The Race for the Áras

by Tom Reddy

  Enda Kenny was running late for the Fine Gael presidential launch in the Science Gallery on Dublin’s Pearse Street, as he was delayed after opening a primary care centre in Ballina in his home county. ‘The traffic was terrible,’ he explained to reporters afterwards, who wondered whether this tardiness showed a lack of enthusiasm for his candidate.

  An enthusiastic group of Young Fine Gaelers, decked out in bright-yellow T-shirts with the slogan Mitchell for President and carrying giant posters, greeted the Taoiseach as he arrived. They had to jostle with enthusiastic backbenchers as photographers insisted that the candidate and his wife squash together for a photograph with the Taoiseach, and then all were ushered upstairs for the formal launch.

  Kenny mingled easily, shaking hands with Government ministers Alan Shatter, Phil Hogan, James Reilly, Simon Coveney, Richard Bruton and Bruton’s brother, the former EU ambassador and Taoiseach, John. Also mingling was Pat Cox, the defeated candidate for the Fine Gael nomination. His rival Mairead McGuinness was not present.

  Backbenchers, including Olivia Mitchell, Catherine Byrne (Mitchell’s successor in his constituency of Dublin South-Central), Bernard Durkan, Mary Mitchell O’Connor and Senator Paul Coghlan, swelled the crowd.

  Mitchell’s director of elections, and chairperson of the parliamentary party, the cheery Charlie Flanagan of Laois-Offaly, rallied the troops as the back-room number-cruncher and organiser Frank Flannery settled against a wall to watch the drama, a Mitchell for President sticker on his lapel.

  The stage was set with an autocue and three blue-and-white pull-up displays promoting Mitchell with the slogan Understanding our past—believes in our future. The blue theme continued to the accessories: even the glasses and water jug were blue.

  The fold-back walls of the room were thrown open to allow the crowd of about 250 to be comfortable. The top table was set for Mitchell, Flanagan, Kenny and the recently selected Fine Gael Dublin West by-election candidate, Eithne Loftus. Despite the endorsement of the country’s biggest political party, of which she had been a loyal servant, the electorate would reject her in favour of a Labour Party candidate when the by-election was held on the same day as the presidential election. Flanagan called on Councillor Loftus to introduce Mitchell. She lacked Flanagan’s delivery and confidence and faltered as she read from her notes.

  As Mitchell rose to his feet there were a few awkward moments as Kenny’s attempts at chumminess failed, underlining the awkwardness between the two men. Kenny punched Mitchell on the arm and clapped him on the back; Mitchell paused for a moment, clearly wondering what to do, before his political instinct and public relations nous kicked in and he gently punched Kenny back. These moments showed the lack of familiarity between the two men, who had been colleagues for decades. The journalists present cringed at the telling awkward moments.

  Mitchell, in a sharply cut navy suit, red tie and white shirt, spoke in an even tone, his speech delivered with the aid of an autocue. It was well crafted, covering his childhood as the youngest of nine children, his widowed mother going to work at four o’clock on dark winter mornings to support her family as an office cleaner. The repetition of the hard-times story was wearing thin with some journalists, and a party handler hissed at them to shush, saying that the story was true.

  In the Irish Times the following day Miriam Lord sent up this story, saying he was one of a ‘clatter of barefoot children, born into the notorious slum known as the Black Hole of Inchicore, but plucky Gay Mitchell rose above his lowly beginnings.’ He set out his priorities for the Presidency, saying he would reflect his mother’s qualities of being ‘steady, reliable, honest, hard working and interested in others.’

  Mitchell reminded the gathering of his experience in politics, as a TD, a minister of state and a member of the European Parliament, and of his political achievements. ‘I would use my national and international know-how to work with the Government of the day,’ he said.

  He then went on to present his manifesto for the Presidency.

  The President should be in charge of planning the 1916 centenary commemoration in five years’ time.

  The President should work with organisations to prevent suicide, which was claiming the lives of six hundred people a year.

