’re right! I did build an empire, an empire for the arts. And you,” he said pointing a quivering finger around the room at the arts officers, “are its army, the legionaries who will protect it.”
At which point the arts officers jumped to their feet cheering. Not many political speeches get that sort of response. But what Michael D Higgins understands, unlike too many politicians, is the element of politics which is theatre. The public arena is a stage. Parliament is a stage; too often recently it has been used for pantomime.
But there were some who were orators: John Maurice Kelly of Fine Gael who could fill the chamber within one minute of his name appearing on the Dáil monitor; Des O’Malley; and Mary Robinson, then a senator, who abandoned her usual measured tones to deliver a passionate attack on the Abortion Amendment Bill in the Seanad in 1983, saying the threat that the abortion ban posed to pregnant women “comes very close to a kind of licensed murder”.
She made that speech on the day my daughter was born and, facing the shadow that would hang over us both as Irish women, I was grateful for the voices on the national stage who spoke up for us including Mr Higgins, a stance which helped to lose him his Dáil seat.
Married to an actress, Sabina, and a great theatregoer himself, he had a very clear view of the stagecraft involved in being President. Between them they invented a sort of big-house style at Áras an Uachtaráin that was very Irish.
The dogs were a big hit with everybody who visited the Áras
Like an Anglo-Irish couple, they regularly wore tweeds and were followed around by big dogs. But the tweeds were made by Magee of Donegal. The dogs had already been family pets with them in Galway and had Irish names such as Misneach, Bród and Síoda.
In the paddocks outside the Áras there were animals – not racehorses, but prize-winning cows. Introduced by President Higgins in the interest of biodiversity, they spend a few months every year grazing the land around his home. The dogs were a big hit with everybody who visited the Áras, but particularly with the children.
Soon there were Michael D Christmas cards and a set of children’s picture story books. And knitted tea cosies with fluffs of white hair and glasses: warm, Irish, instantly recognisable and, as everything must be these days, “authentic”. “Brand Michael D” had taken off. The President had nothing to do with it directly, but he did not reject it. You could not buy that sort of image building: a benign figure beloved of children and wrapped around half the teapots in the country. You might been have lulled into thinking he was harmless.
What he has been is a supreme politician; a wily old leftie, a survivor.
He always had a wider world view than that of the Labour Party’s Irish and trade union politics. His passionate interest in Central America and his opposition to Ronald Reagan’s support of right-wing regimes there meant he was often abroad. As former Labour minister Frank Cluskey once said: “When it comes to running the Labour Party or saving the world, Michael D always chooses the easy option.”
He was a thorn in the side of every Labour leader. He was anti-coalition until the 1993 coalition deal with Fianna Fáil when he was appointed to the cabinet for the first time. Anybody who suggested he had compromised was reminded that Fianna Fáil, unlike Fine Gael, was at least a party of “na gnáth-daoine”. He was comfortable with FF, their self-declared left-of-centre stance and their republicanism.
As a busy minister he continued to be available to the press. However, we noticed that the phone conversation would always be prefaced by a long-suffering sigh, a gentle reminder not to waste his precious time.
His popularity makes him almost untouchable by government
He has won two presidential elections decisively – only Éamon de Valera ever did that. His popularity makes him almost untouchable by government and he’s been busy. He organised an important initiative on ethics in public life.
In his speeches, he uses a wide range of references – politics, history, philosophy, sociology, literature, Bob Dylan’s lyrics and, old leftie that he is, he will almost always have a poke at something.
Do I agree with his praise of Fidel Castro? Nope. Do I think he stepped over a line when he criticised Nato by name in his remarks to the Young Scientists’ Exhibition? Yes. But many, if not most of us, would agree with his recent comment that it was gross defamation to label Ireland as anti-Semitic because we had criticised Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu for breaching international law.
And will he use these last few months before the curtain comes down to say even more? Will he what? He’s Michael D.
Olivia O’Leary is a journalist, writer and current affairs presenter
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