We should nominate someone pleasant and modest and who has little in common with the other candidates
RIGHT. THAT is quite enough, thank you. The weekend brought nothing but chaos and two more opinion polls, and talk of Manchurian candidates, which was just annoying.
The Sunday Independentsaid: "A series of dramatic developments yesterday have [sic] elevated the race for the presidency into the most highly charged event in recent political history." This is not what we want.
And we don’t have much time; the nominations close on Wednesday, so we must remind ourselves that the presidency is a ceremonial post and then quickly unite around the alternative, eighth candidate. For the presidency of Ireland I am nominating Roger Moore. That’s Sir Roger Moore to you. Let’s raise a single eyebrow to our next president.
Roger Moore is handsome; he looks great in a blazer, which is not as easy as you might think. He is good humoured and has charidee experience as a Unicef goodwill ambassador, a role which he has filled for the past 20 years, and of which he is justifiably proud.
He has a history of violence – The Saint, The Persuaders, a bit of James Bond. He also has a history that looks more than a little gay – The Saint, The Persuaders, almost all of James Bond,and a marriage to a singer called Dorothy Squires.
If only Roger had a history of flirtation with the far right, had briefly appeared on the television programme Dragons' Den, and been dumped by the political party that was supposed to be supporting him, then he would have something in common with each of the declared presidential candidates so far.
But it is what distinguishes Roger from all the declared presidential candidates so far that makes him such a winner. Roger is self-deprecating. He is modest. He doesn’t think that he knows best. Or if he does think so he hides it. Roger is an actor; he doesn’t believe in sincerity. And sincerity is what has ruined the presidential race. We are sick of it before it has even begun.
Roger is of a generation which thought it undignified to insult the other guy or call him names. (Yes, names like West Brit, to choose just one random example. Oh, Martin, you are naughty. And just the teeniest bit predictable.) Roger doesn’t believe in saying what he thinks; or even in saying what he has to pretend to think. He just believes in turning up and smiling and being pleasant: the presidency in a nutshell.
Strangely enough, the men who spring to mind when one is thinking about Sir Roger and his attractive personal style are both Irish: Sir Terence Wogan and Mike Murphy. Funny, clever, unaggressive men who seem unfashionably cheerful. Who look like they are nice to people. Who can laugh at themselves. Last weekend Sir Roger told the Guardianthat his most treasured possession was his pacemaker. What's not to love? But before I rush off to have the "A Safari Suit For The Park" badges made up, I am prepared to anticipate a couple of objections.
First of all I do realise that Sir Terence and Mike Murphy are quite bit younger than Sir Roger, who was born in 1927; you would be amazed how touchy rather lovely men can be about their age. But I don’t think either Sir Terence or Mike Murphy would maintain that they look better than Sir Roger in photographs. Sir Roger is not above a little nip and tuck, and good luck to him. He’s a great colour. Besides, Mike is back in RTÉ now, with Gay.
RTÉ is piling up the returned veterans at such a rate that the whole station is in danger of becoming like New Tricks, a BBC drama in which retired detectives solve all the crimes, and have all the fun.
What we need in the presidency is something different – not the boring personifications of all the old ideas from the 20th century: the socialist candidate, the gay candidate, the woman candidate, the nationalist candidate, the Manchurian candidate – what the hell does that mean? We need a man who wears pink shiny ties and very large, tinted spectacles. Not people who are competing with each other to see how little they will get paid if elected. That’s so patronising.
Roger would never do that to us. He needs to go skiing a couple of times a year. He’s got to keep Kristina in jewellery.
It’s Kristina, also known as Kiki, that worries me, to be honest with you. The chances of her becoming as inspired a presidential consort as Martin McAleese have got to be pretty slim. In fact it’s a shame that Tony Curtis is dead because he would have been the perfect presidential consort for Roger, and the whole country could have died of happiness. Talk about a united Ireland. As it is, Kiki is a millionaire who is used to luxury, and the Áras doesn’t even have an indoor pool, as far as I know. Inside the reception rooms are kind of grim, like a hotel in which the open fires have been replaced by gas heaters.
We’d have to turn up the thermostat rather boldly to persuade Roger to run. But looking at the alternatives, and what we must endure until polling day on October 27th, God knows it’s worth a try.