  As President he would set up an initiative, working with other heads of state, to reduce child mortality in the developing world, now running at a rate of 22,000 a day.

  He nodded to the growing diaspora, saying he would appoint an Irish person living abroad, or one of their descendants, to the Council of State on a rotating basis, one each year for seven years.

  Referring to the successful recent visit of the Queen of England, he promised to work jointly with Queen Elizabeth to ‘unite hearts and respect cultures’ in the North of Ireland.

  His approach to the campaign and the job of President was to set out measurable and practical actions. There was less of the aspirational, emotional and nebulous talk that typified other candidates during the campaign and instead an emphasis on a job of work to be done. The practicality of his manifesto reflected his experience as a member of a large political party and of its approach to an election: launch with a fanfare, bring in the party big shots to show support, set out a manifesto, and then campaign on the streets, selling a clear set of election promises.

  Kenny was questioned about how the campaign had been handled so far, specifically about whether he would condemn the attacks at the weekend on McGuinness by the Minister for the Environment and Local Government, Phil Hogan, and the Government chief whip, Paul Kehoe. These attacks would dominate the media’s questions—always a sure sign of where they felt the agenda was moving—rather than the planned presentation, in this case Mitchell’s set piece. Again, the media proved to be more interested in the process than the policy.

  Hogan had said that the election of a ‘former terrorist’ to the Presidency would jeopardise foreign investment, as investors would ‘not be slow to whisper about a terrorist in the Park.’ His comments had made the lead story in the Sunday Independent, where Hogan was reported as saying: ‘Putting Mr McGuinness in charge of this state would leave us looking like a banana republic … [which] could denude Ireland of serious levels of corporate investment within 24 months.’ He also raised concerns that there could be a constitutional crisis if the former IRA leader was elected and further information about his ‘murky past’ emerged. ‘The absence of an impeachment process within the Irish Constitution means that we could be heading for an unprecedented stand off—where both Houses of the Oireachtas would vote “no confidence” in Mr McGuinness but he would refuse to resign.’

  The paper also carried the results of a telephone poll by Quantum Research in which respondents were asked if they believed that McGuinness had ceased to be involved in the IRA in 1974, as he had stated. Yes, said 25 per cent. No, said 75 per cent.

  Paul Kehoe claimed that McGuinness had the proceeds of a multi-million pound bank robbery in 2004 at his disposal. ‘I wouldn’t trust Martin McGuinness to take my dog for a walk,’ he tweeted. ‘Why would you need your salary when you have the proceeds of the Northern Bank at your disposal?’

  Kenny diplomatically avoided questions about the attacks but would also refuse to publicly rein in his dogs, on the grounds that he recognised the hurly-burly of elections. ‘Hear my words,’ he said. ‘I will not comment on any candidate in this campaign except the Fine Gael candidate, Gay Mitchell. The Taoiseach of the day has to have a particular relationship with the Uachtarán, who is elected by the people.’

  When it was put to him that he was dodging the issue and so had a dual strategy, he replied: ‘I support the democratic process, which allows for good, vigorous and robust debate in the electoral process.’ He said that in any election campaign ‘things can be said; in every election campaign you’re going to have comments made from people in the heat of battle. These are electoral comments. It is up to each candidate to be truthful and open in respect of the questions that are being asked of them
by the people.’

  He then threw the gauntlet back at the media. ‘I spent most of the time yesterday in a debate with Mr McGuinness,’ he told his interviewer, ‘trying to establish the truthfulness of some of the claims he made, and I didn’t have any success, so I wish you success with it.’

  At the press conference, Charlie Flanagan had dismissed suggestions that some TDs were not campaigning for Mitchell.

  Rallying the troops to support Mitchell’s bid for the Park, Kenny described him as ‘a good and great man. I expect and look forward, if God spares me, on Easter Sunday 2016 to have President Mitchell arrive outside the General Post Office and take the salute.’

