All's fair in war between FF's hopefuls in South

Campaign trail: The veteran Fianna Fáiler gazes wonder-struck at the swoosh of canvassing genius that is Gerry Collins.

"'Tisn't the one he's shaking the hand with, 'tis the one that's coming along he'd be watching."

And not just shaking the hand. There is the kissing and the hugging, the kneading and patting and stroking, a mini-massage of the wrist here, a soothing rub of the back there. "He'd be locked up for it up in Dublin, aye," sighs another admirer. But here in Newcastlewest, Co Limerick, if he didn't do it, "the women'd be amazed".

Say what you like about the old troupers but they're fun, with their laid-on-with-a-trowel charm, the memories unto the eighth generation - "Donnelly from Broadford? I know you. You're Gerry's son. And I knew your grandfather, O'Shea from west Kerry" - the swashbuckling histories shared with half the populace.

"My grandmother fed his father when he was on the run," remarks one. At Mike Murphy's men's shop, it's recalled that, as couriers for "The Cause", Mike's and Gerry's fathers rode on horseback all the way to Fenit.

Then again, Gerry has forged a few legends himself. Goosebumps still erupt at the memory of the torchlight procession and the 20,000-strong crowd that packed the square in 1967 when he was first elected to the Dáil at the age of 24, not to mention that tremulous "Don't burst up the party" television appeal in latter years.

He's only slightly less tremulous now when someone asks how the campaign is going: "I'm doing \ well. I am," he quivers, the pause exquisitely timed, just long enough to allow the concerned questioner absorb the strangled alarm bells. At 61, he still looks like a little cherub, smiling bravely through the storm, and not a bit like someone who would deface another lad's posters or remove them wholesale.

Meanwhile, in a nice middle-class Cork city suburb, the other lad, having just canvassed 500 houses, is finishing a Cornetto, lighting up a Marlboro and ordering spoke-tighteners for his third rattled wheelchair - and fourth set of wheels - of the campaign.

He's also sitting on nearly double Gerry's poll ratings. With his freckles, bouncy blonde locks and sunny smile, Brian Crowley also looks very like a cherub and not a bit like a warrior with one and three-quarter quotas and who would burst up the party to hog it all for himself.

Yet, even the veterans of the Dublin wars bow to these two candidates as the warriors' warriors of the 2004 campaign. Both carry Euro-weight as outgoing MEPs, comfortable with the few European issues that arise. Both carry hefty party legacies (Crowley's father was a Fianna Fáil TD, and Collins remains a vice-president of the party). Both are spending shedloads of money, €130,000 minimum in Crowley's case.

Crowley's canvassing machine is a clinical blitzkrieg, with numerous family members sprinting ahead while he beetles along the road, breezily pulling himself over kerbs and into doorways when occasion demands. As for Collins, his brother is among his nice, chatty team today while his wife, Hilary, is manning the base camp. Famously, there is a raft of extended family members, even if most of them seem to be candidates of some kind.

Collins, however, has other biological weapons in his arsenal, if the tiny print on his posters is any guide: they're issued by some shy boy called "J. O'Donoghue, Director of Elections". This may or may not be the same out and proud "John O'Donoghue TD, Mount St, Dublin", who features on the Leinster lads' posters. But if it is, Collins should be laughing. Crowley has his brother, Niall, as director of elections; Collins has Fianna Fáil's Cáis Mór na Mumhan, the veritable Napoleon of the South.

According to Crowley, J. O'Donoghue hasn't spoken to him since the convention. Really? "I did meet him once. He said, 'hello, Brian, how are you?'," says Crowley.

Since that giddy high, things have cooled. As everyone in the street knows, while Official Fianna Fáil wanted to carve up the constituency to maximise the chances of two seats, Cork FF (Crowley's camp, let's call them COFF) demurred, saying it didn't believe in telling voters how to vote.

"In elections, people have the opportunity to question the candidates, to see them and interact with them," says Crowley. "You're elected to represent the whole area, so you should be out there canvassing the whole area. I'll get a party vote but I'll also get a non-party vote. In 1999 in this constituency, when the European election was held on the same day as the local elections, Fianna Fáil got 53 per cent in the European and 41.4 per cent in the local election. That proves that it's more than just a party vote," he adds with a toss of the blonde locks.

"Basically, Brian doesn't give a toss," says an Official Fianna Fáil source, pointing to Gerry's perilous poll position. "The territory given to Gerry elected nine FF TDs in the general election. What Crowley got, elected 14. If Gerry sticks at 15-16 per cent, which is about three-fifths of a quota, there's a problem."

So where's J. Napoleon O'Donoghue when you need him? "Well, he can't physically stop Crowley," snorts the Official Fianna Fáil person. We try to imagine the scene. No, it would not look good, we agree. I mean, have you seen Brian's biceps? Anyway, there's more than one way to skin a catfighter.

According to COFF, upwards of 1,000 Crowley posters (costing about €7 apiece) have gone "missing". The wind is no longer a suspect. "It's a bit too organised, too systematic for it to be accidental." Nearly 50 posters had been erected coming up to their Dingle canvass, all of which had vanished five days later. On the other hand, while OFF is admitting to nothing, the view is that Crowley shouldn't have been within an ass's roar of Dingle in the first place.

And incidentally, OFF is appalled at the defacement of 30 big Crowley posters in Cork (where they were entitled to be, for a change) with stickers saying "Vote 1 Collins". There's even a suggestion by one OFFer that COFF themselves did it.

Crowley, like Collins, is a canny canvasser. Approached by a very tense smoker who demands to know how he personally feels about the ban, he points out that no one opposed the move in the Dáil. Then he produces the Marlboros. She deflates, visibly.

"There'd normally be a bit of cribbing about Fianna Fáil when we go to the doors," says one of the team (indeed there's been a fair bit about "arrogant" ministers), "but as soon as Brian appears, there's not a word." Largely, he seems to escape the wrath of those who want to give Fianna Fáil a smack. It's the Chinese wall again that some candidates seem able to erect between themselves and the party. He insists Fianna Fáil is still "my home".

Then he announces that he's off to the Cork-Limerick hurling march the next day. In (Gerry's) Limerick. Isn't that a tad provocative? "I won't be canvassing," he says, smiling sweetly.

Back in west Limerick, in booming, buzzy Newcastlewest, where Gerry is a god, he gamely poses beside a battery advertisement bearing the words "Are you power mad?" and swears he's never been afraid of an election. "If I can help bring about the winning of two seats for the party, I will feel I've done something important for the party." So the party still means everything? "I'm afraid it does. It's been my life."