JACKIE HEALY-Rae has all the angles covered. He wears two watches, one on each wrist, just in case one of them stops. They are not battery or wind-up watches, he said. They get their energy from his arm movements. There is no danger that either will stop in the next week.
The Kerry South candidate running as an independent after failing to get a Fianna Fail nomination has an ambidextrous approach to pressing flesh. The first big freckled hand reaches to shake hands with the voter. "You won't let me down," he says, all twinkle from under the tartan cap.
"Not at all," the voter usually replies, dazzled by the short man with the big charisma. "Thanks verry verry much," Jackie says with feeling, clapping the smiling voter on the back with the other band. And the watches tick on.
The Healy-Rae machine was in Killorglin, 30 miles from his own heartland in Kilgarvan. "This is the heart of O'Donoghue country," Jackie says pragmatically, referring to the Fianna Fail candidate John O'Donoghue. But he is hoping to wring a lot of No 2s out of the party stalwarts.
Two of his election workers Jerry Cronin and Teddy Chub-O'Connor, open doors for the candidate as he works the pubs and shops in the busy little town.
Jackie usually walks between them, the one in the cap and the battered navy suit, his breast pocket sagging under the weight of a flip-up mobile phone and campaign cards.
In the Kingdom Bar he gets the by now familiar welcome. "Hello, Jackie, how are ya, pet?" a red-haired woman lilts, before dragging him away for a little chat. Then suddenly the other bar door opens and John O'Donoghue breezes through. A big man in a smart suit and a bit of a hurry, he walks with a purpose, followed by other big men in smart suits handing out big leaflets and expensive lapel stickers.
"Jaysus, the heavies are out with him," Jerry remarks afterwards. "That's his full team." Jackie just chuckles. "Good God, Killorglin is taken by storm today. O'Donoghue must be scared."
In the next shop a woman praises the candidate's performance at the last after-Mass meeting. "You were up there on that kitchen stone and I was sure it was going to go from under you." Jackie is tickled pinker than usual.
"Did I speak all right?" he asks.
"You did," she says.
The after-Mass meeting is not a thing of the past, he argues over a hearty lunch. It is a big part of his campaign. "I wish to God there was two Sundays in the middle of the week."
In another pub one of Jackie's fans declares his loyalty. "I'll tell ya one thing: that man will talk for the people."
This election campaign is a serious business, Jackie, Jerry and Teddy agreed. After failing to make the party ticket, the publican, farmer and county councillor decided to go it alone. He has been campaigning for seven weeks already, and in contrast to previous campaigns, there is no drinking in the bars with the punters, he says.
He intends to "kick up holy bloody murder when I'm in tea Dail" over the diabolical state of county roads in Kerry and jobs for the county. "`Tis a sort of a Gregory deal. If I hold the balance of power I'd vote for Bertie Ahern if there was funding for the county roads and some guarantee of jobs for the young people."
Even the young people, hanging around outside chippers in their school uniforms, know who he is. Two lads in their dusty work clothes sit in a car eating chicken out of greasy cardboard boxes. Healy-Rae raps on the car window and passes in some cards, which are accepted with mumbled thanks. No one is safe.
And the rest of the constituency is under similar bombardment, he assures me. "There's nobody in Kilgarvan [his home town], they're all out canvassing." In a hardware shop a woman buying plant food asks him almost maternally: "Is everyone saying hello and wishing you well?" He assures her they are.
Most people attach the word "colourful" to Jackie Healy-Rae. He is not afraid to use the "character" factor to win votes.
