IT IS Wednesday night in The Highlands Hotel in Glenties.
The summer school devotees, exhausted after a full day of thinking deep thoughts, are unwinding over their modest libations.
Whither the pint of stout? The challenge of Merlot.
The role of the Constitution in chancing a brandy.
They’re a howl, the summer school mob.
One small and suntanned group stand out from the rest. They don’t seem to want to pin passing economists into a corner to discuss George Lee. Sightings of Pat Cox do not appear to move them.
They look a little different too. The ladies are elegantly and expensively dressed, and there is much jangling of heavy jewellery. The sole gent among them looks like his natural habitat is the clubhouse bar of the K Club.
But like everyone else, they are enjoying themselves.
They drink real champagne all night, the bottle in an ice bucket in the middle of the table. You never see that at MacGill.
Who could they be? The MacGillites apply their considerable intellects and combined years of sterling service at the highest levels in the public service to the question.
They are, of course, satisfied with their answer: the group are clearly former Progressive Democrats, in Glenties to see Michael McDowell. Except that when McDowell has since long departed, they remain.
The mystery was solved yesterday morning when the man turned out to be the first speaker of the day – developer/ entrepreneur Paddy Kelly.
He is hundred of millions of euro in debt but he doesn’t let it get him down.
Before he did his stuff, RTÉ’s Eileen Magnier asked him if you would do an interview with her afterwards.
“Yes,” replied the silver-haired, Nama bound builder. “I’ll even do a song and dance for you!” And with that, he hopped up on to the stage and did a little soft shoe shuffle.
To the sensible brigade in the body of the hall, Kelly was viewed as something of an exotic creature. He spoke at some length, and then some more. Verbosity is the curse of MacGill.
Some were very taken by the flamboyant developer, others were near apoplectic by what he had to say. “Fairytales! A load of feckin’ fairytales!” complained one woman who had come outside to fume on the pavement. “That man is on another planet.”
However, back in the room, one audience member told the smiling developer: “you charmed Fintan and now you’ve charmed us.” This was a reference to Fintan O’Toole, who wrote in this newspaper last weekend about spending a day with the bubbly Mr Kelly. At one point, Fintan referred to the very large BMW he was driving.
“A super car” Kelly told the crowd. He said it cost €129,000, and as everyone knows, half the cost of a car is tax, so people who shell out for them should really be praised for buying these things, because they are doing their bit for the exchequer.
A venerable and venerated academic, who shall remain nameless, nearly had a seizure.
Oh, and here’s another gem: “Maureen and I tend to do a lot of shopping in America.” He spoke quite a bit about “the game.” Some of the smaller banks should be closed – “tidy up the game.” Developers should be consulted – “there’s no game without the golfers.” Developers are “the jockeys.
” Now, the ever-optimistic Kelly believes the game has to be played internationally. “Doing Business in the Global Village” was the theme of this address.
“We were winning in Ireland and doing marvellous up until a couple of years ago.”
But he’s still doing marvellous, in his own way. Looking good too – immaculate grey suit with a broad chalk stripe, crimson red socks in his leather loafers.
Due to speak later in the day was Michael Somers, former boss of the NTMA. Kelly saw him in the foyer and bounded over. “We’ve have a great few days here” he declared, grasping Dr Somers by the hand. “Great!”
After he left, the big beast of the public service gazed after him. “Is that Paddy Kelly?” he asked the person next to him, looking slightly bemused.
All very surreal.
Speaking of which, the night before, when Enda Kenny did his thing, the Summer School bats returned. Real bats. They reside in the heavy drapes at the back of the hall.
Perhaps it was the comforting presence of Green Minister Eamon Ryan that enticed them into the open. Or more likely, it was the sporadic roaring of Enda that roused them.
Whatever it was, they flew out during the question and answer session. One landed on the foot of a horrified female journalist, who thought it was a big spider and nearly passed out.
The poor little thing, squeaking pathetically, was eventually captured. By yesterday morning, it had grown to the size of a flying fox and had been squealing like a stuck pig.
During his speech, Enda said that when he gets into government he will have to deal with a horrendous mess left behind by the current administration.
Then he boomed: “That’s the straitjacket that I, more than likely, will be faced with before Christmas.”
It was meant to be a very serious point. But it gave some people a fit of the giggles.
Enda, by the way, left at the crack of dawn to climb Croagh Patrick with the British ambassador. They had a nice day for it.
And as MacGill winds down for another year, the Lucinda Creighton saga rumbles on. Deputy Creighton, who said during the week that Fine Gael (and its leader) was wrong to accept donations from developers who may be involved with Nama.
Yesterday, there were whispers that Lucinda numbered quite a few big builders and developers at a personal fundraiser for her political machine in Dublin’s Four Seasons Hotel in April.
More than one of them has been, or will be, Namafied.
Lucinda may yet find that the moral high ground can be a very lonely place.