In politics, presence is good but intelligence is better

Politics is a strange game — less chess, more cage fight. Winston Churchill once welcomed a rookie MP to the Commons by jerking a thumb at the Tory benches:

“There’s the enemy.”

The lad blinked. “But… isn’t the Opposition the enemy?”

Churchill didn’t bother with words, just jabbed his thumb at his own party again. Lesson one: the people smiling beside you are usually sharpening the knives.

Keir Starmer must be feeling that in his bones. Half of Labour seems ready to swap him for Andy Burnham before the Labour paint’s even dry on Downing Street. In politics, loyalty lasts right up until lunchtime.

History’s full of these ironies. Clement Attlee, the most forgettable man ever to change a nation, gave Britain the NHS — then probably went home early to bed with a glass of warm milk. He had all the charisma of a slightly damp sock, but he got the job done.

Today, charisma is everything — which is why Nigel Farage is on TV more often than the test card. People howl that Reform has less than double figures in the House of Commons. True, but the polls suggest that Reform is  eclipsing the Tories and Labour.  Farage has what the others lack: the ability to turn a pub rant into prime-time viewing. He’s infotainment in a pinstripe suit, and the producers know it.

And now to our own little circus: Monday’s three-way debate between Heather Humphreys, Jim Gavin, and Catherine Connolly.

Jim Gavin — perhaps the greatest GAA manager ever — should radiate authority. Instead, he always looks like he’s trying to read the small print on the horizon. His handlers may yet teach him how to look alive, but for now my brown bin projects more energy and presence.

Heather Humphreys is a walking reassurance leaflet. She smiles, she coos, and then she’s gone, leaving only that Monaghan twang ringing in your ears. She must know she’s only in the spotlight because Mairead McGuinness said thanks but no thanks. She has the air of a bridesmaid suddenly handed the bouquet, wondering if she can fake a fainting fit.

And then there’s Catherine Connolly. Sixty-eight, grey-haired, wrinkled — and somehow the only one of the three who seems to exist in the real world. She wears little makeup, rides a bike instead of waving from a limo, and actually talks about things that matter — European rearmament, Ireland’s neutrality, the triple-lock.

Next to her, Heather and Jim look like they’re hosting a parish raffle. Connolly doesn’t just fill the air — she clears it.