Branding Bertie Ahern a socialist must be FF’s last, desperate stroke

THE mood in the Sycamore Room was tense. All the handlers had gathered, and both the ad agency and the market research companies had delivered their verdict.

“What are we going to tell Bertie?” one of the junior handlers asked. “These figures are disastrous. He’s going to go ballistic when he discovers that the party is polling even less than we got in the local elections.”

The senior handler thought - not for the first time - that this was a young lad who needed to know his place. Not a wet day in the place, and already referring to the Taoiseach as Bertie. Not even the Boss or the Chief. And besides, what earthly use was a handler who panicked every time he saw a set of poll figures? Didn’t he know that the party had been through much worse than this?

He himself had been through all the Gubu years - the phone-tapping, the murderer in the Attorney General’s flat, one business scandal after another. This was chicken feed by comparison.

“Lookit,” he said, “we might start by remembering that we’re working for the Taoiseach of the country. And secondly, it’s our job to be offering solutions, not wetting ourselves just because we’ve got a bad rating in an opinion poll.”

But the senior handler reflected that this was indeed a bit of a mess... the problem is that Bertie’s not exactly a fresh face. If the people are saying that the bottom line is that they’re tired of him, that probably reflects the reality of 10 years in office. And it clearly shows that the reshuffle hasn’t worked, at least in terms of brightening things up.

It doesn’t help when all the new ministers are wandering around putting their feet in it every time they open their mouths: Conor Lenihan announcing that we weren’t going to meet the target for third world aid; Mary Hanafin deciding that there was no way of getting class sizes down to the promised levels.

Still, we’re not giving up without a fight.

The senior handler looked around the big table in the Sycamore Room, one of the finest rooms in Government Buildings. This is ours, he thought. We’ve been here for the guts of 20 years, and Fine Gael and Labour aren’t going to take it away from us. All we need is a plan.

“I know what the Taoiseach needs,” he said. Even as he spoke, he could see eyes lighting up. That’s it, he thought. I’ve pulled the fat out of the fire before, I can do it again. I’ll show these guys what a real handler is.

“A makeover,” he said. “We’ll give the Taoiseach a makeover.”

Immediately, he could see the idea was going to be a hard sell. One of his long-serving colleagues spoke up.

“Ah shush,” he said. “We can’t do another makeover. We’re going to have to come up with something different.”

“Why not?” the senior handler demanded. “It’s always worked before - and there’s plenty of time to put it into effect.”

“Don’t you see?” his second-in-command persisted, “Bertie’s already been everything. He’s gone for every corner of the market.

“He’s been the loyal lieutenant, the humble servant, the cunning strategist, the loner, the fixer. When the anorak worked and he wanted to be one of the lads, we invented the pint of Bass and the stool in the corner of Fagan’s pub.

“When he needed to be a statesman, we got him into the good suits - and by the way, he needs to go up a size or two in the suits, he’s bursting out of them right now.

“We had him go all open and transparent about the marriage, then we had the on-again, off-again relationship. We turned him into Mr Tough Guy just before the locals, telling the cabinet they’d better shape up or their jobs wouldn’t be safe. And then we did the Inchydoney thing, getting him to go all caring and sharing, and that didn’t work either. There’s nothing left for him to be.”

“I don’t agree,” the senior handler said. “I think the problem is we haven’t been radical enough. We’ve got to get him into a new persona, one that has a totally different appeal, and make him stick with it this time. Go for a totally different segment of the market.”

“My God,” the ad man said. “What are you thinking of - are you going to have the Taoiseach announcing he’s gay?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said the senior handler. “I don’t know if the Taoiseach could quite work his way through that one right now, though. We’ll keep that in reserve, in case there’s one last niche market we haven’t covered. But I reckon the new Bertie will have to go soft on gay rights, if his new persona is to fit.”

He paused, savouring the tension building in the room.

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll have to turn Bertie into a socialist.”

THERE was pandemonium in the room. The senior handler thought the market research guy was going to get sick. That’s the trouble with these guys, he thought. They only know how to measure public opinion. They haven’t a clue how to shape it.

“Have you gone mad?” the second-in command asked. “The money guys will never stand for that. They haven’t been contributing millions to the party to keep a goddam socialist in power.”

“Come off it,” the senior handler snapped. “I’m not talking real socialism here. None of that role of the state, or redistributing wealth, or rights for the marginalised nonsense. But we’ll get him to claim the ground, and we’ll have a few soundbites about the poor and the weak and all that.”

“But what about his track record?” the junior handler said. “Won’t the media start investigating inconsistencies between what he says and what he does?”

“Yeah, right,” said the senior handler. “Like that’s ever happened.”

There was a general titter around the room, and the senior handler knew he was going to win the argument.

“There’s something in it alright,” the adman said. “It’ll frighten the life out of the PDs, and it will open up speculation about who Bertie might coalesce with after the next election. And we could have pictures of Bertie in the Botanic Gardens and Stephens Green and other places where rich people mingle with poor people.”

“So no more private tents at the Galway Races, then, or sitting in the box in Old Trafford with JP and the lads,” said the second-in-command.

“Well, I don’t know if we have to go that far,” the senior handler said. “We can probably get one of the liberal bishops to call into the tent next year. That would soften the image a bit.”

“So it’s agreed then,” said the senior handler, “we’re going to invent the first socialist Taoiseach, and we’ll put a bit of extra money for social welfare and all that rubbish in the Budget. And don’t forget, lads - we can take the money back after the election, just like we did last time. In the meantime, let’s all get used to calling him Comrade Taoiseach!”