IT'S 15 years now since hundreds of people piled into Dublin's ProCathedral to give thanks for the return of kidnap victim Ben Dunne. These days, however there is a distinct sense in certain sectors that if he were only to disappear again say, to an uncharted island in the northern hemisphere with a white plastic, spine bound report in his golf cart, the ProCathedral would once again be ringing to the ranks of sharp suited gentlemen giving thanks.
The old news from Ireland this week is that most of the nation's adults are, as usual, desperately seeking Santa. The hot news is that they don't have to go to Lapland. Castleknock will do. And - there, once they've breached security - not easy, but worth a try sits a man with a jolly face, wildly informal manners and a fat cheque book ready to help them build a new wing, fly to Florida or pull in a few votes.
Now what can be wrong with that? Why does the word Santa suddenly mean Sourpusses all over the place? Is it any wonder if this most generous of Donors In A Flash is pondering the fickleness of human nature this weekend? For, suddenly, to be on Santa Ben's list is less attractive than having a communicable disease.
John Bruton announced in the middle of the night that his party had benefitted to the tune of £180,000 and this only after the other parties had declared themselves. A day later, he admitted to being "personally involved" in "soliciting" donations from Ben Dunne. Michael Lowry might also have been "in some way involved", he said.
As admissions go, it was hardly a comfortable one for John Bruton. Only hours beforehand, his Coalition partner, Proinsias De Rossa, had launched a scorching attack on Ben's old Evil Empire, Dunnes Stores, denouncing it as "one of the most secretive companies this country has ever known"(not a bit like the old Workers' Party), an enormously powerful company which had often seemed to consider itself free to ignore the norms of industrial relations and business practice, to set its own rules and dictate its own terms."
It was also the week when Dick Spring flinched and used such tame language as "the lads over there" instead of "the chancers in Fianna Fail" as typed firmly into his script. Meanwhile, the list of alleged recipients of Ben's benevolence continued to grow like Topsy, leaving politicians self confessedly "scared witless".
"Mr You Don't Know Who", quipped a radio caller this week. "Let he who is without Ben Dunne cast the first stone." But they cast them anyway. Fianna Fail chief whip Dermot Aherne felt obliged to go home and find cheque stubs to prove that his trip to Majorca hadn't been paid for by Ben Dunne, as implied by Fine Gael's Phil Hogan. He got an apology. Others were eliminated in the early stages. Details about deals between Dunnes and private individuals though serious gossip fodder could hardly be ascribed to the public interest. How they fare with the by now intensely interested Revenue Commissioners is their own business.
The "prominent RTE personality" said that his appearance on the list represented no more than payments for legitimate services rendered. Other appearances on the list might not be so easily explained away. It is common currency by now that a number of people who were or are engaged in public service were among Santa's elves, people who unlike Michael Lowry cannot claim to have had a business with Ben Dunne.
But it was the revelation about the senior Fianna Fail politician" said to be the beneficiary of more than £1 million lodged to London bank accounts that gave the story legs and raised the public eyebrow by another few inches. While the entire population indulged in a guessing game involving a lot of wishful thinking and two current FF TDs in particular, hints were dropped from on high. Bertie Ahern declared that if anyone in his party was involved, he would deal with the matter "if it is within my power to do so" - the clear implication being that the individual might no longer be a party member or subject to action by the leader.
Mr You Know Who continued to maintain a stately silence, as has been his wont. Though "outed" by Phoenix (generating such a run on the magazine that it sold out in some shops within hours) and a German newspaper, one newspaper had it that sources close to him were denying his involvement. The difficulty for both sides is that, infuriatingly, Mr You Know Who remains just that. His name appears nowhere on the famous list.
One source vital to an interpretation of the Santa list is Ben Dunne himself and he, it appears, is talking to no one but his legal elves. The question has been asked before, but this week it was magnified a million times. Why would anyone give such enormous sums of money to a political party?
One highly successful businessman - let's call him Rudolph - who defends the practice of "legitimate donations" to political parties says that he is nonetheless "stunned" by the amounts of money involved. Approaches to him routinely consist of no more than an invitation to take a £100 a plate table for 10 at some party function. To him, that £1,000 constitutes "a reasonable amount" - enough at any rate to enable him to demand an audience "without blushing" with a senior politician if there are controversial decisions in the offing, say in the forthcoming Budget.
