PREDICTIONS ARE the bane of a political correspondent’s life. Some of us take great pleasure in reminding these media sages of their sweeping statements when nothing of the sort comes to pass.
There was one political correspondent who would never shirk his duty when asked to make a call. If his predictions turned out to be wide of the mark, it didn’t bother him in the least.
“Well, I was right at the time,” he would say.
Which brings us to what was written and spoken about Brian Cowen when he became Taoiseach a year ago this Thursday.
The prints glowed and the airwaves sparkled. There was a sense that Cowen was the right man for what was going to be a difficult job. He had the qualities to lead the country through the post-Bertie years – tough but fair, straight-talking, no frills, politically astute, witty, bright, popular with colleagues and liked by the media, passionate about his country and in tune with the ordinary man and woman in the street.
He walked into the job without having to fight for it. There were no contenders. Most political observers, from all sides, were rooting for him.
He had the best of starts.
Twelve months later, and I pull out the pieces I wrote on those first days. They’re a bit embarrassing now, to be honest.
I cringe and tell myself I was right at the time.
“Leadership seems to suit him . . . What a blessed change from the bland . . . Brian Cowen is a natural . . . Captivated his audiences . . . He hasn’t advisers plotting his every move . . . Doesn’t need the comfort blanket of a prepared script.”
The celebrations in his native Offaly were wonderful. Looking back now, maybe we got a little carried away:
“And there it was at last: proof that he has those qualities of leadership that so many in his party have talked about for years. Here was the reason his Dáil colleagues seek out his company. Here was why he is so highly regarded and loved in his hometown of Clara.”
I was right at the time. I was right at the time . . .
The first sign there might not be a fairytale ending came before he was confirmed in office. It was during Dáil tributes to Bertie Ahern. Cowen’s contribution was eagerly awaited. He was free to cut loose and be himself, no longer the loyal lieutenant.
The speech was a big disappointment. He made a lot of noise, but delivered what sounded more like a rallying cry to the Fianna Fáil troops than a tribute to Bertie Ahern. He failed to capture the mood.
No matter. The new man was full of fire and hope and a touching humility. “I am excited by the challenge and daunted by the responsibility,” he said, when becoming taoiseach designate. He spoke of patriotism, invoking the name of Seán Lemass. As we were to find out, he talks about patriotism a lot.
Back then it was refreshing and it fuelled a sense of optimism. Now, when he talks of patriotism, people get annoyed.
ON MAY 7TH, 2008, half of Offaly seemed to descend on Leinster House. The Offaly Rovermust have been sung a hundred times, as Cowen's countrymen and women celebrated his elevation.
Cowen was elected Taoiseach. He accepted the honour “with a genuine sense of humility”. He spoke of his family, voice breaking when he remembered his father and grandfather.
His script trembled in his hand. We willed him through that speech. His supporters had a huge party. The AA issued a traffic alert for Tullamore and Clara in advance of the homecoming. T-shirts featuring Cowen, Che Guevara style, with flowing locks and a shamrock on his beret, were sold on the streets.
Locals called his return “the Cowenation”.
Crowds lined the streets. He stood in the back of a jeep – the Biffomobile – and was driven through the streets. A pipe band led the way. There was bunting and there were speeches on the back of a lorry in O’Connor Square.
There were two powerful speeches on that Saturday. Mesmerising performances, old-style rhetoric, rich in emotion and love of place. The Taoiseach spoke of a better Ireland, of the way things used to be, when the values of community and patriotism and pride in your place were important. When people looked out for each other.
“It’s not about what’s in your pocket, it’s as much about what’s in your heart,” he said. You could see he was making a connection. Ireland, the Ireland of Bertie’s bling, was already beginning to change.
He could say that then. After his Government’s performance, he’d be wise not to repeat the statement.
Cowen sang. My Waywas one of the songs. And boy, did he mean it. In Clara he spoke of his father. He sang "Ber Cowen he is a TD, me boys, Ber Cowen, he is a TD. He got Clara a swimming pool, because it isn't by the sea!"
Some people complained about his performance in Offaly. They sniffed prissily that this was not the way for a Taoiseach to behave. Why not? It wasn’t like he was standing at the podium in the UN. Good on ya, Cowen, don’t let the handlers snuff out that spirit.
Biffogate struck in the middle of May. The Taoiseach had to apologise for conduct unbecoming when the Dáil microphones picked up his use of an expletive. “Bring in those f***ers,” he said to his Tánaiste, Mary Coughlan, in an apparent reference to the National Consumer Agency.
It was much ado about nothing, except for one thing – it highlighted Cowen’s irritation at Opposition questioning.
A couple of days later he announced that Fianna Fáil would not be continuing with its annual fund-raiser at the Galway Races and the Galway Tint.
“I was never really that arsed about it anyway,” remarked EU Commissioner Charlie McCreevy when he heard the news.
McCreevy was canvassing with the Taoiseach in advance of the Lisbon Treaty referendum. Very late in the day, Cowen and the rest of the political establishment realised that they might lose it. An uneasy alliance ensued.
But the Taoiseach upset the delicate balance when he commented that the Opposition, and Fine Gael in particular, were not working as hard as Fianna Fáil. If the treaty was to be delivered, they would have to pull up their socks.
