PJ was a political giant, an irreverent wit, a gifted showman and a very dear friend
PJ Mara polished his Fianna Fáil electoral trophies with love and pride and burnished the egos of wealthy businessmen for money.
Arguably the most skilful operator in public affairs over the past two generations, he was amply rewarded with wealth and respect. Then he bucked the maxim that declares all political careers end in failure.
Early on Friday morning, PJ finally escaped the torment of a long illness and left behind a treasure trove of fond memories for his family and many friends.
Yet it is a tribute to his emotional intelligence and political skills that many of those who mourn him this weekend did not share his political creed.
Ultimately, PJ Mara was a great showman in the tradition of PT Barnum – each as well known by his initials as his family name.
PJ served an Irish political cause, Fianna Fáil, while PT promoted American circuses a century before – and the reputations of both grew even larger in death.
He grinned at the finger-wagging response when he parodied the Showtime theme of the film, All That Jazz, launching the Fianna Fáil election campaign in 2002.
Shocking lace-curtain primness was just part of a formidable arsenal of tools he used to further his clients’ interests – and yes, he worked for both love and money. He was broke serving as Haughey’s driver in opposition in the 1980s, enjoying a happy home life with his beautiful wife Breda and their young son, John.
I met him when Fianna Fáil and its then leader Charles Haughey were preparing to fight a general election in 1987.
From a Protestant family in Northern Ireland, I had no party political allegiance and PJ offered me a scoop: unique access to the Fianna Fáil election machine.
Haughey was elected taoiseach; I wrote a 10,000-word article for In Dublin magazine and began a 30year friendship with PJ that involved countless long lunches and late nights. I worked hard to maintain journalistic impartiality while frequently socialising with PJ; the then government press secretary saw that as a challenge.
Discovering I had run out of cash in Joy’s nightclub, PJ lent me a tenner for a taxi home and I returned it to him the next morning; a receipt from Fianna Fáil HQ thanking me for the £10 donation arrived in the post a few days later.
PJ was mischievous but he could be discreet too: he was among the first to know that Fionnuala O’Kelly, who worked with him in the Fianna Fáil press office, was secretly dating Enda Kenny, then a young backbench Fine Gael TD.
As government press secretary, he once told his taxi driver to ‘follow that cab’ when he saw a married Fianna Fáil TD in the backseat of a taxi with his girlfriend; he described his action as a ‘duty of adultery patrol’.
There are many other stories best not repeated for the sake of the living and the dead but they were never boring.
He was a traditionalist: a devout, practising Catholic, he loved Fianna Fáil and was extremely proud to be invited to dinner with the Kennedy family in Hyannis Port. Living in a political and social whirl, he was also a dandy: bespoke tailored suits by Maurice Abrahams and shirts by Turnbull & Asser.
Saturday lunches at the Unicorn restaurant in Dublin included PD TD Michael McDowell, judges, media, millionaires and the late Dermot Morgan whose cousin was taoiseach Charles Haughey’s private secretary. The ‘howaya’ Dublin
Discovering I had run out of cash in Joy’s nightclub, PJ lent me a tenner for a taxi home and I returned it to him the next morning; a receipt from Fianna Fáil HQ thanking me for the £10 donation arrived in the post a few days later
accent Morgan created for Mara on RTÉ’s Scrap Saturday radio programme was a far cry from PJ’s rounded vowels; but it accurately reflected his master-slave relationship with Haughey.
While he was deeply respectful of, and to, Charles Haughey he sometimes ironically referred to his boss as El Diablo. Haughey once asked me why there was so much media curiosity about ‘Mara’ who he saw as merely a loyal party functionary.
And while he sauntered comfortably through politics, he also understood business instinctively and wealthy folk were attracted to his irreverent wit.
When he was government press secretary, he was proposed for membership of the Kildare Street and University Club, a posh gentleman’s club in Dublin. The committee was told that Mara served Charles Haughey, and an older member said: ‘I do hope we will not see that Colonel Gadaffi with him in the dining room.’
When he left office in the early 1990s, anyone seeking Freedom of Information access to his correspondence would only find ‘a few thank you notes to hostesses for dinners,’ he later confided.
By that time, PJ had moved from his family home in Clontarf on Dublin’s Northside to Wellington Road in its southside stockbroker belt.
When his beloved wife Breda died, he held a wake in their Dublin 4 home for her that would have been envied in her native Kinvara, Co. Galway.
He worked with Tony Ryan and GPA on their ill-fated launch and other wealthy clients lined up to pay enormous sums for his expertise.
Yet his Fianna Fáil blood was thicker than his clients’ wallets; he was director of elections for Bertie Ahern’s three election victories in 1997, 2002 and 2007 – then he helped secure the referendum on the Good Friday Agreement.
He travelled the world in a private jet through recent years as a director in Denis O’Brien’s mobile phone company and became a very wealthy man.
And last year, he told me about meeting a young dude on a remote Pacific island wearing a David Beckham-style sari and looking enviously at his bespoke linen suit. PJ promised him a Savile Row suit… and the Fianna Fáil man delivered.
I visited PJ recently in the intensive care suite of the Dublin hospital where he spent the last seven months. He couldn’t speak but we did laugh, he squeezed my hand very tightly saying goodbye and I shed a quiet tear driving home.
I was privileged to have been his friend.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dílis.