Irish Presidential Politics is a Groveling Beauty Contest

Then there were 3

Irish Presidential politics is, at its most miserable reduction, a beauty contest. Not in the literal sense, the most brutal of reality TV shows meets Miss Universe's sense. The judging criteria aren’t intelligence, honesty, or competence. Presidential politics is basically one long parade of who can grovel the most elegantly. Forget public service—it’s public sycophancy. It’s an endless talent-show sense of who can flatter, ingratiate, and smarm their way into approval. The people who succeed at Irish Presidential politics in recent decades aren’t always the smartest, nor the most principled, nor even particularly competent. They are simply the most gifted practitioners of the ancient human political art of abasement.

It’s a mistake to believe that Irish Presidential politics has anything to do with the real world. It doesn’t deal in matters of substance, in the grimy and delightful filth of actual life. The office of the President of Ireland is not a matter of health budgets, national security or the cutthroat deliberations of a legislature. It is a pageant, a coronation of the inoffensive and least reprehensible.

Think about the politicians who rise effortlessly. They are fluent in the dialect of deference. They can spot a room’s pecking order within three seconds and calibrate flattery accordingly. To one audience: “You know, Ireland was built on the backs of strong families like yours.” To another: “You are the innovators, the dreamers, the people who will carry us into tomorrow.” To a lobbyist: “This policy was practically your idea.” To the media: “We deeply care about accountability, which is why I’m here, answering your questions at midnight.” And to the voters at large, the ultimate crowning compliment: “I like you. You’re smart. You’re special. Keep applauding.” You get elected because, at a county fair in Leitrim, you managed to pretend Sean MacDermott’s turnip won “the most beautiful vegetable I’ve ever seen.” Meanwhile, your opponent made the amateur mistake of telling the truth: that it looked like Conor McGregor's head had just melted.