It has been reported in recent days that former Taoiseach Leo Varadkar has signed a six-figure advance deal to write his memoirs, which are due to be published late next year, long beyond the date at which any revelations contained in them might impact a general election.
In a statement announcing the news, Varadkar noted that he now has the freedom to say things that he couldn’t say in office:
“I have the freedom now to say things I could not while holding office and I have enough distance to reflect on the mistakes I made as much as what was achieved. I look forward to working with Michael McLoughlin and Patricia Deevy at Sandycove who from the outset had a clear vision for my book”
That’s a fascinating statement by itself, is it not? That the man holding the greatest and most powerful political office in the land felt that there were things he could not say, as Taoiseach?
Evidently, there are some things you can’t say as Taoiseach – for example we wouldn’t think much of a Taoiseach who started divulging private conversations with foreign leaders, or who started commenting on Garda operations and revealing details of same. It is generally accepted that on matters of state security and international diplomacy, a certain omerta should be maintained. But on what else could our Taoiseach not speak? It’s hard to think of things where it would have been improper for him to have commented. Which leaves us with the other option – that there were things he might not have said because they were unpopular.
That would tally with the pre-politics Varadkar, at the end of the day: Before he became first a Minister, and then Taoiseach, he was a scathing critic of the civil service and the inefficiencies and absurdities of the Irish administrative state. Then when in office, he suddenly went quiet, and changed very little about how the machinery of Government works. It would be in keeping with the man’s record were he suddenly now to write a book outlining all the reforms he thinks necessary, once he’s safely out of office and those are somebody else’s job.
In any case, there are five obvious questions that the book should answer, to make it in any way worth reading:
1) What caused his marked political shift to the left?
Leo Varadkar, before taking office, was universally regarded as being on the political right of Fine Gael. This was not only perception, but backed up by some of his infamous (amongst left wingers, anyway) campaigns, such as the “welfare fraud” crackdown of 2012. This is a man who was described by the Irish Examiner as “clearly right wing” and by the Phoenix as “the leader of a hard right faction in Fine Gael”. Indeed, this writer can attest that long before he entered politics, he held several positions that were to my economic right, let alone Fine Gael’s. Yet once in office he started describing himself as a progressive centrist, and a liberal. What sparked that change, and why did it align perfectly with his winning of ultimate power?
2) Does he have any regrets over Covid lockdowns?
It should be apparent by now that the Irish State is never, ever going to have a meaningful enquiry into the country’s covid response. That makes it all the more vital that the man who was the nominal head of that response – Leo Varadkar – should provide us with an unfettered personal account of how decisions were made, why they were made, and whether in hindsight he regrets them.
It is perhaps forgotten now but in Varadkar’s defence, at the height of lockdown, he was often a sceptical voice about further restrictions, but ultimately deferred to Dr. Tony Holohan and the unified voices of the Irish media in going along with them anyway. Does he regret that? Does he think Holohan was granted too much power?
3) Does he accept responsibility for the immigration mess?
By immigration mess here, what I mean is straightforward: The country that Leo Varadkar handed over to Simon Harris was in the midst of an immigration and housing crisis. The country that he inherited from Enda Kenny was not. You can trace the increase in immigration to decisions made by Governments that Varadkar led – the enormous commitment to house 200,000 Ukrainians, for example, or the promise to abolish direct provision and give every International Protection Applicant their own front door inside six months of their arrival. How involved was he, as Taoiseach, in these decisions? Did anyone speak up against them? Was he motivated by compassion alone, or by a desire to diversify the nation? Did economics and Ireland’s birth rate play a role in his thinking? It would be useful to have answers to these questions.
4) Why did he really resign?
I do not mean, by that question, to imply some kind of dark secret or hidden scandal. I mean only to say that there are very few people in politics – including in his own party – who believed him when he said that he simply no longer believed he was the right person for the job. Indeed, at the time he said his reasons for stepping down were “both personal and political” – so what were the political reasons? Was it that he was aware of his growing unpopularity, or felt that he was a drag on Fine Gael’s prospects? If so, why does he think that became the case? What went wrong?
5) Does he regret his tone and tenor over Brexit?
This is an important question, I think – perhaps highlighted even more by the slightly cringey attempts by his successor, Simon Harris, to rebuild the relationship with the UK which culminated in the football summit in Dublin last Saturday. Why did that relationship need rebuilding in the first place?
There is no doubt that Varadkar, a committed European, was deeply personally offended by Brexit. There is little doubt that he personally loathed Boris Johnson. We can expect the book to be very strong on these points – but some personal introspection would be nice. Did Ireland make Brexit more awkward and difficult than it needed to be? Did he allow his personal feelings to impact Ireland’s relationship with its closest trading partner?
Answers to all five of those questions that were open and honest and frank would be welcome. That does not mean either admitting that my implied criticisms here are correct, nor does it mean a paean of self-justification. But acknowledging his critics, admitting mistakes, and helping us all understand why he made them – or why he doesn’t think they were mistakes to begin with – would make this a book worth reading.
If it’s just another political memoir about climbing the greasy pole and getting bored once you reach the top, then we can toss it in the “I might read that later” column, with all the other political memoirs.