News of the death of John Wilson, former TD and cabinet minister, reminded me of the time I went to interview him in his ministerial office and ended up sitting by while he purchased a gun, writes Kevin Dawson
More of that in a minute. But the recollection, dating from a previous career as a print journalist, reminded me in turn of the very different impressions that leading men and women can make in person, even those playing the same role - like government ministers.
Mary O'Rourke was as one might have expected, but more so - warm, gabby, up for a chat. While there was no doubting the steel behind the effusiveness, the memory power came as a surprise. In a first meeting when she was in education, I broke a little ice by mentioning a former connection with her home town of Athlone. I'd had a memorable romance with a girl from that town while a student, and I mentioned the family and home place to see if - as many TDs can - she could place them. Indeed she could. The mention was momentary and the interview moved on.
A good decade later at an awards ceremony, having not met her in all the intervening time, I found myself beside her during the photocall. "Ah yes," she said, "You went out with Mary . . . from my constituency, didn't you?" I'd have been impressed if she'd just remembered my name.
Informality found absurd form in an encounter with Bertie Ahern, then minister for labour but definitely on the rise. I'd been intrigued by Ahern ever since being assigned to write a profile piece about a year earlier. Clearly the man had many political gifts, I had concluded at that time; but what was his vision? What could one discern as being Ahern's Ireland, or his dream of it? Strangely difficult to tell.
So when the opportunity came to visit him in his office in Dublin's Mespil Road, I relished the opportunity to put it to him directly.
It was a morning interview and he was a pleasure to meet: every bit as approachable as one might wish, even while knowing that the already legendary ambition and work-rate meant there was much more than affability to him. As a civil servant brought in a tray of tea and toast, we talked about football and about politics in terms of it. He used a phrase that stuck in my mind about his days of turning out in the Dublin amateur soccer leagues: "I always wanted to tog strong." Be prepared, marshal your resources, unnerve your opponent, it said to me.
As I wound myself up to ask the vision question, Ahern set about buttering some toast. He did so with the slice held up in front of him, chest high. I began posing my question: "What's your vision of the Ireland of the future, minister?" The minister's toast slipped just as he applied the last of the butter, and stuck squarely to his tie. The question hung there, and so did the toast, until he gingerly separated it from the tie. He answered the question, understandably rambling and a little distracted, with his face down in his shirt as he scraped away at the bits of toast and butter that had remained on his tie. All I could see was the crown of his head and the knife scrape, scrape, scraping away. That was all the vision I was to get.
And then there was John Wilson. The rod licence dispute was raging at the time and had been for months. He was the minister, and it was at his desk that we sat for an interview about the issue and what he was going to do about it. I didn't much expect to like him, having found the ex-schoolteacher and GAA star, from a distance, a little verbally florid. The mane of hair perhaps suggested vanity. And there was the indelible image of him among those crowded delightedly around CJ Haughey on the day of his accession in 1979 to leadership of party and government.
But Mr Wilson quickly showed himself to be a charming and obliging interviewee. He was fair and frank on the issues, and before long I had my piece.
At which point he became playful. We had mentioned one of the national leaders of the rod dispute, which had for some time threatened to cause the government serious difficulty in rural parts. I had interviewed this individual earlier in the week.
Did I know that the man had a sporting goods business? the minister inquired. I didn't. Or that the minister was engaged in private discussions with him about buying a shotgun from the same man? Certainly not, no.
With that Mr Wilson rang the gentleman. On speaker. He made a little small talk, then pursued the matter of the gun he wished to purchase. They discussed model, availability and price while I listened in, marginally discomfited but amused both by the politician's route to bonding with his foe and by his method of showing this to me. The minister decided to enjoy himself further. Signalling me to stay all the more quiet, he mentioned me by name to the man on the other end.
The minister said he'd heard that this journalist was doing a piece on the dispute: did the rod man know anything about me? The man related how I had indeed come down from Dublin and spoken to him during the week. He offered the minister an assessment of my purposes, my effectiveness and my general demeanour. He was frank and colourful but thankfully not defamatory.
John Wilson was hugely amused. Of course I couldn't use any of that material in my piece that week. But it had made what could otherwise have been a perfunctory and routine encounter into something more enjoyable, if unorthodox. It suggested a man quite at ease with himself and, unlike some others, not weighed down by the business of political office.