The farmer who wanted an Áras life (but maybe a wife would do...)
After a joke to run for President turned serious, John Groarke reflects on why his bid failed and ‘the money-men won’
HE’S looking for a wife, that’s all he’s looking for and I don’t see any rings on your fingers...’ On a drizzly afternoon, two elderly farmers are tucking into plates of steak, buttery spuds and onions in a quiet roadside restaurant in Tulsk, Co Roscommon. I’ve just asked them what they thought of their neighbour, farmer John Groarke’s lofty ambitions of making it to the big house in the Phoenix Park.
‘He could do with a new house alright, as he pulled the chimney off his own and put two galvanised sheets on the roof,’ quips one, while the other declares: ‘He’s no more chance than a snowball in hell — but full marks for trying.’ A few miles up the road, in the farmthings house with no chimney — near the Ogulla Holy Shrine and Well — I find Farmer John Groarke. With his wild shock of white hair and bushy white beard, twinkly blue eyes and affable nature, farmer John would make a very believable Santa Claus — but did he think he would make a good President of Ireland?
‘I know what’s right and I know what’s wrong and that takes care of an awful lot of things in a hurry,’ pontificates John, wisely, as he guides me safely around the scatter of old cars, some up on bricks, and farm machinery, through his yard, back kitchen and into the parlour. ‘But politicians don’t like simplifying like that as that can catch them out very quickly.’
Inside, in the carpetless, flagstone-floored parlour, John settles into a wooden chair beside an ancient Superser gas heater, attached to a large yellow canister in the middle of the room.
‘But there was no way in hell they were going to be choosing this cowboy from the wild west who might do harm up in the park and knock the place or destroy the artwork — it’s finished now — I wasn’t allowed within a mile of it,’ concedes John, who has lived on this small dry-stock farm since he was five, the youngest boy of three children.
Himself and his sister Sheila lived here with their late parents, until they died 20 years ago. Today Farmer John is dressed in a smart blazer and jeans after a morning trip running errands Longford. ‘It’s not the canvassing uniform,’ he smiles, pointing behind him to a suit hanging from the door.
I sit under a framed picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary, next to Farmer John’s cluttered window desk, where three purring kittens eye me dozily from on top of a pile of yellowing old newspapers.
His sister Sheila, a small, quiet bespectacled woman, comes out from the back room to join us. She sits under a picture of John Wayne in an old Western and doesn’t say much, but her eyes light up in pure admiration as she listens to her little brother with the big notions, holding court in the kitchen.
‘Ah, but it was exciting surely, to get the opportunity to put it up to these people, to point out the defects of the system — that’s the main thing,’ announces Farmer John, as his rascally eyes dance (and dart to inspect my left hand — but more of that later). ‘It’s over now but I have been educated and educated quickly — but you’ve got to give these things a go. When it comes to politicians, I wouldn’t value meeting these people anymore or put a bit of heed on them.’
There’s no denying the 2018 Race to the Áras — so far — has been a hoot.
A quick glance through the wackier than usual run of wannabes in recent
If this was a republic I’d be on that ballot
weeks and one would be forgiven for thinking the line-up was not so much for the office of Ireland’s prestigious First Citizen, but more for a ratingsgrabbing Big Brother-style reality TV show.
Among the early 13 out of the starting blocks, including incumbent, Michael D and Farmer John, was ‘Bunty Twuntington-McFluff’, who proposed turning the Áras into a hunting lodge and spa, where guests could hunt the deer, Trumpsupporter/Marilyn Monroe impersonator and burlesque dancer Sarah Louise Mulligan and a musician threatening to sack ministers, as well as journalist Gemma O’Doherty, who claimed the State colluded in the murder of Veronica Guerin, to the chagrin of the late journalist’s brother, Jimmy.
Farmer John — decidedly low-key by comparison — confesses he was half-joking when he made a throwaway remark about chucking his cap into the ring for the highest office in the land. He was annoyed after a long-running dispute about a land issue, in which he felt ignored by the powers that be.
‘I first said it to a journalist from Shannonside — he asked what I’d do now, and I said I might as well have a bash at getting on that ballot paper and I could argue with the minister then,’ he explained. ‘Never did I think in my wildest dreams I would. I heard the President saying he was nominating himself so I said, “sure I’ll do the same and nominate myself” — we’re all equal men in a republic.’
Before he had time to think too hard about the journey ahead, the train to the Phoenix Park had left the station — and Farmer John was on it, in a brand new suit.
Some mornings he was up and behind the wheel of his battered 2002 Ford Fusion at 5am and he clocked up well over 2,000 miles in the past two weeks on his whirlwind road trip around Ireland. He says he pitched his case to councillors in ten city and county councils.
‘I kept the budgets low and it was a very prudent campaign — it had to
be — although one day I must have spent €100 on diesel,’ insists Farmer John, who travelled with Sheila some days and a young neighbour on others.
‘I was popping into chippers — that’s when we got the chance for a bit of dinner, with all the sitting around waiting.’ He reflects: ‘I read President Higgins cost us €30million — where did it go? Now it’s only right, a man in that office needs a middling to substantial car and he’s advancing in years, so he needs a bit of room to get in and out, but all them millions?
‘I heard one night he was in a hotel that cost €3,000. Now, that’s exces— sive — I’d have had a big party with just €1,000 a night — and I know I
would — but two more thousand on top of that? Sure he must have had a ball altogether.’
Speaking of hospitality, Farmer John reflects on his own mixed receptions at the various council buildings.
