The last time I laid eyes on John Lundrigan, the longtime Newfoundland politician, the two of us happened to be in a waiting room at St. Clare’s Hospital, in the same lineup awaiting medical tests.
Although the former MP, MHA and local cabinet minister, a colourful Tory politician in his day, was by that time quite feeble and connected to an oxygen tank — he would die a few months later — Lundrigan still managed to greet me in the same descriptive way he always did whenever we happened to cross paths after his retirement: “How’s my favourite cynic?” he would ask with a smile.
And it was pretty well ludicrous for me to deny that over the years, and through much journalistic experience, the label had become not entirely inaccurate, that a growing distaste for what I would call the “professional politician” had created in me a perception of the elected types that did, in fact, border on pure cynicism.
I tried with a fair amount of effort during much of a lengthy and active career observing politicians of every stripe — from the right and left, and all points in between — to maintain the role of the healthy skeptic, one I thought, and still think today, all journalists should adopt if their beat involves coverage of those men and women elected to represent, supposedly, the very best interests of their constituents, the voters, their employers.
But, damn it all, so many of those provincial and federal members made it near impossible for that skepticism not to turn into cynicism, certainly among the least wholesome of traits, I’ll grant you, to have ingrained in one’s skull.
You could say that all politicians are born with such dubious talents, but some just take it to another level: Byrne and Tobin, for example.
Ironically, Lundrigan was not a political animal whose demeanour and modus operandi contributed greatly to that cynical view of politicians; he was what I would describe as a likable bullshitter (who occasionally provided me with valuable, albeit self-serving, off-the-record information about the behind the scenes machinations occurring within his administration).
And many (not all, but many) of those grey-hairs (formerly long-hairs) who can recall Lundrigan’s political performances would agree, I’m sure, that there was an appeal to his flamboyance. I’m old enough to recall the time Lundrigan, to his irreverent credit, was saucy enough in the House of Commons to provoke Justin’s old man, Pierre, to tell the Newfoundland MP under his breath to “eff off,” although the prime minister famously claimed later he had actually muttered the words “fuddle duddle.”
Ah, but I digress — an off-on-tangents characteristic of many of those aforementioned grey-hairs like myself.
The fact is there were many of Lundrigan’s colleagues, representing Newfoundlanders here and in Ottawa, who brought about the jaded perception I developed towards much of what allegedly passed for debate of ideas and policies that supposedly contributed to the well-being of the half-million of us who occupy this smiling and windswept land. (Yeah, right, says you).
And I was given a sledgehammer reminder of the reasons for my scoffing attitudes towards politicians by that recent racket in the legislature involving cabinet minister Gerry Byrne.
Byrne, the consummate professional politician, the type born to spin-doctoring and self-aggrandizement, became adept at the craft through his early career association with Brian Tobin, another pro in the political ranks, a man who never met a microphone he didn’t like or didn’t know how to manipulate to his advantage. (You could say that all politicians are born with such dubious talents, but some just take it to another level: Byrne and Tobin, for example.)
Faced with having to answer for the piss-poor way he and his government handled that shocking environmental disaster on the south coast, the death of 2.6 million salmon, Byrne decided to go on the offence. He threw a red herring into the mix and basically accused an opposition MHA of being racist. (He had also implied another MHA was a law-breaker during “debate” of a different issue in the legislature). It was a characteristic act by the motormouth Byrne, and one that resulted in little repercussion, unless you consider the impotent demand from his legislative colleagues that he withdraw his remarks to have been a tough penalty.
That salmon kill has stunk from the very beginning, literally and figuratively, and Byrne’s dance of distraction in the legislature was in keeping with that stench.
Professional politicians like Byrne will say and do anything to get themselves out of hot water, and the public, oddly enough, is either oblivious to those blatant side-stepping efforts or has become so desensitized by such behaviour that people don’t give a damn and will react with a shrug of the shoulders as if to say, oh well, that’s politicians, you can’t expect any better.
Uh-oh — I can feel my inner button of derision being pushed once again.
If John Lundrigan were still alive, he’d probably email me after reading this sermon and wonder: “How’s my favourite cynic?”
Bob Wakeham has spent more than 40 years as a journalist in Newfoundland and Labrador. He can be reached by email at [email protected]
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