Revolutionary Daly marches into history

CLARE DALY used to haunt my dreams.

I had a recurring nightmare a number of years ago, and the former Socialist Party TD was there in the middle of it every time.

It was no reflection on the woman, either as a private individual or a public representative, but it said lots about my perceptions and prejudices.

The nightmare centred around a revolution, which, in my subconscious state, resembled what occurred in Cuba 50 years ago. We were in the post-revolution phase, where the bourgeouis and collaborators of the deposed regime were being selected for punishment.

And there, wearing a beret tilted at a 45º angle, was Clare. She was selecting candidates for the firing squad. This, of course, is an image completely at odds with the real person, who is a democrat committed to equality, but that must be down to a subconscious manifestation of my prejudices.

Back in those days of sleepless nights, prior to her election to the Dáil, I always found Daly’s public and media appearances to be fused with anger and laden with ideology. Her political persona came across as, well, severe. She always looked to be on the point of spitting venom as she railed against the right-wing political establishment.

At least Joe Higgins managed to temper his rhetoric with humour, but Clare just came across as so angry with how the rich had usurped all power.

Anyway, back in my nightmare, guess who was pulled out of the ranks of the overthrown for target practice? As a journalist who had worked for one of the newspapers which had propped up the old regime, I was considered irredeemable. Clare pointed her riding crop at me, just like the Sean McGinley character identifying leaders in the wake of the 1916 Easter Rising in the movie Michael Collins (OK, so we all become Charlie Big Potatoes in our own dreams).

Two uniforms pulled me forward to meet my maker. There I was, shivering, scared witless of dying, when who should hove into view, but Joe. Here was my chance to stay alive.

“Joe, you gotta believe me,” I said. “I can change. Twenty years in a gulag would do wonders for me. Can you get me off the hook, just for old time’s sakes.” The last line was one I stole from The Godfather, but it was a desperate situation.

Joe pulled Clare into a conspiratorial huddle and they had a quick conflab, while I tottered on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Then the pair of them turned towards me. Joe had on him a long, mournful face, Clare looked like all her Christmases had come at once. There could only be one outcome.

“Goodbye cruel world,” I sobbed to myself, and just as I was being taken away, I woke in a cold sweat. It was the same ending every time.

Last week, when Daly announced she was resigning from the Socialist Party, those nights of horror came back to me. How far we have all come.

Within months of ascending to the Dáil in the last general election, Daly began to lose her severity. Maybe somebody had a chat with her, told her that she needed to lighten up in front of the microphone in order to attract more followers to the Socialist Party’s standard. Like many politicians, she got something of a makeover.

Frequently, when being interviewed on air, she allowed a giggle, or a tame guffaw, to ripple out. The purpose might have been to emphasise how silly her opponent’s position was, or perhaps just to let the wider world know that there’s lots of fun to be had in the party, along with all the blood and thunder.

Either way, she also developed into an effective politician. Sure, in the current environment, lambasting the Government for cuts is like shooting fish in a barrel. But she is an effective debater and media performer. And whether you agree or not with the socialist rhetoric, they do actually believe in a political philosophy beyond the next focus group, which is more than can be said for most parties these days.

Last May, Daly tabled the Dáil motion that led to Health Minister James Reilly declaring that this would not be the seventh consecutive government to fail to legislate for the X case. Daly had forced the issue, demonstrating that she can mix it on social as well as economic or socio-political matters.

Then, last week, she marched into history, becoming the latest lightning rod for that long-standing tradition on the Left in Irish politics — The Split. She quit the party, she said — and this was the comical bit — to concentrate on building the United Left Alliance.

The world and its granny knows that the focus of difference between her and the party is her friendship with Mick Wallace. The former developer-turned-TD was revealed in May to have falsified Vat returns which culminated in a debt of €2.1m to the Revenue.

Initially, the Socialist Party and the other elements of the United Left Alliance looked benignly on Wallace’s actions. After all, he was singing from their hymn sheet about austerity and the banks and what have you.

Once that position became obviously untenable, Wallace was cast out, abandoned by all in the ULA except Daly. The severe, firebrand socialist of old was suddenly prepared to turn a blind eye to the tax evading — and other questionable business practices — of a developer on the basis of friendship. Where was Mick Wallace when my dreams needed someone to do some softening up on my behalf?

The damage Daly has inflicted on herself as a national figure has been compounded by her statement that the resignation has nothing to do with Wallace. Who’s she coddin’? Her hand was forced by the objection of the Socialist party to Wallace’s role in the campaign against the Household Charge. In fact, it could be argued that Wallace would be an ideal candidate to lead the campaign. He evaded tax. The campaign on the household charge is about evading tax. What’s the problem?

Overall, though, the whole sorry affair has highlighted once more how The Split is destined to continue to haunt left-wing politics in this country. Only Sinn Féin, in its current incarnation, seems immune to the curse, and that party is the one which will most likely welcome the whole affair with open arms.

Meanwhile, I had another dream last night. This one involved Bob Dylan, who was telling me all about his new album, due for imminent release. He was giving me the exclusive story that he had recorded a late addition to the songlist.

“I decided it was time to write a song about how left-wing politics eats itself in your little country over there,” he told me. I looked up from the notebook, pen trembling in my hand.

“Go on, Bobby, whattcha call it?”

He gave me that all-knowing look of his as a wicked grin ghosted across his face.

“The Ballad of Mick and Clare.”