‘Between starving with the hunger and trying to get here and there, it was a terror of a thing,’ he says. ‘In Galway I was there two-and-a-half hours, with no tea or sandwiches offered, and the hunger had gone off me by the time it was over at 7pm.
‘In Wicklow, I’d to wait 25 minutes for Gavin Duffy to come from Wexford, but then he made it down to Cork before me. In Longford, fair play, they had tea and plenty of buns but there was nobody there only myself.’
Farmer John’s eyes twinkle with divilment: ‘The other day a man slapped me on the back and said, “I never thought I’d see the day and you John going for the same job as Gavin Duffy”. He couldn’t stop laughing. I know it was a pure cod trying it but it’s something I will never forget all my life.’
Sadly, despite his efforts, not one council nominated Farmer John.
‘It confirmed what I knew — there’s no time in this country for the ordinary person,’ he insists.
‘These politicians are people who put the country up on the rocks a few years back — I didn’t wreck it — and they’re sitting in judgement on me, thinking I’m not good enough? Now, that Trump impersonator girl, I suppose she didn’t help matters but what do they want?
‘They didn’t seem impressed with the Cork university professor either, who’s a poet and a composer, then O’Doherty, who’s a journalist. You need to kick like those money-men dragons or be in with Fine Gael or Fianna Fáil to get inside the door,’ he concludes. ‘It didn’t matter who it was — the money people would get in. This was all a foregone conclusion.
‘It’s a closed shop. As I said in Galway, I’m a second class citizen —
The President cost us €30m.. where did it go?
if this was a republic, I’d be on that ballot paper. In a republic, there is no privilege and therefore I should be on the ballot.
‘By not putting me on, they’re saying the people are not fit to make the right decision. I was let know pretty swiftly I was beyond the pale. You’d need nerves of steel but I said my piece.’
Farmer John is on a roll. ‘I told them, “When you judge and vet me, you’re judging the public at large”.’
Were they worried the public might vote for an ordinary man?
‘That wouldn’t suit any of the parties or their plans,’ he insists. ‘I look like a wild card to you guys, I said to them. They didn’t like it. It didn’t take them long to clear the chamber in Dublin — I was as well as home.
‘It wouldn’t encourage you to go voting for any of the main parties. They want you to vote for them and not annoy them. That’s the size of it. But I got a lot of pleasure from it. It’s been a great learning curve.’
But what about in a parallel universe, where Farmer John might be granted his wish for a perch in the Phoenix Park? What would he do in what is largely an apolitical, ceremonial role with very little clout?
‘I’d draw attention to the fact the system doesn’t work for Joe Soaps in society,’ he says. ‘Look at all these young women dying after the cervical cancer scandal and leaving their families after them — it’s not right, then seeing how the Government is trying to bury that and playing up the good news stories and the poor women still dying.
‘You can try your best to talk about the health system, and the housing crisis and the fact the economy here in the West is gone — there’s nothing here for people.
‘If I was there, I’d get tough with Leo on certain things but I know if I went too far he’d have the Attorney General telling me I was sailing tight to the wind.
‘I’m no fool and I know once you enter into that world and Dáil Eireann that you’re doing little other than drawing your salary.
‘If you’re going for it, why not go for the biggest salary with the golden pension pot? I’ll tell you now, it’s the greatest cod in the world.’
As for whether his whirligig bid whetted his appetite to pursue politics, Farmer John gives a firm shake of his bushy white head — and his frank, erudite explanation.
‘I don’t align myself with any political party as I don’t like the set-up — none of them reflect what I believe,’ he says. ‘The way politics is in Ireland, you’re ruled by the Government of Ireland Act and it’s very limited. I’d like a totally free society and when a federal republic is declared everyone would automatically have their rights.
‘I’ve felt this way from a very early age. That’s the way I look at it. No party today represents what I stand for. The founding fathers of the American Republic would be close to what I’d like but the USA at the moment isn’t very free, it’s all money. Money is everything — and only money gets on the ballot paper there too.’
Farmer John loves the old Westerns and the ideals of freedom on which America was founded, but he has never been there; in fact, he’s never left Ireland.
As the only son, he explains he was
I’ll tell you, it’s the greatest cod in the world
expected to stay at home and work the family farm.
As regards holidays abroad, he simply doesn’t see the point.
‘I don’t see why I’d have a need in going or see the great benefit in holidays,’ he shrugs. ‘Naturally, I would as president — and you’d have more than enough finances then.
‘I know people who went to Spain and when they came back one was shouting and arguing at the other and they had to take time to get settled back down again. I said to them, “You’re putting yourselves through too much trouble”.’
And is avoiding trouble the reason Farmer John has remained a bachelor, I wonder?
‘Not at all — the right woman just didn’t come along,’ he says. ‘You won’t see one of them out here from the end of one week to the start of the next.
‘I’m not the only one. There’s a lot of men around here around my age without a wife and there’ll be a lot of names dying out here in 30 years — I told you, the West is gone as the Government are doing nothing for us. It could be harder to find a wife around here than get your name on the ballot paper.’
Before I leave, I mention to Farmer John about a notice for a coach tour to Lisdoonvarna I spotted in the local shop and suggest he might try his luck finding his First Lady at the Matchmaking Festival.
‘I never went to Lisdoonvarna – it’s a pity – maybe next year…’
But it’s on right now, I tell him. And as Farmer John says himself: ‘you’ve got to give these things a go’.
He mightn’t have the vast expanses of the Phoenix Park to offer his First Lady, but Farmer John’s got grand frontage here in Tulsk.
Phoenix Park be damned — next stop, Lisdoonvarna…