Fine Gael leader Enda Kenny was seething. “I think there are occasions, in the country’s interest, where the Taoiseach will have to resist the temptation of giving the Opposition parties a kick every time he sees us,” commented Labour leader Eamon Gilmore.
Cowen has never heeded that advice.
Early on, the promise of Tullamore and Clara began to evaporate. In the Dáil, Bellicose Biffo was easy to rile. After years of frustration opposite the unflappable Bertie Ahern, Opposition deputies were delighted with their volatile Taoiseach.
Then Lisbon was lost. Cowen seemed to be heading that way too.
By the end of June, he couldn’t duck the recession. He stressed that the situation was not as bad as it was two decades earlier. People who were comparing Ireland in the 1980s were suffering from “delusions”.
The new leader relied heavily on jargon when talking about the economy. His opponents began to ask where the straight-talking Cowen had gone. (To the Department of Finance, four years earlier.) In July, the economic outlook worsened. On the last day before the summer recess, Cowen was still refusing to mention the word “cuts”.
“We must work within the spending limits we have set ourselves to underline confidence in ourselves going forward and to devise a strategy next year that will be sufficient to be sustainable going forward. That is the position,” he told the House.
Summer was a merciful release for all concerned. But back in Leinster House at the end of September, the pressure was piled on.
Then came the midnight meeting in Government Buildings, and the deal with the banks. Fine Gael backed the plan; Labour didn’t.
It was a question of liquidity, insisted Cowen. What about capitalisation? What about insolvency? The Taoiseach wasn’t very forthcoming. People began to worry.
On whose advice did he act? “On the advice of those from whom we should take advice.”
Day in, day out, as concerns grew about the country’s financial situation, Cowen continued to spew the usual economic jargon.
THE BUDGET WAS brought forward to October. It made a start on pegging back some of the deficit faced by the State. But it turned into a fiasco. Worried people protested vociferously over the plan to remove medical cards from some elderly people. There was pandemonium, but the Government was slow to act.
Eventually, without notice, the Taoiseach appeared on RTÉ's Nine Newsin an attempt to mollify the pensioners. "Not everyone, perhaps, has internalised the situation," he told the furious pensioners, who replied by marching in their thousands on Leinster House.
The economic situation worsened. The Opposition demanded a plan. Cowen countered by asking what they ever did when they were in power. (All of 11 years before.) Increasingly, the Taoiseach’s much vaunted leadership abilities were questioned. There were calls for a state-of-the-nation address.
Back in Government Buildings, nobody seemed to know what to do. “I keep hearing all this s**te about leadership. What’s he supposed to do? The global economy is collapsing. Just look at London and New York – nobody can cope. What’s the man supposed to do?” said a Cowen supporter.
There were long talks with the social partners and emergency Cabinet meetings. The Opposition got more angry. The public, more and more worried.
In January, Cowen let fly in the Dáil.
“As long as I am running this Government, I will run the Government as I see fit, as I believe it, based on my philosophy. I will run this country on the basis as I see it.”
That image of him, angry, shouting, stabbing the air with his finger, will be hard to shift.
In February came a spate of quasi-state-of-the-nation addresses. There was one in the Dáil – a lacklustre performance with little spark, followed by a live TV address. “Today, we start the fightback . . . There’s a whole lot of initiatives we can take, and a whole lot of things we can do.”
A nation shrugged. Well, do it so.
He went to a Chamber of Commerce dinner and delivered his third state-of-the-nation speech in so many days. He brought the crowd to its feet with his fighting talk.
“A new dawn!” we trumpeted, still hoping. In hindsight, the reaction to this one speech was a measure of how confidence in the Taoiseach had declined. “It wasn’t the Gettysburg address,” snorted Enda Kenny.
The figures got worse. Cowen said there no point in telling the Opposition anything, as they would just “rubbish” it. “I can’t rubbish anything I haven’t seen?” asked Eamon Gilmore.
No. There would be no mini-budget. Well, there might. No, I won’t name the date. Well, I might. Eventually he did. He would not be reducing the number of junior ministers. Eventually he did. The trouble with the banks escalated. Cowen and his Government appeared all at sea.
PORTRAITGATE LIVENED up March, when a couple of very unflattering caricatures of the Taoiseach were sneaked into and hung in two galleries. RTÉ carried an item. Feathers were ruffled in Government Buildings. The Government press secretary conveyed his displeasure.
A minor event was blown out of all proportion. Cowen’s stock fell further. The opinion polls have been horrendous. He’s already lost one deputy, and a former junior, John McGuinness, is in open revolt following his recent demotion. With the local elections looming, his troops are jittery. Some of the grassroots are complaining he doesn’t come to see them the way Bertie used to.
At the moment, Cowen looks isolated. When he has time to unwind, he takes a drink in the Dáil members’ bar with a small group of friends, some of them former deputies. Doubtless, they tell him what he wants to hear.
But what of the man who thrilled the crowds in Offaly a year ago? Is he gone? Some of us like to hope he’s not.
Everybody knows he had a terrible job to do. Everybody knows he can’t come up with a plan to make everything better.
It’s just that the other side of the song doesn’t have to be so out of tune.
Just do it. Then you can always say: I was right at the time.