  Then it was downstairs for a photo call with his branded 2006 Kerry-registered mini-coach in Pearse Street. Kenny returned to the Science Gallery café, where he stood chatting at the coffee bar with a number of confidants, including Bruton, but not with Mitchell who moved on to the Newstalk studio to discuss his campaign launch with the presenter George Hook. Mitchell bristled when challenged by Hook that he wasn’t very ‘cheery’, and said:

  I’m sick of people telling me, ‘Smile, smile, smile’. Smiles do not deliver jobs; smiles do not deliver the sort of thing that this country needs. I will smile when I need to smile, but I don’t believe in the smiling business for the sake of smiling.

  An hour earlier, at his campaign launch, Mitchell had referred to his party colleague Dan Neville TD and his work in suicide awareness and prevention, saying he wanted to use the Presidency to highlight the problem. ‘It is a horror that stalks the land,’ he said, and he pledged to work with

  those people and agencies whose moral acts, done quietly and respectfully, save lives every day. A suicide counsellor told me recently that as people reach the point of no return, it’s like they’re in a very dark room with no door. We have to open such doors and bring light into each other’s darkness.

  As Hook continued to probe, suggesting he was colourless and dull, Mitchell riposted: ‘If anybody says to me, “Smile,” I’ll jump off O’Connell Bridge.’

  By coincidence, Hook had written in his autobiography about how he had contemplated drowning himself. The media seized on the remark, reminding people how the former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern was forced to apologise four years earlier when he suggested that those people talking down the economy should ‘commit suicide’.

  Within minutes of the programme ending, experts in the field of suicide were being canvassed by the media for their opinion of Mitchell’s comments and its potential ramifications. The director of Save Our Sons and Daughters, Peter Moroney, whose own son took his life in 2003, was quoted in the Irish Daily Mail as saying, ‘Gay Mitchell’s comment was flippant and disgusting. It shows a complete lack of understanding and compassion. It was disgraceful.’ On RTE the founder of the Irish Association of Suicidology, John Connolly (not the Nawi blogger), described the comment as ‘unfortunate’.

  However, Joan Freeman of Pieta House told the papers that had contacted her that she had not heard the interview on radio but that it was clear that the remark ‘was not intended to cause hurt.’

  To be perfectly honest I am not offended at all. It was an off-the-cuff remark in a live interview and I am sure it was not intended to cause hurt or distress … I genuinely do not believe he meant any hurt by that comment. And I’m sure he is genuinely sick of being told to smile.

  The subsequent analysis of the Mitchell interview was a clear example of how every word spoken, or misspoken, would be subjected to intense scrutiny and would act as a warning for candidates as the campaign progressed.

  This examination of each candidate on behalf of the electorate fell to the media, simply because they had access and because the presidential campaigns were media events. It would be impossible to canvass the whole country; the mass media were the key to communication, and the large number of media outlets recognised this, as well as the potential for increased advertising income and credibility as a public service, by hosting and facilitating debates and other events.

  It wasn’t until the closing days of the campaign that the candidates would take control of the political agenda, and one candidate, with one political strike, would alter the course of the campaign.

  The always controversial and entertaining broadcaster Eamon Dunphy was asked about his support in his column in the Irish Daily Star for Martin McGuinness. That support had provoked a spat on his Newstalk radio chat show the previous day, when he introduced both Mitchell and McGuinness. Mitchell declared that Dunphy’s support for McGuinness was ‘a disgrace’.

  Dunphy defended himself. Declaring his support for McGuinness was likely to be in breach of the broadcasting code, he explained:

  Declaring it as I did was the lesser of the sins; the other one would be to keep it hidden. In the end I decided that the broadcast would be fair and there would be no hidden agenda, and that it would be incumbent on me to be fair to every guest on the programme, which I endeavour to do. It is better if listeners know that your views are. It is absolutely vital to give fair and equal treatment.

  Under section 42 of the Broadcasting Act (2009) all treatment of current affairs, including matters that are either of public controversy or the subject of public debate, should be fair to all interests concerned. A serious breach of the code could lead to fines of up to €250,000. By close of business that Monday evening the Broadcasting Authority had received no complaints.

