Inside the Mind of a Fianna Fail Voter

national | politics / elections | opinion/analysis Wednesday August 03, 2005 16:02 by Granuaille

A True Story

If, like me, you find yourself regularly wondering who the gobshites are that go on and on voting for Fianna Fail in the face of shedloads of evidence that they are a self-serving, corrupt, arrogant, prejudiced and incompetent bunch of traitors, you might find the details of the following encounter interesting to read.

Unfortunately it doesn’t reveal any encouraging or heretofore misunderstood aspect of the species but it will help to confirm that your worst suspicions were not worst enough. I offer an account of a recent experience in the hope that it will help strengthen the resolve of anyone out there who may be tempted even to think about voting these b*******s back into power. Pass it on to your neighbours and friends, if you think it will be of any use.

This writer is a member of that sub-human, social-pariah group known as non-property owners (no, I don’t own even a single ‘unit’) who is at the un-tender mercies of landlords out in the wilds of bungalow-land. There are many tiers of society from which this simple fact will ensure you are completely barred – only to be politely nodded at should an encounter become unavoidable. Out here, landlords are difficult to read. There seems to be a code of dress that has somehow been agreed between them that the standard of their appearance should be in inverse proportion to the number of properties (or ‘profities’, as my lesser half likes to call them) they own. This is presumably intended to camouflage their fantastic wealth. When viewing a profity to rent, it is a safe bet that the more of the local town and the greater the number of farms your prospective landlord owns, the more straw he has coming out of his ears and holes he has in his shoes. Trousers held up by string mean you are dealing with a multi-billionaire. You must tread carefully, because this man has evidently been completely impervious to the entire lexicon of planning and tax law and can go on for years on end generating a huge tax-free income from rents (sideline only, nice little earner, cash, no contract and don’t give me any bother or you’re out on your ear). Everybody knows all about him (nudge-nudge, wink-wink and isn’t old Der’ a laaafff, he! he!). This man and thousands like him all over the country are the central nervous system of the Fianna Fail voters collective.

When my landlord called to collect the rent last week (one such as is described above), I felt I had to sweeten him for the unwelcome news that the cooker had broken down for the third time since moving in several months ago and also to remind him that the washing machine was still (from before we moved in) leaking water all over the floor – periodically causing mini explosions at the power point on the wall, tripping the switch and blowing fuses in other appliances. There being children in the house, leaving the washing to mount up in the interests of safety was not an option and, of course, I didn’t have a house to re-mortgage in order to use the local launderette. (10E to wash a single blanket.) I offered him a cup of tea and gradually we fell to talking about the world at large. This, of course, was a near suicidal course of action but I clean forgot myself and what I was actually doing: the things I was hearing were so stunningly outrageous.

The subject of the recent Live8 concert seemed an appropriately neutral conversational gambit. ‘Wasn’t it great?’, I ventured. Big mistake. First off, ‘Der’ was mightily pissed off with the poor and starving people in Africa. Bob Geldoff was nothing but a trouble-maker and he was sick and tired of people asking him for handouts for these people. All his life he’d been hearing about the ‘black babies’ and they never seemed to do anything for themselves. All they were doing was buying guns with our money and killing each other. He remembered when times were bad here in Ireland back in the 50’s and people had nothing. There was no question that he himself would go to college so he’d left school to work on his father’s land (subsequently inherited by Der himself) and he’d been working every day since to get him to where he was now – a substantial profity empire and a thriving business.

Proof of these assertions, according to Der, could be found in the general uselessness of the average black immigrant as compared to other groups like the Poles, who were much harder working. Der had met one Nigerian man who was hard working and who had impressed him by claiming to agree with Der that he was an exception to the rule. On top of all of that, he’d heard a story from a young Irish father who was out shopping in Mothercare one day. This deserving and hard-pressed young man had been enraged by the sight of a black immigrant woman purchasing a pram for her child with a government issued social security card. ‘We don’t want these people here’ said Der ‘they should go home and sort themselves out where they come from.’ It was no use to point out that Ireland was under populated, that we need more people if we are to become long-term, economically viable. ‘If we need more people, we should be careful about who we let in’. Not black people, apparently.

‘The Fianna Fail Party has been the best thing that ever happened to this country!’ announced Der with fervour – even emotion. ‘When I look at the prosperity we have now and think how things were back in the 50s it makes me realise what a credit to our country they have been!’ Did Der think it might have anything to do with European investment money? Had he forgotten that Fianna Fail were the government back in the bad old days, too? Did he think that the Irish government was as corrupt as some African ones? Wasn’t there a lot of evidence to suggest this was so? ‘I don’t care what Charlie Haughey or any of them did or didn’t do, all I know is that I’m better off now. All my neighbours and friends have cars and comfortable houses and I don’t care how it was done, and so long as it stays that way we’ll be voting for Fianna Fail! More than that, when it comes to the election we’ll be donating generously to them too!’ How did Der feel about, for example, the 12billion overspend on the roads? ‘What do we need roads for? Aren’t they grand like they are?’ Did he not see any contradiction between begrudging the price of a pram for an immigrant baby while dismissing without a qualm the misuse of such a vast sum of taxpayers money? ‘No, none at all.’ A silence fell between us. Conscious that I was showing signs of distress, Der drained his cup and finished up by saying ‘I’m the sort of fella that’ll tell you to your face, see. There’s lots of people will nod and agree with you that the things you were talking about are terrible, but when they get into that voting booth, the tick will go down beside the Fianna Failer – no matter what they say to your face! And people like me intend to keep it that way too!’

Der headed off into the night with a distinctly suspicious and disapproving look on his face and we will not be unduly to surprised to be told some evening that the house is ‘for sale’ or that a member of Der’s family would like to move in and we’ll be off to pastures new. I’ll be sure to let you know.