LOW TURNOUT AT
THEY came in anticipation, in search of further invective, another ill-judged diatribe. But they were to leave disappointed.
The person who had not just dominated local, but also national, discourse was carefully managed, chaperoned throughout, her every syllable audited and appraised before public consumption.
Not that it mattered. Because ultimately, Verona was relegated to the sidelines, a distant third behind two of the county’s most beloved sons, those pre-election controversies a mere footnote in someone else’s success story.
It may have been for all the wrong reasons but on Saturday last, for at least a few hours, Wexford was the epicentre of the Irish political landscape. A first by-election since 1945 might not have captured the attention of the general public, but for the national media all roads led to St. Joseph’s Community Centre, the venue they felt was most likely to see blood spilled, heads roll, tears spent.
Before any of that though, before anything approaching drama could seep out of those infernal pigeon-holes, they, like everybody else, had to wait, and wait, and wait. Because this was something no one told us about by-elections, the thing that all those who endured the last one some 75 years ago, neglected to pass on to the generations below: They are incredibly boring. At least when it comes to the count. Unlike the locals or the generals where there’s multiple races, multiple winners and multiple, frequent counts, a by-election consists of just one race, one winner and a lot of waiting.
Someone must have known though because the low turnout (35%) in the polls was reflected in the centre itself where, in truth, there were more staff than onlookers, more people tallying the votes than people peering over the railings for a closer look. This was a low-key, one for the purists, the hardcore, and, of course, the local councillors. Whether there to support their party colleagues, plot their own insidious futures or for the sheer love of it, they ensured it wasn’t a complete death march. Resplendent in their civvies, and wearing none of the weariness of those in contention, these lads were in their element, totting up the numbers, making their predictions, their genuine enthusiasm for the game almost endearing.
I say almost because by 4 p.m. we, the ones who were actually working, were still awaiting the result of the first count, still waiting for something, anything to report on.
Oh yes, there had been a moment or two of excitement; Verona’s arrival, the accompanying fanfare and the austere presence of Charlie Flanagan by her side; there was the van outside opening for business and the lovely smell of chips permeating the building; and the news that Liverpool had raced into a two-goal lead at Anfield – personally I didn’t find that last one so exciting but to each their own.
Then finally we were thrown a bone, all of us, both nationals and regionals, eating from the same rusty trough: A count. The first count. Malcolm ahead, well ahead of Verona, George a close third and then the rest. Everyone wrote down the numbers, compared them, oohed a bit, aahed a bit, and then went to down to assess the mood. And sure they were only all delighted. Well, nearly all of them.
Malcolm hadn’t arrived yet, he was probably off running a marathon somewhere, but he was surely grinning through the pain. George seemed happy. Verona? No one could tell, she had to run it by Charlie first. Johnny Mythen wasn’t just happy, he was buoyant, buoyant no less. Jim Codd was his usual jovial self and Karin Dubsky was waxing lyrical about the wonders of democracy. Where were the tears, the heartbreak? If everyone was going to declare themselves content at this early stage then we could all go home early.
It was left to Cinnamon