It's the night of the general election, and I've been dispatched to the Marian Hall in Birr, Co Offaly, to photograph the rise of Brian Cowen and the fall of Tom Parlon. Every hour we are being told that it will happen any minute now. Eleven hours later and, at last, it's really time.
I'm standing in the gallery, looking down on the count, which is
so heaving with party faithful that the fire brigade arrives. It's
bedlam. Time to make a judgment call. I ring my picture editor and
explain my plan.
It's a gamble, I say. The strongest picture will be if I stay
put and, from above, photograph Cowen surrounded by his family and
followers, but it will only work if he looks up. My picture editor
says to go for it.
I push my way to the balcony. I look down. All I can see is
the back of Cowen's head. I'm quietly panicking. It's 10.55pm. The
paper has to be printed.
The returning officer calls for silence, then announces the
first result. I start to take a few photographs, to check my
exposures. My camera doesn't work. I check my other camera. It
doesn't work, either. My life flashes by. I'll never work again.
My heart is pounding. I turn to the man next to me, whose
name is Paul Barber and who has brought his camera along, although
he's not a professional photographer. I yank it from his hands, ram
in my memory card and turn towards Cowen, who is now deemed elected
- and being carried aloft victoriously.
I have only one shot. There is no motor drive on this camera,
which is so small compared with my own that it feels like a mouse
in my hand.
Cowen turns to the gallery for a split second before the
crowd swallows him up. Bang. One shot. My phone rings. It's my
editor. "You got the picture?" He had explained my plan to the
newsroom, and they cheered as they saw Cowen on TV, turning to the
gallery. "Send, send, send. You have seconds before we go to
press."
I push my way out to my car, put my laptop on my knee and,
still shaking, insert my card. "New hardware found" reads the
screen. I curse. After fiddling, one image appears. It's Cowen.
He's looking straight into my lens. I feel as happy as he looks. I
send it. My mobile rings. "Ya daisy. Well done."
I'm still in the car, trying to breathe, condensation rolling
down the windows, sweat rolling off my forehead, my heart still
pounding. Why do I do this, I think. What is it that makes me want
to be a photographer? I still don't have the answer.