So Eithne Fitzgerald's controversial invitation to a £100 a plate lunch - later cancelled - with the Minister for Finance prior to the publication of the Finance Bill (or "selling private briefings to selected business people to benefit her own constituency organisation" in the words of Opposition deputies) seems fairly standard practice. It would take a brave person to speculate on why companies - some on a par with Rudolph's - would donate 30 times as much.
One of the interesting details thrown up by the Beef Tribunal was that Larry Goodman had contributed the sum of £346,020 to political parties in one 10 year period. His senior counsel, Dermot Gleeson, tried to put this in perspective; it was, he said, like someone on a wage of £10,000 giving 64p at a church gate collection. So if Rudolph (who contributes about £1,000) and Larry were to demand a hearing from the same senior politician about conflicting issues, are we to assume that they would get an equally sympathetic hearing? If Rudolph and Ben (who gave £180,000 to Vine Gael in just tour years and who, incidentally, once described Larry Goodman as the man he most admired) were to approach the same senior Fine Gael minister about conflicting issues, would the minister be able to maintain the same rock like objectivity in both cases?
Rudolph, for one, is scratching his head about that one. A thousand pounds suddenly seems so ... unpersuasive.
SPECULATION this week about Ben Dunne's motives for cultivating good relationships with government centred on issues - some old, some extant - such as below cost selling, the increasing difficulty in opening new stores and special duty on discretionary trusts (widely perceived to be directed at Dunnes Stores and about which Dunnes was known to be engaged in fruitless negotiations with the Department of Finance in recent months).
Friends of Ben, however, tend to scoff at this. Though a notoriously rough, tough man in business, privately, says one friend, Ben is uncommonly free with his money "easily touched, both literally and metaphorically" - the kind of man who would "lash off a cheque" to anyone with a half convincing story.
His contributions to charity are the stuff of legend, although he has always insisted on anonymity. No fewer than 84 character testimonials plopped on to the desk of the Florida judge in charge of his trial there in 1992 describing him as "fair minded", "humble" and "generous to a fault". These mentioned large sums given to hospitals, hospices and hardships funds and included one for $240,000 for the library in St Patrick's College, Maynooth.
There were stories of outstanding personal kindnesses as well as tales from senior bankers of how Ben had often taken responsibility for the debts of others who could no longer afford to repay them. (The latter - for good or ill - may yet explain the appearances of at least some of the names on the famous list.)
His gambling habits on the golf course are well known and also give a clue about the value he places on common or garden money. When he plays with the likes of Dermot Desmond or J.P. McManus, bets of tens of thousands on a single hole would not be outlandish. "If you have £150 million or whatever in the bank, you have to put up that sort of money to make it interesting." And though he might pay the air fares and hotel bills of his guests in foreign golf resorts, the guests know they stand to lose three times as much if they get unlucky on the golf course. It has been assumed that Michael Lowry was one of those but as the ex Minister announced ruefully on his departure last week that he had only played three rounds of golf in the past four years, it seems unlikely. In any event, Ben famously dislikes discussing business on the course. He has very few close friends and tends to gravitate towards "ordinary Joes", where all too often his wealth becomes an obstacle. Those he has travelled and played with tended to be professional golfers or people in his own line of business and some who know him well say that trust is probably his biggest problem.
Though wealth may be a handicap in some respects, it is also his greatest security. For Ben Dunne, real security hovers at around the £40 million mark, says a friend; if he ever hits his last £10 million, he will consider himself dangerously close to poverty.
It is highly unlikely. Though his wife's Buy Right enterprise failed to realise the dream of rivalling Dunnes Stores, he is lately enthused about plans for a chain of middle market fitness centres which are well past the drawingboard stage and may ultimately compete directly with the plans of Albert Gubay, an old adversary with a similar idea. And in an unprecedentedly gungho year for private investors in commercial property (who have shelled out £220 million so far), he is reckoned to be one of the biggest players.
Meanwhile, though his study at home is still dominated by the picture of his father, begetter of all the Dunnes and whose thoughts can only be guessed at this week, Ben Junior claims to be enjoying life after Dunnes Stores, work he once said he lived for.
Those seeking Santa might note that he drinks locally in Castleknock. If he's not there, he could well be at home reading history books; failing that, according to recent reports, he might be spied around the art galleries. And from all of us out here, Ben, a very Happy Christmas.
