Anxiety, exhaustion, impatience, elation, passion and pain. The election count embodies a whirlwind of emotions for both the candidates and their campaign teams.
Watching the action from a television screen, one can never accurately grasp the atmosphere inside a count centre. From the initial rush of the tallies where hope is abundant to the dreaded inevitability of elimination, where that last spark of hope is finally extinguished.
I have never given a second thought to the people who have failed to be elected in the past but standing in the count centre in Banagher, Co Offaly last week and watching the events unfold, my opinion changes entirely.
Not my county yet my constituency. My people. Against my wishes, I am dragged into the emotion of it all.
Eleven candidates, one, maybe two front runners. The rest? For them, only time will tell.
There are hours where the campaign parties are standing, watching and waiting with no news, only predictions. Eyes glance at the returning officer to see if there’s any movement towards the podium to make that long awaited announcement. The crowd flutters in and out from the canteen, drinking endless amount of tea.
Media observe from afar, drinking in the atmosphere, trying to gauge early reactions, sniffing around for any information.
Reports from other constituencies filter through and all one can think is, “when is it our turn?”
Eventually candidates make their way to the count centre, having anxiously waited by their phones all morning, some arriving to rapturous applause, others keep their heads down, not wanting to be noticed by the expectant crowd or the lurking reporters.
For the lucky ones, the wait is over after the first count. For the extremely lucky ones, they are elected then and there. The rest get back to work, estimating the number of transfers they might get. In some cases they are clutching at straws, yet a glimmer of hope remains visible in their eyes.
The candidates themselves float around trying to maintain a calm and optimistic composure.
The hours tick by while ballot papers are checked and rechecked. Talk begins to turn to the rugby and whether they can sneak away to catch a glimpse of it downtown and make it back in time for the results of the next count.
I slip outside to escape from the tension only and observe two members of a campaign team, one with his head on the a table trying to rest his weary eyes. The other stares, his eyes bloodshot and his expression pessimisitc.
Interested members of the public with no clear affiliation to any candidate watch over the people counting, drinking in the process before eventually moving on.
It’s not until you witness someone being eliminated that one can even try and grasp the time, effort and expense that goes into an election campaign. And in one minute, it’s all gone.
Finished. It’s in their eyes, it’s behind the smile. It was all for nothing.
For those who have been through the process before, they accept the result without question and leave.
For some newcomers, they deliberate whether to call for a recount and some make a speech to all their campaign team through a cracking voice, their family and friends in tears. The media stand in the sidelines, silent observers.
Switch back to the successful candidates and it’s a whole different world. Tears of joy, loud cheers and chanting as they are hoisted into the air beaming from ear to ear.
And the process goes on and on, sometimes into the early hours of the morning, even into the next day.
Enthusiasm wavers and exhaustion sets in.
Sixteen hours later and we are down to the last three candidates.
And for the sake of a few hundred votes we head for yet another count to the groans of the media who have travelled from Dublin.
Eventually ballot papers are finished with, announcements have been made and seats have been filled.
Cameras and various wires are packed away, canteens close down and the last of the crowd filters out, drained from the emotion of it all.
And to think in a few months we may have to experience it all again.
