I’m on the canvas trail. As you may know the two county councils in Tipperary have been squeezed into one, resulting in fewer councillors representing bigger electoral areas. I’ve a tough fight on my hands since my area now covers places where I‘m not known at all. The FF-ers and the Blueshirts will be able to get their own troops out to canvass and vote, I have no such armies. I took myself out of my comfort zone last Saturday and got the Mother to drop me in Drumpusheen, a small parish beyond Rathbinnis. This place is virgin territory to me and I suppose I should have enlisted a local contact to accompany me, but I decided to do it alone. I wanted to test the water and see if anyone at all in the area knew me. Armed with nothing but the electoral register I started my canvass in the village.

At the first door I was greeted by a man dressed in a cardigan, slacks and slippers holding a newspaper in his hand, he obviously had nothing to do and all day to do it.

“Hello,” says I, “I’m Councillor Maurice Hickey from Killdicken and I’m running for election to the council in this area.”

“Hickey from Killdicken? And which Hickeys would you be?”

Delighted with the interest I stuck out my chest and proceeded to give him seed, breed and generation of my people and our political pedigree.

“Never heard of ye or the sky above ye. Are you anything to the Hickeys of Lisbunion?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh?” says he and he took a different tack, “I once knew a family of Hickeys who lived at the Bollaginarda side of Rathbinnis, you’re nothing to them are you?”

“No. I can’t say that I know them at all.”

He went through every Hickey in Tipperary as he tried to place me, but he failed. After fifteen minutes of climbing up and down family trees I handed him my literature and asked if he’d consider voting for me,

“I would consider it,” says he, “If my vote was here but I live in Dublin now. I’m just back visiting my sister.”

I could have hit him, after wasting all that time the hoor doesn’t even have a vote.

“Is your sister at home?” I asked.

“Not at the moment, she went out to the shop, but I expect her back any minute.”

“You might pass on my literature and she might consider voting for me.”

“I doubt it,” says he.

“Why not?” I asked.

“She’s off to England on Friday to spend six months with her daughter. It’s not your lucky day councillor… councillor…what did you say your name is again?”

“Hickey, Maurice Hickey.”

“Oh yes that’s right, Mr Hickey, we couldn’t establish your pedigree, a good reason not to vote for you. Breeding, you know, it’s important to establish the breeding. Good day, sir.”

I had a bundle of leaflets in my hand and was ready to chew them in a mix of frustration and high dudgeon. I took five minutes outside the house to calm myself and while I stood there the squad car passed by. Two minutes later it passed again, this time more slowly and continued to the end of the village where it turned and came back pulling up beside me. The passenger window opened:

“Hey, you with the head, what are you up to?”

“Are you talking to me, Garda?” I asked.

The guard in the passenger seat was leaning out the window like a fella from NYPD Blue.

‘No, I’m talking to the doorpost behind you. Who are you and what are you up to?”

“I’m Councillor Maurice Hickey and I’m canvassing.”

“What party are you with?”

“I’m an independent.”

“And what party were you thrown out of?”

“I was thrown out of no party, I’m on my own.”

“A lone ranger. Give us a look at your literature,” I handed him a leaflet.

“Same auld shite, different face,” says he handing it back to me.

They drove off, content I wasn’t a danger to public order in Drumpusheen. I felt like phoning the Mother to come and get me, but I decided to stick to my task and knocked at the next door. It opened and a woman stood there in a top coat, hat and scarf.

“I was just going out,” she announced frostily.

“I wont delay you Missus,” says I, “I’m Councillor Maurice Hickey and I’m running for election in this area.”

“Are you now, and what party are you with?”

“None,” says I.

“Good,” says she, “I always vote for oddballs. I’ll stick your leaflet to the fridge to remind me. Wouldn’t waste much time around here if I were you, they’re all mad.”

Maybe I’m as mad as them myself. CL