<![CDATA[EMMETT CORCORAN'S BLOG - Blog]]>Tue, 27 Jan 2026 19:10:49 +0000EditMySite<![CDATA[Will the real presidential candidate please stand up?]]>Thu, 31 Jul 2025 00:55:53 GMThttps://www.emmettcorcoran.ie/blog/will-the-real-presidential-candidate-please-stand-up​Summer satire (sort of) with Emmett Corcoran

Ireland has a proud and storied tradition of treating presidential elections with the solemnity of a junior B karaoke night in Carrick-on-Shannon. And yet, even with such low expectations, I still find myself holding out for a ‘presidential hopeful’ who hasn’t logged more than 10,000 hours belting out Blanket on the Ground at festivals of questionable hygiene in the midlands.
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At this point, I’d welcome a nominee who hasn’t spent the last decade toggling between panels on Claire Byrne Live and cutting ribbons at roundabouts in Ballinasloe. Someone who isn’t a lifelong political insider trying to rebrand themselves as a ‘fresh voice’ – or worse, a former ‘outsider’ who’s spent so long lurking inside the system they’ve developed Stockholm syndrome.

In fact, when Joe Duffy announced he wasn’t running, I let out a small but sincere sigh of relief. But in the ensuing weeks, it’s become disturbingly clear that Mr Duffy – yes, that Mr Duffy – may have been, objectively speaking, overqualified for the position, given the calibre of aspirants now warming up their vocal cords and PR budgets.

Now, I won’t name names. Not for any noble reason, mind you. I’m just writing this on a Tuesday night (technically Wednesday morning) and would like to sleep before the next fiscal quarter.

But let’s call a spade a spade: the current rumour mill is being fed by over-caffeinated PR agents and under-occupied publicists, all of whom are determined to earn their quintuple-digit Q3 retainers by hurling out the names of their celebrity clients as ‘possible contenders’ for Áras an Uachtaráin – as if nominating a president were some sort of novelty segment on The Late Late Show.

It’s all terribly unserious. And yet, depressingly familiar.

Of course, every few years someone floats the idea that what we really need in the Áras is a ‘businessperson’ – someone who knows how to ‘run things’. This is an old chestnut beloved of political anoraks and Sunday supplement opinionators. But it’s especially farcical in the context of the Irish presidency, which, while largely ceremonial, remains a constitutional office with genuine moral weight and statutory responsibilities.

One might argue that after 14 years of the same soundtrack, the public would appreciate a change of tune – preferably something not composed by a tax exile with a soft spot for showbands.

What I’d like to see – and I suspect I’m not alone here – is a candidate who can act as a counterweight to the prevailing political winds blowing through Leinster House.

Someone capable of carrying the quiet authority that the Constitution envisaged. Because, while the president doesn’t wield executive power in the day-to-day, they are – in theory – the final constitutional check on our often wayward legislature.

When Dev drafted Bunreacht na hÉireann in 1937, he built in a few presidential tools that go beyond glad-handing foreign dignitaries and reading prepared remarks in the Mansion House. The president can – albeit infrequently – refer bills to the Supreme Court for constitutional review, consult the Council of State, or send legislation back to the Oireachtas with a gentle but unmistakable “try again, lads.”

So why is it, in 2025, that some of the most talked-about names for the office appear to have no qualifications beyond a microphone, a manager and a Midlands tour bus?

And while I’m loath to dredge up that name, yes – it appears that even some of our more combative sporting alumni, with deep pockets and even deeper legal bills, are eyeing up the gig. There are reports of substantial sums of ‘support’ being marshalled stateside in anticipation of a run. And that’s before we even get to the inevitable podcast.

In moments like this, I thank whatever remains of the ghost of Dev that he insisted on nomination thresholds: 20 members of the Oireachtas or four county councils. Because while I’m not thrilled at the idea of another party lifer with an expenses account and an aversion to straight answers moving into the Áras, the prospect of a wildly unqualified, ‘self-funded’ outsider turning it into a vanity project is objectively worse.

In the end, maybe the Irish public does want a president with depth, dignity and a dash of constitutional literacy – rather than another remix of the same old tune. But until a credible candidate with substance, independence, and a working relationship with Article 26 emerges, I’ll keep the telly off and the voting pencil sharpened.

Because when the time comes, we don’t need the next Slim Shady. We just need someone who stands up – and stays standing – for something worth preserving.
]]><![CDATA[Machiavelli’s mirror: raw clarity about human nature]]>Sat, 21 Jun 2025 00:06:32 GMThttps://www.emmettcorcoran.ie/blog/machiavellis-mirror-raw-clarity-about-human-natureThere’s something quietly enduring about Niccolò Machiavelli. Centuries on from the Florentine’s death, the whispers of his teachings still curl around the corridors of boardrooms and the trenches of digital discourse. He’s often miscast, cloaked in the villainy of misquotes and misunderstood intent, as a kind of cold-blooded puppetmaster. But to write him off as that alone is to miss the marrow of what he was really saying.
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Statute of Niccolò Machiavelli
Machiavelli saw the world not as we wish it to be, but as it is: messy, veiled, ever teetering on the edge of pretence and instinct. He understood that power is rarely seized through brute force; it’s cultivated quietly, through suggestion, timing, and the slow, deliberate crafting of perception. What appears like manipulation is, in essence, an advanced literacy in human nature.

Read properly, and with purpose, his ideas aren’t a dark blueprint for tyranny but a toolkit for clarity – a way to understand the dynamics that underwrite our relationships, our careers, and the hidden social contracts we all negotiate daily. They offer a means of moving through a complicated world with intent, not naivety.

What’s most disarming about this philosophy isn’t the notion of control; it’s the mirror it holds up. People don’t resist what they think they’ve chosen. They don’t question what feels like their own voice echoing back. The most potent kind of influence doesn’t announce itself. It asks a question, lets the silence fill the room, and then listens for the answer you were always hoping to hear.

There’s no harm in understanding these things. In fact, it can protect you from much harm. When applied with care, Machiavelli’s teachings can help you lead with empathy, anticipate behaviour, and even rescue your sense of self-worth in a world that often rewards the loudest voice rather than the clearest.

You don’t have to be ruthless to learn from him. You just have to be honest enough to see how often the game is played, and how rarely we acknowledge we’re part of it.
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If anything, Machiavelli’s real lesson might be this: in a world obsessed with appearances, the deepest strength lies in recognising what moves beneath them.
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