ON THE CANVASS with PASCHAL MOONEY:'EVERYONE'S bullin' with rage", to quote a Mullingar denizen, and internecine warfare is rattling the FF hinges. But this much we know: FFers are genetically wired to peddle a smile and a platitude. It's called putting on a brave face or possessing a neck like a jockey's whatsit (which is not what they call it in Mullingar), depending on your prejudice.
Today, Paschal Mooney is putting on a brave face. But what he really needs is to morph into a battalion of mutant ninja FFers. Opposing forces are sweeping over him like a panzer tank division – and that’s just other FFers. To sum up: there was the “brutal” imposition of Pat “the Cope”, then the “mystifying” Irish Times poll putting Pat “the Cope” 12 points ahead of Paschal, though “the Cope” was barely a day in the race when the poll was taken.
Add the heart-sinking fact that “the Cope” – armed with Mary O’Rourke – has already swept through here in the past 48 hours, well pleased with his “recognition factor”. Then consider the gargantuan size of the new constituency which has befuddled even FF commanders, since Liam Aylward posters are festooning Westmeath where they have no right to be. Mooney’s recognition factor is low in these parts, to put it nicely. An ebullient Senator Donie Cassidy tries to build a bridge. “Did ya hear him on the radio? Music for the lonely hearts club? D’ya remember?” he bellows at a startled passer-by.
“‘Keep it Country’ and Gay Byrne were the biggest programmes in radio . . . Isn’t that right, Paschal? Paschal?”
Paschal rubs a weary hand very slowly over an eye. He really, really wants to leave that “nostalgia thing” in the past, “though it’s part of what I am I suppose”, he concedes later.
But he’s well aware that his work for the undocumented Irish in the US and with Leitrim childcare services; his Ocean FM documentaries on the Irish experience abroad; his active involvement in the Community Games; his proud membership of the British-Irish Parliamentary Body; his chairmanship of northwest Fáilte Ireland and his repeated declaration that “I love this country . . . I genuinely feel I can make a difference” , can all be buried behind that snide country ‘n’ Irish tag.
As his customised van cruises the streets blasting out an apt Ring of Fire in competition with a Balkan busker, the lads sidle up to a couple of rabid women in red jackets at lunch in the Greville Arms. “Would you live on €317 a week?” snaps a militant one on the dole, whereupon Paschal tries to explain the importance of competitiveness to job creation in the single market. Their eyes glaze over.
“How long is this depression going to last?” interjects the other.
“Even Obama doesn’t know,” sighs Paschal with commendable honesty, his winter anorak catching between the lunch tables as he struggles on, leaving the show to Donie.
“Ooh, ladies in red . . . ”, croons Donie/Chris de Burgh to their deeply unimpressed faces, before declaring that he was reared on two pound eight‘n’six a week in 1955.
“Hummph . . . Donie Cassidy’s aftershave costs more than I’m getting every week,” spits one when he leaves. “I’ll kill Senator Camillus if he comes near my door,” barks the other.
Shop owner Denis McDermott may be a cousin of Camillus, but he is not blinded by the light: “I know he’s nearly 100, but I say bring back Mr TK Whitaker . . . ”
Up the street, Des and Geraldine Walsh – “always Fianna Fáil, outspokenly so” – are waiting for them in their long-established jewellery shop.
Des rails against the “antics of the lads at the top, the waste of money and arrogance we’ve seen at national level . . . you won’t get a vote in this town.”
The canvassers look rattled, later putting it down to “internal party history”.
Yet this level of engagement is better than the ill-concealed contempt, the chilly courtesy, the “I’m havin’ me lunch, doing my shopping thank you” dismissals that tend to mark other meetings.
As usual, Paschal is already at the shop exit, looking edgy, waiting for Donie to catch up. Donie is only doing what canvassers do – a bit of craic, buffoonery, arguing – but Paschal is chomping at the bit.
“There’s no time for it . . . a campaign like this is presidential in nature, you can only skim the surface,” he says miserably. Is it that bad? “Every day you wake up is another day to be got through,” he sighs.
“It’s 16-hour days, you’re focused on nothing else. You eat, you go out, you’re on the phone most of the day. It’s very, very gruelling, very, very demanding, physically and emotionally.”
His mother Eva, died suddenly in February after contracting pneumonia in Sligo general and he hasn’t had time to grieve. The loss of his Seanad seat (“Cecilia Keaveny had the support of the party leadership”) remains an enormous shock, especially since – with five children aged between 13 and 21 – it was his main source of income.
“I’m freelancing ever since,” he says.
None of this is likely to cut any ice around bullin’ Mullingar however.
Donie already has an excuse he prepared earlier: “This town is predominantly Labour – they got 47 per cent of the vote in the last local elections,” he says, as Paschal speeds off towards Cavan, to relief all round.
