I got a much-needed laugh on Friday night when I live-tweeted from inside Enda Kenny’s private address to the Fermoy Fine Gael faithful.
The troops were already on high alert since a local member of the Anti-Prosperity Alliance, standing inside the door of the Grand Hotel – “Aren’t you a fine-looking young man” – had refused to shake the Taoiseach’s hand.
Enda’s address was pretty dreary stuff, to be honest. Like listening to a muinteoir trying to channel a revivalist preacher. Much talk of this big company boss and that multinational CEO and the other financial big shot, all of whom had been very impressed by Ireland’s recovery and by Enda’s Chance the Gardener homespun wisdom.
“Let’s keep the recovery going” was repeated ad nauseam and the local candidates (Tom “Lapgate” Barry, Dave Stanton (although Enda called him “Staunton”) and Noel McCarthy were namechecked eight hundred and ninety-six times over the course of a speech that was about as much fun as Mass. The only good bit was when Enda terrorised the local Blue-rinse Brigade with hair-raising warnings of the Sinn Féin/Fianna Fáil zombie apocalypse which will follow a hung Dáil.
Enda’s looking well, I have to say. I hadn’t met him in ten years and his hair is now an even more grand natural colour than it was when I accidentally went on the tear with him in the Ginger Man the night Shane McEntee was elected. I’m as grey as a badger. An Taoiseach is two decades older than me and hasn’t a single grey hair on his head. Maybe he’s born with it.
(I tweeted a few bits and pieces. Harmless enough stuff. In one, earlier, tweet I said that though Enda had bought the first pint that night ten years ago, I was planning on telling him it was definitely his round now.)
Tom Lapgate sat looking desolate beside his parachuted-in ex-Labour rival Noellie Mac. I haven’t seen Tom look so uncomfortable since, well, the day after Lapgate, when poor Tom was hounded mercilessly by The Dublin Media for trying to bring a bit of much-needed levity to the Protection of Life in Pregnancy debate by innocently pawing Áine Collins TD.
MInd you, Noellie didn’t look too happy either. He seemed pale and ill-at-ease, like a man only waiting for someone to ask him why he spent the last five years criticising his Labour Party colleagues for not standing up more to the Blueshirts as they enacted their Tory pauper-culling agenda and then, first sniff of a Dáil seat, he took the Queen’s shilling. Also, I guess the big farmers and stout shopkeepers who vote FG wouldn’t be Noellie’s natural constituency and maybe this was the first time he’s been alone in a room with them.
Anyway, an aeon into his speech, Enda finally wrapped things up by offering the breathless crowd his canvassing advice: “I want ye to go out there. Go out there and knock on the door *nok nok nok* and say ‘Mary or John or Paddy or whatever your name is, we can’t afford to lave the country down’. (Long pause.)
“Go raibh mile maith agaibh!” (Rapturous applause.)
Apparently, downstairs, my tweets were sending Enda’s handlers into a tizzy that “radicals” had infiltrated the meeting. By the time a burly lad in a very expensive suit tracked me down, the Dear Leader had already been bundled down the stairs and away on the Big Blue Bus.
The big guy in the suit glared at me and said “Teas and coffees are through here, Sir, but I’ll be sure to tell the Taoiseach that it’s his round.