By Political Correspondent David Davin-Power
Like many another Dubliner, I grew up with Charlie Haughey.
As a child I remember my father disapprovingly pointing out the then junior minister as he quaffed champagne in the Dress Circle Bar in the Gaiety Theatre with two companions as their families enjoyed the panto where the star, Maureen Potter, was a firm admirer.
His buddies were, my father said, Donogh O'Malley and Brian Lenihan.
Later my mother's lifelong friend, a well-known Clontarf hairdresser who tended the great man's locks, would regale us with tales of her visits to the mystic kingdom of Abbeville.
And of course later still I myself had many encounters with Charlie - of which more anon - and would eventually provide the commentary for the former Taoiseach's rather poignant funeral Mass, in a church that was far from full, the streets around lined with redundant crowd barriers.
The RTÉ television drama has made a good start at depicting his extraordinary personality, particularly his celebrated sense of entitlement.
As Des Peelo has observed, Haughey twigged early on that you only have one life, and for him it was going to be lived First Class all the way.
But for me that was secondary to the quite amazing loyalty he inspired. That might have been expected from the Fianna Fáil rank and file for whom his appeal was almost atavistic; the tribalism on display at the Haughey Ard Fheiseanna was palpable, the political aggression barely in check.
His appeal though extended to many who might have been expected to cast a cooler eye on his record.
They say no man is a hero to his butler, but that didn't hold for Charlie.
For instance, when he was slipping away - the night before he died- the garda drivers that had served him down the years gathered in his Kinsealy bedroom, and gave him a final, formal, salute of farewell.
And when he was disgraced, it was not hard to find colleagues who had soldiered with him to defend the man, even if few of them demurred from the judgment of Annraoi Ó Beoláin, Harry Boland - his first partner in business - who said that "in the end, Cathal let us all down".
He could be amusing and indiscreet, even in the presence of the hated media.
During the bruising H-block election campaign, I hitched a lift with him as he toured the midlands.
In between stops he would give withering accounts of the Fianna Fáil worthies we were due to meet, complete with comic impressions. As the car drew to a halt of course, the mask would be reapplied, the local TD embraced and lionised to his supporters as a political giant.
Months later, I was to be at the receiving end of his legendary temper.
Despatched as a young reporter to conduct a radio interview after a challenge from Des O'Malley had fizzled out, I pressed him about the likelihood of another heave.
He insisted the party had expressed its view and everything was fine. I put it to him again: a shorter answer this time. I was half way through my next question when the volcano erupted. "I don't have to take this from a f***ing RTÉ party political f***ing hack like you - you can f*** off with your interview!"
The chair flew back, the microphone was ripped off and he made for the door - then he spun around and advanced on me; for a moment I was unsure what would happen next but after a moment Haughey turned on his heel and left, leaving a shaken young reporter.
But they were different times then and there was no question of turning the incident into the story it would undoubtedly have made now.
In the words of Máire Geoghegan-Quinn's 1991 Ard Fheis speech: "There will never be a time like it again: never such excitement, never such achievement, never such heartache, never such happiness, as the time they will talk of as the Haughey era."
Of course the catch was Haughey was still Fianna Fáil leader when those words were delivered. When he heard them he knew there was blood in the water and the sharks were circling.
Different times indeed.
