Farewell, old comrade, and yes, we'll try to give up our aul cynicism

IT WAS only when his friends began to say goodbye that Michael D really realised his life is changed. “But where are you going?” the ninth president of Ireland said to his election agent. “What are you saying goodbye to me for?”

So many people: Kevin O’Driscoll, the agent, who has been with him, on and off, for over 30 years; his campaign driver, Kevin McCarthy; loyal team members like Mags and Tony; countless Labour party colleagues who have been a constant in his life over the years.

All bidding him farewell. Everyone could see they still want to mind him, but can’t anymore.

These were special, emotional, moments, when their Michael D went from private citizen to President-elect.

Col Joe Dowling arrived at the entrance to his city centre apartment on Saturday evening and presented him with a scroll which formally confirmed his election.

A uniformed garda was already in place at the front door. His close protection team stood discreetly in the background.

Michael D’s life was not his own anymore.

“There was a fleeting moment on Saturday morning when you could see a shadow of panic cross his face. The reality of his achievement sank in,” recalls O’Driscoll. “But then there was worry when he thought about having to share a platform with people who would be very downcast. We’ve been there before, we’ve lost elections more than once, and he was acutely aware of how they were feeling.” The Army officer saluted his new commander-in-chief. In a nice twist, Col Dowling was also saluting his former university lecturer – he was a sociology student of Michael D’s back in the 1970s.

It was a whirlwind day in a momentous weekend.

After a quick bite to eat, the President-elect’s official driver drove him in the official car to the Mansion House, where supporters gathered for an impromptu celebration. After the exertions of the previous 48 hours, they didn’t expect to see him. So when he arrived, their cheers lifted the ceiling of the Oak Room.

“Yes, there were tears, and lots of them” said director of elections Joe Costello. “He stayed for the best part of an hour and made a rousing speech. There was huge excitement.”

After a good night’s sleep, Michael D was out and about again yesterday. He did a radio interview at lunchtime, coining a slogan in the process which may well go down as the phrase of his presidency. He eschewed quotes from Emmanuel Kant and Friedrich Von Hayek, drawing instead from an Oscar-winning Irish cartoon.

“I think cynicism is of no value to us at all; we must all now be positive and we must also be practical. And to the people who find it difficult and are cynical, I say, just like the film said: Give up your aul sins. It’s about ‘Give up your aul cynicism’.” That made listeners give a little cheer.

Then it was off to Eyre Square and his homecoming. “Welcome Home to Galway, Mr President” read the banner draped across the Meyrick Hotel. There were flags waved and brass bands and dancing in the rain and a huge musical hooley afterwards.

President Michael D (and he’ll be known as nothing else) knew on Friday morning that his hour had come. He spent much of the day in his apartment working on the speech he would make in Dublin Castle after the official declaration. He had a long wait. It was late on Saturday afternoon before the result was announced.

In the meantime, Michael D drafted his address. His apartment is full of books and papers, but he wanted to write his main points on note cards. He couldn’t find any. His family turned the place upside down, but to no avail.

In the end, the next president had a brainwave when he saw his new shirt, there, ready for the next day. He unwrapped it, removed the cardboard insert and cut it into neat rectangles. Problem solved.

Finally, it was time. Michael D and his wife Sabina arrived in the central count centre with their daughter and three sons. Labour activists were beside themselves. All the men seemed to be wearing red ties. There was an outbreak of red roses among the women.

If the President-elect had been worried about the other contenders, he needn’t have been. Mary Davis and Gay Mitchell were not in attendance – a genuine mistake on Mary’s part and a conscious decision on Gay’s.

It fell to the Taoiseach to do the speaking for him, something one suspects Enda wasn’t too happy about. But he was pleased for Michael D. In fact, everyone was pleased for him. David Norris looked so happy people could have been forgiven for thinking he was the winner. His speech was vintage Norris – and thoroughly gracious.

Martin McGuinness was wonderfully magnanimous. So, too, was Dana. For Seán Gallagher, who came so near, his address was, perhaps, his finest hour. Still exuding positivity, his sincerity and magnanimity was touching. “I know that you will do us all proud as the ninth president of Ireland,” he said to the winner. “Go well, Sir.”

On the platform, Enda Kenny stood next to his nominal boss. Hugs and kisses all round.

The Fine Gael Taoiseach asked his Labour Tánaiste if he wanted to switch places and stand next to the man his party nominated.

Eamon Gilmore said he was fine where he was. Had he been any happier he would have spontaneously combusted.

Michael D’s speech was passionate and eloquent, building to a crescendo as his supporters held their mobile phones aloft and recorded the occasion for posterity. He swam seamlessly between English and Irish, like an otter slipping from river bank to water.

It was stirring stuff, none the worse for having been crafted on the cardboard from the middle of his shirt. And as he spoke, we thought: winner alright.

When he embraced his former party leader, both men seemed close to tears. Gilmore’s happiness and pride was plain to see. They are old friends.

“As a party, we have been very proud of Michael D all down the years. He is the life and certainly the soul of the party” said the Tánaiste, his voice thickening. “Go n-eirí leat, a Michealeen... you are our Head of State and we are enormously proud of you.”

There wasn’t a dry eye among the Labourites.

“I’ll have to let him go now. My Michael D. I don’t want to,” quivered a misty-eyed woman from party headquarters.

When returning officer Ríona Ní Fhlanghaile announced the final figure, the crowd whooped and applauded. He had smashed the million-vote barrier.

There were kisses, then some more from his wife Sabina, elegant in a Frank Usher outfit. “I’m so happy” said Sabina, beaming at the side of the man who called her “my comrade in life”. There won’t be a dull moment with them in the Áras.

Yesterday, during his RTÉ radio interview, he was asked what his father, who died many years ago, might think about him becoming president. Michael has written movingly of him in his poetry.

They had little money; his father suffered from poor health. He didn’t answer the question. “It’s still too painful for him,” explained a close friend.

But it’s the future that beckons now. “Give up yer aul cynicism” was his rallying call. Some day, perhaps, we will. Go n-éirí an bóthar leat, Michael D.

Uachtarán na hÉireann.