by Donal Conaty
‘You're in charge round here now, Liam,’ he said. ‘Do whatever our friend from the IMF says.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Liam.
‘Oh, and one other thing Liam,’ said Dermot.
‘Sir?’
‘You had better take a day or two off to top up your tan. We must keep up appearances.’
There was something about the way Liam agreed to this ridiculous advice from Dermot that caused me concern. I hoped he was just humouring his boss.
SEVEN
YES WE CAN – SORT OF
Iwas surprised that Dermot had selected Liam to stand in for him given that he seemed to hold him in such low regard, and I told him so when we had a moment alone.
‘Oh, once Liam gets a sniff of power he'll grow into the role. You'll see. Everyone does in the end.’
I could only hope he was mistaken.
I phoned Ajai to tell him that Dermot had confirmed his candidacy in the general election and had delegated the running of the Department of Finance to Liam.
‘OK,’ said Ajai. ‘Offer the new man your support and advice. Keep in with him but continue to keep an eye on Dermot. If he secures the backing of the civil service he could end up the most influential man in Ireland. Is it your view that Liam is likely to be a safe pair of hands?’
‘Yes, Mr Chopra,’ I said. ‘He seems to be capable and refreshingly honest. Dermot will probably keep him on a short leash in any event.’
‘Right,’ said Ajai. ‘You know what you have to do.’
I was running through a brief recap of my tasks when I realised that Ajai had already hung up.
Dermot decided that the Harney Room would make an ideal headquarters for his election campaign. Coffee machines, camp beds and computers were brought in by eager helpers while Dermot sat on the throne in the middle of the room, having a manicure. He looked up from his nails as the Minister for Finance walked into the room. Mr Lenihan appeared somewhat contrite and reticent. Nobody in the Department had been paying any attention to him since he had fallen out with Dermot.
‘Ah, Dermot, there you are,’ Mr Lenihan said as he looked around the room taking in the richness of his surroundings. ‘Nice room. Is it new?’
‘It's new to you, Minister,’ said Dermot. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, Dermot, you can. I seem to be at a bit of a loose end. I don't have any appointments. And there is no one pointing a camera at me. It's all very unsettling. Do you have something for me to do?’
‘As a matter of fact I do, Minister,’ Dermot replied. ‘You should listen to me.’
The Minister clapped his hands together. ‘Marvellous,’ he said. ‘I am all ears.’
‘Good,’ said Dermot. ‘Minister, I have decided to stand in the general election.’
‘That's great news, Dermot. Welcome to the party. We need men of your calibre in this our hour of need, when we have been dragged down by circumstances beyond our control.’
‘All circumstances are beyond your control, Minister. For obvious reasons I won't be running for Fianna Fáil. I am standing as an independent.’
‘Oh, well I wish you well in your endeavour. Have you picked a constituency? Do let me know if there is anything I can do.’
‘I will, Minister.’
‘Marvellous.’
‘Minister.’
‘Yes, Dermot.’
‘There is something you can do.’
‘Just name it, Dermot.’
‘I have picked Dublin West as my constituency. I will need your help with my campaign.’
Certainly Dermot I would be only too delighted. Dublin West, eh? An interesting constituency ... much changed ... isn't it ... ahem ... isn't it mine?’
‘Yes, Minister, that's why I chose it. I'm so familiar with it, you see.’
For a moment the Minister looked wary of Dermot. ‘Won't we be running against each other in that case?’
‘Only in a manner of speaking, Minister. I feel sure that we can unite against the common enemy that is Joan Burton, don't you?’
The Minister winced when Dermot mentioned Labour's finance spokeswoman. ‘That woman has no respect for me, Dermot, no respect at all.’
‘Imagine that,’ said Dermot. ‘As long as we remember that she is our common enemy, you and I should have no problem.’
‘You're right, Dermot. I'll stand shoulder to shoulder with you and we will fight her for the last vote in Dublin West. So, where do we go from here? What is the central theme of your campaign?’
