|
|
 |
You are > Home > Tales of intrigue in Dunlop’s book
|
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Tales of intrigue in Dunlop’s book
By: John Cooney
Colourful pen portraits of Padraig Flynn, Ray MacSharry and the late John ‘Backbencher’ Healy enliven Frank Dunlop’s highly readable but eminently self-serving memoir as Government Press Secretary to Jack Lynch and Charles Haughey.
In his book, “Yes Taoiseach - Irish Politics from behind closed doors” Dunlop recalls standing with Lynch outside the main door of Leinster House in 1977 after being returned to power with a massive majority. Their attention was drawn to the processional entry of newly elected Dail deputies with their proud families, friends and supporters.
“ There was a particular hullabaloo as a man in a white polka-dot shirt was shouldered to the front door,” Dunlop writes.
“Who in the name of God is that?” asked an incredulous Lynch.
“That,‚ said Dunlop, “is the one and only Padraig Flynn from Mayo.”
According to Dunlop, Jack should have recognised Padraig as the man who, had refused to run for Fianna Fail in the by-election to replace Fine Gael’s Henry Kenny nearly two years previously, because he knew that he could not beat the young Kenny heir apparent, Enda.
“Though he would never have believed it that day, Jack was looking at one of those who would go on to change the profile, and in some instances the nature of Fianna Fáil politics for ever.”
Dunlop was able to inform Lynch about Flynn, because he had met him several times in Castlebar, while accompanying Haughey on visits there.
“During a visit to a cumann meeting in Castlebar we were entertained by a local big-wig, one Padraig Flynn,” Dunlop writes. “We ended up in his house after the meeting, where we were introduced to the intricacies of west Mayo politics and whiskey. ‘Jaysus, Charlie, these fellas you bring with you are well able to down the whiskey,’ was the charming comment as he poured me another glass. Flynn’s clownish bombast was evident even then, but he was also shrewd enough to be in awe of Charlie. He could see that he might be the man to link up with if there were to be a future in national politics.”
Dunlop’s evident dislike of Pee’s flamboyant persona peeps through in his dismissal of the Mayoman as “a political weathervane” who later opportunistically turned against Haughey in favour of another member of “the country and western set”, Albert Reynolds. Typical of Dunlop’s patronising approach is a quotation, which he attributes to Ray Burke, that Flynn was like the barber’s cat, “full of wind and piss”.
In contrast, Dunlop is highly complimentary to Ray MacSharry, who struck him as a man who early in life in Sligo had decided that he was not going to be put down by anybody, let alone those who might have thought that they were his intellectual superiors such as Des O’Malley and Martin O’Donoghue. Dunlop is insightful in his presentation of the relationship between C. J. and Mac.
“Though he presented a robust and resolute appearance in public, at times Charlie Haughey appeared to cave in, especially when there was blood in the water and sharks were circling,” writes Dunlop. “The fact is that there was often blood in the water, and Ray MacSharry was the only one confident enough to take him aside, talk toughly to him and reinvigorate him in such a way that he came out fighting. Haughey trusted MacSharry. In fact, MacSharry was probably one of the few politicians for whom Charlie had any real respect.”
The hype surrounding this recall of the brown envelope era of Irish politics is bound to make it a best-seller, but the book cover’s biographical note on Frank Dunlop omits to mention that the former government press secretary-turned-lobbyist was one of the most notorious witnesses at the Flood Tribunal of Inquiry. The lobbyist, who boasted that he had balls of iron and a spine of steel, became a parrot when confronted with the prospect of a prison sentence. Before being hospitalised, he confessed distributing £112,000 to 15 councillors for their votes to approve the property development in west Dublin that became the Liffey Valley Centre.
Whether written for personal therapy or public rehabilitation, Dunlop also provides cutting pen-pictures of legends such as Sean Doherty, Jim Gibbons, George Colley, Ray Burke, and Des O’Malley, as well as the late John Boland and Gemma Hussey whom he worked for in the Department of Education.
Revelations of skull-duggery in the political corridors of power puts this insider’s yarn into the crime thriller category as much as political science. But the book’s main fascination lies in Dunlop’s contrasting portraits of Lynch and Haughey. He accuses Jack, his mentor, of being “hands-off in his approach” and of “intellectual laziness.” In contrast, Charlie will stand head and shoulders in the public memory - and perhaps, in time, in public affection - over other Taoisigh. Such is Dunlop’s admiration for Charlie that he compares him to the French statesman Talleyrand for surviving when others caved in, for his whiff of cordite, for his womanising and grand private life style.
The Dunlop thesis will provoke lively debate. Amazingly, a crucial incident leading to the fall of Lynch is not mentioned. This was a press conference in Brussels when Lynch was misreported by political correspondents about the terms of Ireland’s joining the European Monetary System, a decision which led to the break in parity between the punt and sterling, and, arguably was the most important negotiation since Michael Collins agreed on the Treaty in 1921.
Dunlop had not taped the press conference, allowing ‘the pol corrs’ to get away with their inaccuracy. This was a case of gross incompetence on Dunlop’s part. It did Lynch’s public reputation irreparable harm. Lynch later told me that he never forgave this mishap. Perhaps this explains Dunlop’s hard-neck treatment of his former master.
Dunlop is also unfair in a scathing put-down of John Healy, then writing for “The Irish Times” whom he claims had failed to recognise that a new era of journalism had dawned because the whole landscape had changed between 1974 and 1982 with the arrival of “an army of ambitious young journalists wanting high-profile exclusives, not staid, ministerial kite-flying”.
Dunlop contrasts this less deferential style of reporting the political system which had, “up to that point, survived on a curious mixture of mystique and awe, some of it created by journalists like John Healy who liked to be seen on the inside track, and was based on the misguided notion that Irish politics involved the exercise of great power for the good of the people and that one tampered with it or questioned it at one’s peril.”
While Dunlop is correct in noting the explosion in the number of political reporters, he overlooks the fact that Healy’s pre-eminence rested on his having provided several generations of readers with the inner workings of cabinet and Dáil politics. It was Healy who penetrated the closed doors which whose secrets were kept from the public in the era of W.T. Cosgrave and Eamon de Valera. Sadly, there was after the departure of Douglas Gageby there was to be no place for Healy in Conor Brady‚s “Times”. Amazingly, too, there is no mention of Healy’s massive contribution to political journalism and the promotion of the West in Diarmaid Ferriter’s massive and impressive tome on “The Transformation of Ireland, 1900-2000.” Nor is there any mention of Dunlop’s roguish role in the corrupting of Irish politics.
Main News Page |
Previous Page
|
|
|
|
Facebook
