Whatever might be said about the Áras hopeful, Seán Gallagherknows how to show dignity in defeat
THE WINNER takes it all. As the nearly man finally arrived into Dublin Castle around 8.50pm, the one with the age issues and gammy knee was being media-swarmed in rather unpresidential fashion somewhere between the Garda Drugs Unit HQ and a sprawl of RTÉ vans.
Only a handful of reporters stayed behind to see Seán Gallagher step out of a black 2010 Mercedes, watched by a few members of his campaign team, his press adviser, Richard Moore and his friend, Derek Roddy.
They were “just managing to hold it together”, said Maeve Barry. Gallagher and his wife Trish had escaped to a hotel and spa the previous night and had come from there to campaign headquarters on Stephen’s Green for an emotional two hours of speeches, chat and tears.
“We kept it steady . . . We’re trying to keep it together. We have a very young team – the average age is 28. They’ve never had to deal with something like this”, said Sinead Cashin.
“They were cryin’ like babies”, said Derek Roddy. He had his own moment while making a speech at another emotional gathering on Wednesday night in Dundalk, retorted the women.
The sense of what might have been thickened the air around them as Gallagher stood under the blinding lights for a few sympathetic media questions. The answer he prepared earlier boiled down to – “Tonight is not about me . . . Tonight is not the night for blame, disappointment, making a decision about what to run next . . . This is Michael D’s night . . . We’re delighted for him. We wish them every health and happiness.”
Trish spoke clearly and proudly about her man. “I’m exceptionally proud of Seán . . . And really proud of the team. I’m well pleased and very very happy”.
“And Trish has been a rock . . . a sense of love and enduring commitment to me,” added her husband.
Any advice for future candidates? Pause. “I think I need to reflect on that.” Great stuff guys, he said, bringing matters to a conclusion as they walked the final, lonely few yards into the count centre.
There was a composure and dignity about them as they stood briefly at the door, waiting for the maelstrom surrounding Michael D to clear. A man stopped him to shake his hand. “What’s your name?” asked Gallagher, reverting to that mechanical campaign tic of his that demanded the first name of everyone he encountered on the canvass.
They entered the hall to a charged ovation from about 15 campaign workers, followed by an awkward longueur. No one seemed to know what to do then. “Where to now?”, he asked. “Well, the guys are here,” said Trish, gesturing towards the workers beside them. They communed for a moment until he was called to the podium for the first count result.
More than half a million votes notched up. He could have made something of that in the interviews. Maybe he really believed it wasn’t the night for that. Whatever else might be said about Seán Gallagher, he doesn’t lose ugly.
In any event, his team had seen enough theatrics. Flattened, sleep deprived, emotionally spent, this was a team that had sent their man into the Frontline debate only 96 hours before, 15 points ahead. Ten weeks ago, Richard Moore had told him the battle would be won and lost on TV. The instructions were to box clever, stay calm, stay out of trouble and, crucially, DON’T ENGAGE WITH THE AUDIENCE.
It didn’t help that he was “exhausted” by then and had been since a back injury and painkillers had “killed a bit of his zip”.
He engaged. The ensuing car crash kept them up till 2.30am on Tuesday, strategising the catastrophe. Three-and-a-half hours later, they were back at HQ, preparing for a day originally scheduled to begin with an interview on the Pat Kenny show, followed by a triumphal tour of Kilkenny and Waterford.
“He was doing fine with Pat Kenny until he invoked the name of your woman,” said a gloomy supporter.
Your woman was Glenna Lynch. That was the second car crash. Kilkenny and Waterford joined the laurels on the scrap heap in favour of a blitzkrieg of radio interviews. They went in to “victim” mode, based on the allegation of “ambush” and a false tweet. Then came the 6.01 news and another “ambush”.
Hugh Morgan’s statement expected on Wednesday was fast-tracked to Tuesday and that became the template for Dobson’s interrogation. By Wednesday, they knew the game was up.
“Did he stumble or was he tripped?” asked a supporter glumly.
“Tonight’s not the night,” muttered a companion.