‘I am basing my campaign on the need for a strong civil service. I will counter the notion that we are incompetent and out of touch with reality by revealing that we continually and consistently warned that the economy was a bubble, but that neither you nor Mr Cowen would listen to us.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Lenihan ‘Oh dear. Is that true? May I say Dermot that I am terribly sorry for not listening to you. It is my one regret from all my time as a public representative.’
Dermot yawned. ‘Don't worry about it, Minister. Who listens to grim economic forecasts in the middle of a boom? We only filed them in case something like an economic meltdown occurred and we needed to hang you. Who knew it would happen? Apart from those cranky economists of course.’
‘Oh, I see. Right you are,’ said the Minister.
‘Back to the matter in hand, Minister. I want you to get your election agent to contact all of your constituency workers. I need to borrow them. I can only spare a few people from the Department of Finance to help me. So many of them have taken annual leave to help with your election campaign that I'm short-staffed. I need them to get out there and replace your posters with mine.’
The Minister looked anxious but Dermot raised his hand to pacify him.
‘Before you object, Minister, I am removing your posters for your own benefit as much as mine. Your image is inextricably linked with the country going down the toilet. The less your constituents see of you, the more likely they are to vote for you. The opposite is true of me. The people of Dublin West have not had the pleasure of meeting me. They need to see that I am a man of substance and considerable good looks. It will be a nice change for them to be represented by somebody handsome. Are we clear on that?’
‘Certainly, Dermot. Ahem, we couldn't just leave up one or two of mine, could we? Just one even? I've always had posters … some lovely ones over the years.’
‘I am sure you have, Minister,’ Dermot said. He looked as though he was about to dismiss Mr Lenihan but he paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right, Minister. Perhaps we should leave up some of your posters. People need a focus for their anger. Yes. Change of plan. Leave up your posters but don't put mine anywhere near them. I want my posters put between Varadkar's and Burton's. I don't want any of your guilt by association. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, Minister, I mean yes, Dermot,’ said the Minister.
‘Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Minister. There's still an election to win. Now get out of here. And pick up my new suit from Louis Copeland's before you go to the constituency.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘One more thing, Minister,’ Dermot shouted after him. ‘Get me a footstool. Seán keeps fidgeting and it's making me uncomfortable. Seán, you may go.’
Seán Murphy, one of the few highly qualified economists in the Department of Finance, slowly got to his feet and shook his legs and hands to get rid of pins and needles. I had found him to be competent and diligent but he looked a beaten man now. ‘Will there be anything else?’ he asked wearily.
‘From you?’ said Dermot with a look of complete and utter disdain. ‘What else could I possibly need from you?’
With that, a chastened Seán retreated to his desk. I felt honour-bound to stand up to Dermot over the way he had treated this high-ranking member of the Department.
‘Dermot that really is an appalling way to treat anybody, never mind such a highly-qualified economist. I have been very impressed with Seán during my time here. He could really be of
great assistance to you in sorting out Ireland's balance sheet.’
‘Hah,’ said Dermot. ‘He's an economist. What would he know about anything?’
‘You can't be serious?’ I said.
‘Deadly serious,’ said Dermot. ‘I've been managing finance ministers for many years and I have never met one who needed the opinion of an economist. An economist won't tell you how to increase your vote. They can keep their silly ideas about effective economic management for The Afternoon Show. I have to live in the real world.’
I was shocked by Dermot's comments. His dim view of economists was, of course, appalling for a man in his position, but how on earth could we expect him to manage Ireland out of the crisis if he genuinely believed that he lived in the real world?
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Dermot asked me.
‘Where you go I go, you know that,’ I told him.
‘Even on the campaign?’ he said. ‘How interesting. Does Ajai know?’
‘Ajai insisted,’ I said.
