The first time I met Charles J. Haughey, he kicked me. On the head. In front of an audience of about 800 people. With an RTE camera rolling. Because I had tried to make a presentation to him.
And he ended the night, characteristically, by bringing the house down with a joke against himself.
The venue was the Physics Theatre in the old UCD building on Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin. The occasion was a Saturday night debate of the Literary and Historical Society. The presentation was of a threadbare toy dog.
And the reason for the dog was that that week Mr Haughey had set the dogs on one of my heroes, Noel Browne.
The picture of Browne's wrist in the grip of a German Shepherd took up a quarter of the front page of The Irish Times. Mr Haughey was Minister for Justice, and the Garda had just introduced a dog squad for crowd control purposes.
Vietnam War
Browne was protesting at the then early involvement of the US in the Vietnam War. Gardai lost control of their new charges as they tried to prevent the demonstrators from entering Merrion Square on their way to the US embassy, then located there.
Not many people had any idea where Vietnam was, or why America was involved there, but they were outraged at the treatment of the man credited with freeing us from tuberculosis.
The next evening an even bigger demonstration was held. Gardai kept a discreet distance as we marched all the way to our destination. Mr Haughey, for once, recognised the value of discretion.
The following night he was due at the L & H. No one expected him to keep the appointment - except, that is, for the anonymous fellow-student who thoughtfully brought the decrepit dog.
This was at a time when Every customer in every pub in Dublin had a story to tell about Charlie's supposed drinking exploits. And every one of them, on a visit to any country town, could get free drink all night for assuring the local drinkers that the stories were true.
Getting plastered, unfortunately, was one of his weaknesses. He went to enormous expense with the restoration work on his classical mansion, Abbeville at Kinsealy.
Gossip had it that the foundation of his fortunes was the profit he made on his previous home at Raheny, through a change in its planning status. But before he sold it, for demolition, he had that house also lavishly restored to the extent that even the cellars were replastered. Like pouring money into a hole in the ground, as one of the highly-paid restoration plasterers put it.
Charlie also seemed to be blamed for the exploits of every skirt-chaser in Dublin. None of this did the least harm to his voter appeal, and He seemed to understand that.
Expressionless
The L & H took pride in its noisiness and the society was at its most unruly when the Minister for Justice arrived, flanked by gardai. If there were Fianna Fail supporters present - and there always were - they did not keep silent; neither did they applaud.
Charlie was unfazed; the totally expressionless face was more expressionless than ever.
The bearer of the toy dog tried to get through the crush, but failed. Being slimmer, I succeeded. Grabbing the dog from him, I squeezed through.
Charlie's basilisk eyes were flicking from side to side, even more watchful for any threat than were his escorting gardai.
He saw me before they did. And he saw the dog. And as I started to reach out to present it, his hand came down in a karate chop which sent it spinning to the floor.
The cameras moved in. I dived for the dog. Charlie tried to kick it farther out of range. The cameraman forced his way closer. Charlie's shiny black shoe grazed my head and the moment was recorded for posterity as I straightened and offered him the tribute again.
The gardai restored order. The chairman was officially introduced. The debate proceeded.
At the end of the night Charlie was called on to deliver his verdict on the speakers, and his own summing up. He did it by way of telling a story.
Bad fortune
Elbows on the big teak bench in front of him, he reminded us that he had had a piece of bad fortune that week: a beloved horse had finished nowhere, a cloud hung over his breeding ambitions.
At the end of a disappointing Fairyhouse a little man had come up to him to commiserate.
"Ah, Mr Haughey," he said, "there's nothing left for you now, your honour, but to take up the dogs."
The house collapsed in laughter. It was that talent to snatch sympathy from defeat, and to maintain a sense of proportion about disaster, which built the career of a remarkable survivor.