A hungry feeling is a true barometer of life

I REMEMBER as a cub reporter being sent to St James's Park on the periphery of Kilkenny, the then home of Kilkenny rugby, to cover a game between what was called a Kilkenny XV and The Firbolgs.

Good God, I thought, what a marking. I knew absolutely nothing about rugby. But I was willing to learn. There were scores at either end in the first and second halves. But at the end I hadn't a clue what the half time or full time scores were.

I was a little boy lost.

Had I been a past pupil of Kilkenny College or indeed enjoyed a bit of schoolboy rugby at Kilkenny RFC, I would have stood a chance of putting a few paragraphs together.

But I was a CBS lad. I loved hurling but I was never county material. I then developed a passionate love affair with soccer. But rugby? No, it never happened. Not because I had any dislike for the game but mainly because the lads around Fatima Place or indeed at Kilkenny CBS didn't play rugby. Simple as that.

Luckily a good friend of mine, the late Harry Lewis of John Street came to my rescue on the day. He told me who scored, how they scored and who played well. I was so grateful.

And on the few occasions that I was sent back to James's Park, I was delighted to hear the magic words:

Here's Harry.

My point?

You must have some experience in a subject, topic, situation, lifestyle or whatever, if you are to fully appreciate it.

That, my good friends, leads to my little podium piece for today.

I am not going to mention the recession (well not a second time) today but I am going to liken my rugby venture to the life and times of some, even many, politicians.

And I am asking what I believe is a pertinent question:

If you haven't experienced hard times, tough times, penury even, hungry days, how the hell do you know what people in those situations really feel like?

Before we advance I must point out that I am not about to castigate every businessman and woman in the Dáil or indeed at local authority level who made it good in the world of trade and commerce.

Yes, we can call them fat cats (no relations of our Kilkenny Cats) but from experience I know that men who once hadn't a backside in their trousers, went on, through hard work and graft and risk taking, to be entrepreneurs in their local communities.

But I have a problem with those who were reared on silver spoons, who didn't know what it was to miss a meal and who certainly never heard the clarion call from their mothers: Come in Johnny, your dinner is poured out.

And my good friends, our corridors of power are packed with these kinds of men and woman, well heeled and never having to rely on a widow's pension or children's allowance to provide food for hungry mouths.

The man who has been through the mill is your only man. The woman who has experienced tough times will have a real understanding of the plight of the unemployed, the ill, the old and the lonely.

So when it comes to giving priorities in the polling booth, it would be no harm to remember my rugby experience.

And perhaps to give the nod to the man or woman who you believe will best understand your needs, and the way you are feeling.

Hunger is a great sauce.