‘Did he indeed? Seán!’ Dermot shouted. ‘Get me a photographer and have a printer ready to do flyers.’ Then he looked at me. He got up from the throne and slowly walked around me, making some sort of assessment. He turned and walked around me in the opposite direction.
‘There's not much we can do about your pallor,’ he said. ‘You've obviously spent years hiding away in an office while your skin cried out for sunshine or solariums. You really will have to start taking better care of yourself. Even Joan Burton has a tan, for God's sake. Now is there anything about you that we can actually fix? You should at least get a haircut for the photographs.’
‘What photographs?’ I asked Dermot, as Julian, the hairdresser he had flown in from London, sat me down in a chair and tut-tutted over my hair.
‘So dry!’ Julian fussed. ‘Haven't you ever heard of conditioner, darling? You'll need a hot oil treatment, and then we're going to frost your tips.’
‘Just a short back and sides, please,’ I said firmly.
‘But you were meant to be a blonde! I can sense these things – I'm spooky that way,’ he told me as he flapped over my thinning hair.
‘You should listen to Julian,’ said Dermot. ‘He got David Cameron into No. 10.’
Julian nodded sagely.
I glared at both of them.
‘I don't want any treatments and I don't want frosted tips,’ I said. ‘I don't even know what they are.’
Julian looked hugely offended. ‘I am an artist, not a common barber,’ he said huffily.
‘Just get your tips frosted,’ said Dermot. ‘You're not coming on the campaign looking like that and I don't want Julian pissed off before he does me.’
An hour later I smelled of ammonia and looked like I had been in a very gay car crash. Julian was so busy exclaming his delight with the results that he was oblivious to the horrified look on my face. I decided not to offend his artistic sensibility again and instead went to the barbers on Baggot Street and got a No. 1 all over.
‘You look like a moneylender's enforcer,’ Dermot told me when I got back.
I thought that was at least a slight improvement.
‘So what are these photographs?’ I asked him again.
‘Just normal baby-kissing, dog-petting campaign photographs,’ he said.
‘But I'm not running for election.’
‘No,’ said Dermot. ‘But you are coming on the campaign trail and you can either stand there and look like the menace to the Irish way of life that you are, or you can be warm and friendly and mislead my voters into thinking that the IMF are nice and we should play ball with them. It's up to you. What do you think Ajai would want?’
‘He'd want to know how much you're paying for your haircut,’ I said.
Dermot waved a hand dismissively. ‘Election expenses,’ he said. ‘And everyone's saying we need a haircut anyway! You should have seen Mary Harney's hairdressing bill. She went all the way to Florida to have it done. God, I liked her style. And as for Bertie's make up ... he wore more than Lily Savage, you know. Anyway, you have a decision to make. If you want to come on the campaign, you have to do the photographs.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Warm and friendly. I'll do my best.’
‘Fine,’ said Dermot. ‘But you look about as warm and friendly as Roy Keane.’
I spent that evening in Blanchardstown Shopping Centre getting my photograph taken with voters and curious kids. To my surprise Dermot had realised that the opportunity to meet an IMF man who was providing the cash to save the economy was a bigger draw than the chance to meet the senior civil servant who presided over the ruin of the economy. It never occurred to me that Dermot would be able to keep himself out of the limelight. Dermot was there, don't get me wrong, but he kept a relatively low profile.
But of course Dermot couldn't keep a low profile for long. I was quietly explaining to some poor woman whose minimum wage had been cut and who had lost two of her three part-time jobs that bad times don't last for ever and that a few years of austerity would see Ireland back on track. She told me she was having a tough time but that she was also up for the challenge.
‘We can manage tough times Mr IMF,’ she said. ‘But can that shower of shites manage us back into good times?’ she asked, pointing at Dermot.
‘Well I can only speak from the perspective of the IMF,’ I said, ‘but from our point of view, Ireland is on the right track. You just need someone to keep it on track.’
‘And that someone is me,’ said Dermot with fake brightness. ‘How do you do?’ he asked the woman, keeping his hands firmly in his pocket in case she wanted to shake one of them.
