Electing a politician is like buying a dog: you are stuck with it. This 1990s barked remark foresaw today's fouled political pavements, writes Quentin Fottrell
Longford was a pretty grim town in the early 1990s, even during the glamorous reign of Albert & The Family Reynolds. Glamorous, if you leave aside the fact that he used to run a successful petfood factory. (Nothing wrong with that). But there were few historic landmark buildings and pot-holes were everywhere, clogged with rainwater. It made the streetscape look like Button Moon.
As part of my month-long student internship in the Longford Leadernewspaper I attended a council meeting at which the fate of the historic 18th-century Longford Courthouse was discussed. Sitting with my pen poised and brand new reporters' notebook from Eason's, I was surprised by how few councillors opposed its demolition.
The toilets of the Longford Arms, owned by Reynolds's brother Jim, ran under the courthouse. The building itself, the pub nextdoor and several others were listed as part of the town's new urban renewal designated area. In a heartbreaking act of astonishing destruction, Longford Castle had been torn down in 1971 to make way for a car park. Yet the courthouse was not listed for conservation.
It was no small irony that this building, which risked being absorbed into the town's development, was a house of justice. I went back to the offices of the Longford Leaderand rummaged through photographs of Longford's historic buildings, most of which had been demolished. (We printed those pictures with the headline: "Longford Courthouse Is Falling Down. But Will It Be Saved?"). Before publication of that story I visited the home of a councillor who had attended the meeting. His wife answered the door. "Is the councillor in?" I inquired. "I'll see," she said, and closed the door. There was an audible kerfuffle behind the net curtains. The door swung open. "He's not here," she said. I gave my name and left.
Just 20 minutes later that same councillor magically appeared at the newspaper's reception. He was a clean-shaven leprechaun of a man wearing a spiffing suit and tie and a big smile. We went to the local pub. It became clear he didn't give a hoot about the courthouse. As we finished, he said something which I will never forget: "Electing a politician is like buying a dog. Once you buy it, you're stuck with it."
When Bertie Ahern announced his intention to remain on as Taoiseach until 2012 I thought about that Longford councillor, his pooch power and his willingness to let the developers' ball wreck Longford Courthouse. If Ahern's leadership lasts from 1997 to 2012, that's 15 years - the maximum lifespan reserved for a select few canine breeds such as Chihuahuas and Jack Russell Terriers. (An Irish wolfhound lives a patriotic seven years, the same length as an Irish presidential term).
At the risk of boring you more with shaggy dog stories: we know that Ahern opened a building society account in Drumcondra in January 1994 to save for a house. (Just like the boy in the TV ad, remember? "I'm saving for a bike!"). The account had £38,602 when Ahern bought his current home in 1997. The tribunal counsel has argued that there was no documentation to support that the bulk of its lodgments came from his pay cheques.
Being savvy enough to buy a new home on the cusp of the housing boom, with the help of political donations for personal use, Ahern was a speculator as well as a creator of this soon-to-be-valuable commodity. Through his policies and his party's close relationship with the building industry, he fuelled the gold rush in property and, in the process, helped himself to his own plot of gold. The proverbial tail was wagging the dog. (Let us assume that the £30,000 of constituency funds loaned to Celia Larkin in 1993 originally comprised political donations for political use, and not for yet another investment in real estate).
Still, Ahern's "political donation for personal use" is a psychological mind-bender of staggering self-justification. This is the Emperor's New Donation. It dispenses with the need for modest brown envelopes. It strips away the questions of how Ahern defines payments, gifts and loans. It strips away the dithering in the witness-box. It strips away the illusion of ethical behaviour in politics. These words leave him naked and, by giving an official definition to a previously hidden practice, they also leave his colleagues with their giblets to the wind.
It is as barefaced and brass-necked a remark as that made by the Longford councillor in the Longford pub all those years ago.
As for Longford Courthouse, thanks to the efforts of the local community, it still stands to this day. Just like Ahern, who is digging his gnashers into the soft furnishings of Leinster House. In Dublin Castle, he has even become a bit of a growler. But every dog has its day and, like I said, Ahern's term as Taoiseach is a lifetime in dog years. We asked "How much is that Bertie in the window?" And it cost us dear. But my real worry now is the litter of brazen little pups in Leinster House he will leave behind.