Imagine the scene. It’s 2032. Spring has returned, the evenings are stretching gently and the daffodils are gamely holding their own against a restless April breeze.
You’re content. The career box is ticked, the children are grown, the mortgage a distant memory. There’s a quiet satisfaction that comes from a life well lived.
You’ve given back plenty too, through your campaigning work and civic engagement. You’ve done your bit.
Then the phone rings. It’s someone from the public sphere. Maybe a former colleague, maybe that well-connected friend who always seems to know who’s being sounded out for what.
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Their tone is cautious, as if they’re approaching a sleeping animal. “I’m just putting this out there,” they begin. “Would you ever consider running for president?”
You laugh ... But then you notice they’re not laughing back.
That’s the moment when the rational part of your brain should take charge. Because if the last few presidential elections have taught us anything, it’s that only a person with a streak of masochism or a politician with a cast-iron stomach would willingly put themselves through it.
You don’t have to take my word for it. Ask Adi Roche, David Norris, Seán Gallagher, Mary Davis or Jim Gavin. “There were days when the pressure felt unbearable,” wrote Joan Freeman in these pages a couple of months ago, recalling her own 2018 run.
“My sleep disappeared. My sense of self was shaken. Running for president is often portrayed as glamorous or historic. The truth is, it can feel like walking through fire with everyone watching to see if you will burn.”
Even Heather Humphreys, a veteran of several general elections, looked genuinely upset this week as she described the abuse directed at her and her family, including sectarian taunts.
Presidential elections are like academic feuds. The reason they’re so vicious is precisely because the stakes are so low. On paper, the presidency looks noble enough. It’s the nation’s conscience, a moral compass, a kindly grandmother or avuncular uncle at the head of the table. In reality, the path to the Áras is paved with bile and innuendo. Every candidate’s life is picked apart, every old misstep rediscovered. It’s a strange kind of public service that punishes people for having lived interesting, complicated lives.
And for what? Seven years in the gilded cage of the Phoenix Park, preceded by months of unrelenting personal scrutiny.
Since 1997, a parade of civic-minded figures from outside politics has discovered that good intentions count for very little once the campaign turns nasty.
People from sport, business and the voluntary sector have emerged with deep scars and battered reputations. The unregulated lies that swirl on social media only make it worse. Jim Gavin has had a crash course in all that this time around.
Why would anyone, after a successful career, willingly invite that torrent of abuse into their home? Why expose those close to you to the toxic curiosity of the crowd?
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And yet, after this campaign, there’s renewed chatter about opening up the nomination process so that ordinary citizens, not just those with political patrons, can get on the ballot.
Irish political culture has always been adept at finding ways to look inclusive while keeping control firmly in the same hands. But it’s worth noting that only two very small parties in the Oireachtas, along with a smattering of Independents, did not have a candidate in the field when the official campaign began.
Somehow, people have convinced themselves that a presidential election is not truly democratic unless it features someone from outside politics entirely. Freeman has called for “a path that allows more people – teachers, carers, community leaders – to imagine themselves as viable candidates”.
It’s an attractive idea. But is it a good one?
Look around Europe. Other countries with ceremonial heads of state manage just fine without this fixation on outsiderdom. Some are monarchies, which is obviously not an option for us. Others, like Germany and Italy, have presidents chosen by parliament. It doesn’t seem to compromise their independence. In fact, both offices carry more constitutional power than ours, and both are currently held by people with long experience in political life.
Where heads of state are directly elected, the pattern is the same. Finland’s current president is a former prime minister. Austria’s was once leader of the Green Party. Portugal’s is a former foreign minister. In each case, the role attracts politicians who already know what public exposure feels like, who understand what it means to be attacked in bad faith.
For some reason, though, Ireland clings to the idea that the presidency should be a refuge for non-politicians. It’s a notion born perhaps of a wish to believe that politics can still have a moral centre if only we can keep the politicians out of it. Each campaign disabuses us of that fantasy, only for it to rear its head again when the next election looms.
We claim to want a non-political figure, then recoil when that person turns out to have had a normal life, complete with flaws, contradictions and awkward moments from decades ago. The political veteran, battle-hardened and unshockable, usually gets through those storms with a fixed smile. The outsider wilts.
Which is why, later today, when we learn who will succeed Michael D Higgins, we’ll find once more that we have chosen a seasoned parliamentarian. Politics, unsurprisingly, remains the only reliable training ground for political office.
Perhaps that’s no bad thing. The presidency may be ceremonial, but it is still a role rooted in politics, diplomacy, and statecraft. It requires a steady hand, a sense of proportion, and the ability to keep your composure under the spotlight. That’s not something you necessarily learn from six weeks on the campaign trail.
[ All the presidents of Ireland so far, ranked from nine to oneOpens in new window ]
So when that phone call comes, remember this. You owe it to yourself, your partner, your family and probably the country to politely say no and hang up. Then look out at those spring shoots, take a deep breath and get on with the rest of your life.