‘I don't know how I do at all,’ she said. ‘I barely get by.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Dermot. ‘If it wasn't for my expenses I don't know when I would be able to dine out.’
‘Dine out?’ the woman said. ‘Dine out? That about sums it up. You dine out while the rest of us are dying out.’
She turned to me then, clearly disgusted with Dermot. ‘I'm sorry Mr IMF, I'd vote for you lot if ye ever decide to run but I'm not voting for that muppet,’ she said and stormed off.
‘Very good,’ said Dermot. ‘Another satisfied voter. I suppose I should have asked her to give her second preference to the Minister.’
‘She was not a satisfied voter, Dermot,’ I said. ‘She was quite disgusted that you were comparing dining out on expenses to the difficulties she faces making ends meet.’
‘Oh,’ said Dermot. ‘Well excuse me! We really are a nation of begrudgers.’
Dermot's campaign message was simple: government was far too important to be left in the hands of politicians. At first people were dismissive when they saw a candidate representing the civil service. Then they read his campaign leaflet, which claimed that all the prudent advice civil servants had given to ministers had been ignored for years. This argument actually resonated with people. Pretty much everyone in Ireland who isn't a public or civil servant is related to one and Dermot explained that they had been much maligned and scapegoated by politicians.
‘The boom really would have got boomier if the politicians had continued to do what they were told,’ Dermot told a voter. ‘But with things going so well in the economy they started to believe that they were in some way responsible for the success. They became deluded and would listen to no-one. It was sad to watch – pathetic really.’
You could see that his message was getting through to people but Dermot invariably blew the advantage he was gaining by failing to empathise with people.
‘I know how much you have suffered at the hands of politicians,’ he told one woman whose interior design company had folded and who couldn't get the dole because she had been self-employed. ‘But it was worse for me. I had to work for them.’
‘I have no money for food,’ she said. ‘I haven't eaten properly for weeks.’
Dermot looked at her with a tear in his eye. ‘I know,’ he said, as he handed her a sample tube o
f Fake Bake self tanning lotion from one of the salons that was sponsoring him, ‘I know.’
Everyone, irrespective of age, gender or race, received a free tube of Fake Bake. ‘Put that on,’ Dermot would say. ‘That will cheer you up and you won't feel so bad about not having any electricity.’
It was, of course, extraordinary to hand out Fake Bake to people whose life savings were lost, whose children had emigrated, whose houses were about to be repossessed, and expect them to vote for you. At first I thought there was a real possibility that Dermot would be publicly lynched. But the voters seemed to save their ire for what they called ‘real politicians'. Some of them gave Dermot a hard time and threw the Fake Bake back at him in disgust, but mostly they seemed to consider him a harmless distraction. They were keen to debate the economy, the bailout and whether or not to default. Other candidates in the constituency engaged in animated debates on these issues but Dermot found such discussions boring beyond measure and refused to take part in them.
His campaign did nearly unravel when a young mother approached Dermot enthusiastically with her newborn baby in her outstretched arms. An RTÉ crew were filming the campaign and the woman obviously saw an opportunity to get on television. ‘Kiss my beautiful baby, mister,’ she said. Up to that moment Dermot had avoided physical contact with his constituents and their babies. The task of kissing, bouncing, burping and even changing babies had fallen to me. But on this occasion I couldn't get there in time and Dermot recoiled in utter horror as the baby's face neared his. The mother was understandably annoyed, but fortunately the film crew missed the moment and Dermot noticed his mistake and made up for it quickly. ‘Kiss the baby,’ he said to me and he instead took the mother by both hands and spoke to her privately for a few moments. I could see her attitude soften as he whispered in her ear. Her body leaned into him and she hung on his every word. A moment later they were back. She took her baby, smiled coquettishly at Dermot and was gone.
‘I thought you had blown it there,’ I said. ‘What on earth did you say to her?’
