PHOTOGRAPHERS positioned themselves on the first-floor landing so they could capture Gerry Adams when he passed beneath the sparkling chandeliers of the Shelbourne Hotel.
Most of his colleagues had already arrived, bouncing up the softly carpeted stairs on their way to the sumptuous surrounds of the Adam Room. Delighted with themselves.
Location, location, location. For some reason, they needed reminding every so often. Not, you understand, about their own impressive whereabouts – they knew exactly where they were – but the whereabouts of a certain Fianna Fáil party.
“Out in Tallaght, aren’t they? What’s their hotel again? Where exactly?” And so on.
Deputy Aengus Ó Snodaigh and former councillor Dáithí Doolin were full of the joys. “There’s life beyond placards,” whooped Dáithí, as a liveried bellhop stood aside to allow him pass.
The cameras remained trained on those famous revolving doors.
There was a flurry in the foyer. A big car drew up outside. Up on the landing, one of the photographers shouted: “Bloody hell, he’s arriving in a Belfast taxi!” and they nearly fainted with joy. For yes, it was Gerry Adams but no, it was a black Toyota Landcruiser.
They know how to make an entrance in Sinn Féin. They tend to favour the rolling doughnut.
Their party leader and TD for Louth breezed across the lobby, enveloped in a smug of deputies Mary Lou McDonald, Caoimhghín Ó Caoláin and Pearse Doherty, towing numerous handlers in his orbit. All fit to burst, they were smiling so much.
The reception committee upstairs had fancy tea and iced water and they nibbled on posh biscuits as they waited for the top brass.
Fianna Fáil were very mean with the biscuits in Tallaght on Monday, although they laid on a nice dinner and Micheál Martin was a generous and engaging host. Pints were drunk but nobody went mad.
Back in The Shel-bur-in, the Shinners drank from bone china cups. “Biccies for the Stickies!” chuckled one hard chaw through a mouthful of crumbs.
Among Gerry’s satellites was party stalwart Lucilita Breathnach. “I’ve never been here before,” declared the Dublin-born activist as the little group headed past the historic Constitution Room. “I’ve only been here once,” retorted another satellite, somewhat defensively. “And I was working at the time.” Meanwhile, Aengus Ó Snodaigh was in some difficulty at the refreshment table.
“Where’s the normal tea?” he wailed, staring helplessly at the array of superior Assam and first flush Darjeeling and green tea and herbal tea and Lapsang Souchong and organic Verbena.
Then he pounced, triumphantly bearing away his prize. “English breakfast tea,” he exclaimed, clearly relieved and making a beeline for the Burco.
One couldn’t help thinking that Sinn Féin had hit upon this idea of a pop-up think-in just to annoy Fianna Fáil. The media only found out about it on Monday.
Remind us. Where are they again? Oh yeah, somewhere at the end of the Luas line, across the road from Shamrock Rovers, next door to Lidl.
It must be said, there was some quiet sniggering in the heavily swagged and gilded confines of the Adam Room, with its views of St Stephen’s Green.
At the top table, Gerry grinned like a demented jennet, all big teeth and facial hair. Sleeven beamed beatifically, like he was about to ascend to heaven. Pearse managed a thin smile and looked far less pale and pained than he normally does.
As for a radiant Mary Lou – deeply tanned, sunglasses on the top of her head – for all the world like a contented Shelbournista just returned from a particularly successful expedition to BT’s Designer Room.
What a contrast with the downbeat FFers, meeting in the Maldron Hotel’s Shannon Room ll, next door to The Shannon Room l, where a group of unemployed women were doing a Fás course in computers. They came out to watch the Fianna Fáil few gather for their end of shrink-in family photo.
Most unimpressed by the sight of them, we hear.
Back in The Shel-bur-in, they even had little pots of honey to go with their fancy tea. Dessie Ellis appeared to be levitating.
The happy Shinners were bursting with bonhomie.
“This isn’t a competition between Sinn Féin and Fianna Fáil. We’re not Fianna Fáil. We’re Sinn Féin. We’re the Republican Party,” said Gerry, flashing those teeth again as he poured salt in the FF wound.
“Delivering the Future” was their message on the party’s big blue backdrop. Fianna Fáil’s had no message, apart from “The Republican Party”. Unlike the crowd trying to steal their clothes, they made no attempt to attract new blood. “Join Sinn Féin!” exhorted the large banner behind Deputy Adams, complete with references to Twitter and You Tube and the web. “Text ‘join” followed by your name and address to . . .”
The subject of the presidency came up. Everyone laughed. What about Martin McGuinness? Martin is in America with Peter Robinson, said Gerry, and they all fell around the place again.
But Deputy Adams thinks the party should field a candidate. And “we need somebody who won’t just feed us poetry,” he said, taking a swipe at Michael D, who is a politician and a poet, just like Martin McGuinness.
In terms of potential candidates “would anyone at the top table rule themselves in out?” Gerry unsheathed the teeth. “I would rule myself out!” he chortled, and everyone roared with laughter.
Mary Lou twinkled and gurgled a side-splitting: “I have ruled myself out!” More hilarity.
Pearse is too young to run, so he just chortled along. Caoimhghín said nothing, shooting coy little glances around the room.
Then they all went off to stretch their legs before resuming their think-in behind closed doors under the ornate ceiling and between the fluted pillars and there was honey still for tea.
In The Shel-bur-in.
When they kept reminding themselves: where are the other crowd again?