  The following morning’s Daily Mail gave blanket coverage to David Norris, stealing the thunder of Mitchell’s launch, trumpeting on page 1 that Norris was ‘facing the harrowing prospect of losing his sight’ from a progressive and irreversible condition in both eyes. The most serious version of age-related macular degeneration had been diagnosed five years earlier.

  Norris dismissed any concerns about his ability to run for office. ‘I will be six feet under before I am blind,’ he said ‘This is an age-related degenerative issue; it is an issue that anyone over the age of sixty could face.’ And he added that there had been no noticeable deterioration.

  The report also referred to the eyesight difficulties of Seán Gallagher, who had been born with congenital cataracts, partly corrected by surgery, and to the former president Eamon de Valera’s failing eyesight, which considerably deteriorated during his second term in office.

  The following morning, Tuesday 4 October, was an unseasonably bright, fresh October morning. Mary Davis, wearing freshly applied professional make-up and a striking two-piece suit in cherry red, now her trademark colour, walked from her car along the bank of the Grand Canal to Fitzwilliam Hall, a serviced office building at Leeson Street Bridge, with her husband. A crowd of mostly women supporters wearing branded T-shirts and carrying posters milled around awaiting her arrival. She was precisely on time, 11 a.m.—‘always a plus when dealing with the media,’ said one photographer approvingly, itching to get on to his next job.

  The Davis campaign had taken over the same faux-Georgian offices used by Fine Gael as its headquarters for the general election a few months earlier. Davis was on first-name terms with most of the fifty or so people who insisted on shaking hands with her and wishing her well, delaying her progress up the staircase to a side room off the large three-windowed room that had been set up for the launch with a small stage, lighting and PA.

  In contrast to the Mitchell launch, with its big political names, the Davis launch event was peopled almost exclusively by the media, with only a handful of her election workers present. The now retired governor of Mountjoy Prison, John Lonergan, rose from his seat among the audience and took the podium to introduce Mary Davis as a ‘person of integrity and humanity’. He had forgotten to introduce himself, but later in his remarks he announced his identity.

  Davis emerged from a side door and took to the podium, standing in front of the flags of the four provinces. She spoke of her experience of imagining and then bringing the Special Olympics to Ireland in 2003, her organisational skills in co-ordinating thirty thousand volu
nteers, and her negotiating skills as she dealt with governments and their officials in fifty-eight countries.

  Setting out her priorities, she announced a work plan for the first hundred days and said she would organise conventions on mental health, the elderly, the exploitation of women, literacy and disability. She would also sponsor a Citizen’s Award for people who ‘give outstanding service to Irish life’—a proposal from the Citizenship Committee she had served on. She would open consultations on the 1916 centenary north and south, request the Government to extend the Freedom of Information Act to the Presidency, and publish annual accounts for the President’s office. It was towards the end of the third page of her speech that media interest perked up.

  Everybody said this would be a tough, gruelling campaign—it’s certainly not for the faint-hearted. Most of my rivals are professional politicians, and perhaps they thought that I would fold in the face of criticism. Let me tell them: they could not be more wrong.

  They are reverting to type: engaging in the type of negative campaigning that made the Irish people so cynical about politics. Paying a lot of money to polling companies to hone attack messages is not what this campaign should be about. Paying money to polling companies may serve the partisan aims of a political party but it does not serve the cause of debate about our future.

  But I know I can deal with negative stories for one reason: I have nothing to hide. Most of what has been written about me is already in the public domain, and I have been willing to be open and transparent in dealing with any queries that have arisen.

  She was referring to nine days earlier, 25 September, when the Sunday Business Post published a brief article that stated that the research company Amárach Consultants, regularly used by Fine Gael, had been testing negative messages about presidential election candidates. Later that day Fine Gael would formally and succinctly dismiss her claim: ‘These are surprising accusations by Ms Davis and it is hard to imagine where she got this idea.’