The Secret Life Of Micheál Martin, Taoiseach

“Coming home to Ballinlough,” hums a tired but contented Meehawl Martin as Garda Pat pulls the sleek State Lexus up outside the sleeping house.  A busy day in the Dáil, and no end of meetings and strategy pow-wows afterwards, before sinking into the back seat of the State car for Cork.

“Your oasis, Taoiseach,” says his driver. 

“Oasis?” chuckles the Taoiseach, “I’m more of a trad man myself, Pat. Goodnight to you.”

It’s two in the morning, and only the crackle of skittish autumn leaves pirouetting on the driveway and a few distant dog yelps are ruffling the superior southside Cork air.

Meehawl turns the key in the front door and steps inside, hanging his black Crombie on the hall stand, and slipping off his sleek black Boswyn slip ons, he heads for the stairs.

Mary and the kids are asleep as he tiptoes up. They ould have been down at the Nemo clubhouse … they had beaten the Barrs in the League, and their lad, Micheál Aodh, played a stormer in goal.

Unlocking his home office, at the far end of of the landing, he pads over to the cushioned door in the right-hand corner of the spotless oak-panelled room.

The black MacLock key on his Coláiste Chríost Rí keyring in the slot, he opens the soundproofed door to the real oasis Mary and the kids call Daddy’s Special Place.

He can’t reach anyone from there — and they can’t reach him.

Mary screens all calls, and this is strictly non-constituency business.

Clicking the door noiselessly shut behind him, he exhales in delight as flings his leather briefcase into the corner and whips off the navy suit, white shirt and tie.

Leaving them in a heap which he side-foots gleefully against the wall, he puts on his favourite baggy old Nemo Rangers track-suit, Cork goalkeeper’s jersey, and since he is in the mood … his Ozzy Osbourne wig and round blue tinted glasses.

Grabbing the dart beside the overflowing Beamish ashtray, he fires it viciously towards the Leo Varadkar dartboard. 

He misses Leo’s smug mug by a mile, and the missile clatters off the framed Billy Morgan photo with the All-Ireland club football trophy.

“Varadkar,’ he mutters to himself.  “Jaysus, boy … and all that ould shite about him being a doctor and me only an ould history teacher.

“Effin’ stuck up bollox … I couldn’t give a toss if he’s gay … I know I should … but it’s the effin’ superiority of the hure.”

Reaching for the John Player Blues cigs and the three-quarters-full Redbreast 12 year old, Meehawl sighs into his old leather LA-Z-Boy recliner.

The TV remote in his hand and an Old Black Sabbath concert film now blasting out on the massive plasma screen, he swings the bottle to his parched lips, wipes his mouth with the back of his left hand, and takes a deep, deep swig.

Soon, he is up on his feet, a bit of a sideways lurch, and moshing away …

“Ozzy, Ozzy, Ozzy, Ay, Ay, Ay,” he bawls, punching the air in time with his free hand.

He is way past effin now, it is full on fucks time.

“Who am I? I’m Micheál fuckin’ Martin, that’s who I fucking am … Martin! … M-fucking-A-fucking-Jaysus-R-fucking Christ-T-fucking-say-it -N … MARTIN …don’t you fucking forget it, ye gowls.”

“Ahhhh,” he bellows now, wiping his mouth again as he downs another great glug, glug of Redbreast … the golden liquid scorching down his throat, the jagged nectar of the real Cork Gods … the finish as it slides across the lining of his stomach.

“Now, that’s a fuckin’ whiskey!

“I hate Jack fucking Lynch,”  he roars … “I’m the Real Taoiseach … Up Michael Collins and … Cork is fucking great, I hate Dublin … Jaysus, that’s great lead guitar, Tony boy.”

On and on … until the bottle is empty and he collapses in a ball of drooling expletives and soon, snores.

The next morning, he peels himself up, throws off all the sweaty gear — and the wig, and picks up the blue-rimmed glasses, and puts the clothes neatly in the linen basket behind the drum kit.  The wig and glasses go back into the dress-up cupboard, beside the whip, the purple feather boa, the world war one leather flying cap and goggles, and the rest.

He goes to the press in the far corner, the one with its row of identical Superhero Meehawl suits, shirts, and all the gear and lays one set out neatly …

Time for a power shower before going the full Meehawl after a heap of Solpadeine, a plate of rasher sandwiches and a good cup of Barry’s tea with Mary in the kitchen.

“Pat will be here at 10,” says Mary … ”don’t forget your Mary Lou sarcastic replies folder, the one with the witch’s face on it … you might take that sticker off …”

“I will, love.”

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