Michael Simpson

And those were only the ones that can be listed in this article without censure. In addition, there were drawings of Maria Steen, racist and fascist epitaphs, references to Aisling Murphy, numerous anti-immigration invectives, and an assortment of childish, schoolboy scribblings which would make a vicar blush.

Yet, despite all this, despite the people of Wexford expressing their dissatisfaction with the candidates on offer, the process, and the state of the nation in general, the spoiled votes did not, unlike in other constituencies, displace Heather Humphries from the runner-up spot in a race which had arguably concluded many weeks ago.

With voters so apathetic it stood to reason that the count centre, at the Loreto College in Wexford town, was populated by only the most hardcore political aficionados on Saturday morning. Behind the fences the counters carried out their tasks in the same diligent fashion, the papers were stacked in the trolleys as usual, the cubbyholes awaited the stacks upon stacks of Connolly number ones, and the scene was one of controlled endeavour.

However, unlike last November’s general election, and the summer’s local election, there was one vital ingredient missing.

The audience.

On the other side of the fence, the one reserved for the aforementioned politicos, the journalists, and the interested members of the public, you could have driven a decent-sized SUV up and down without coming into contact with a pedestrian, and still have had room for a cycle lane.

The talliers were there, diligent and forthcoming as ever, willing to share their numbers, their figures, with anyone who feigned an interest. There was some security, a cleaning lady, and other mildly-important looking, lanyarded people, but after that, nothing.

Apart from, of course, the local politicians who had campaigned for the two remaining candidates in the weeks leading up to the election.

Independent councillor Leonard Kelly and Sinn Fein’s Tom Forde and Aoife Rose O’Brien were present and accounted for; having canvassed for Ms Connolly during her campaign and joining her during a walkabout in Wexford town, their allegiances could not be called into question.

But with talk of a unified left, of Sinn Féin, Labour, the Green Party, and the Social Democrats coming together to take on the Fine Gael – Fianna Fáil behemoth in the coming years, there was little to no representation from Labour at the Wexford count.

Instead it was left to Sinn Fein TD Johnny Mythen to join the extended members of the Greens and Soc Dems in a victory parade which, despite some utterances, did not suggest a new unified front will be created in this part of the south-east.

On the other side, the ever-willing Cathal Byrne, a Fine Gael senator, did the needful, said the right things, and remained brave and stoic in the face of a comprehensive defeat. As painful as it was for Senator Byrne, it paled in comparison to his last experience at the count; an interminable two-day wait to finish fifth in a four-seater at the generals in November.

While none of the elected representatives would admit it, the sense, even from early-morning, was akin to a last day of school where everyone is hoping to be left home early.

Even the members of An Garda Siochána recognised it for what it was, the first question out of their mouths: “What time will this be finished at, lads?”

While no-one behind the fence was willing to commit to a time, it quickly became apparent that there would only be one count, and that neither Senator Byrne nor any of those willingly subjecting themselves to this procession, would have to ring home to explain their absence.

Indeed, the only reason to stay was so that one might hear about the latest elaborate spoiled vote; Bertie had got a few, Trump was in there, and someone had decorated their paper with M.I.G.A insignia. Surely it couldn’t get any greater than this.

Ultimately it was left to a child, a toddler, to sum up what the rest of us were feeling. Accompanied by her mammy and Fine Gael councillor, Bridín Murphy, little Ava was experiencing the count centre for the first, and her in case, hopefully last time.

Having been told she was being brought out to get wellies, poor Ava had instead been dragged into the most deathly dull election in modern Irish history. And she was not having a bit of it. Not even discussions about Halloween outfits could sustain her and, within minutes of her arrival, she demanded to be free from this tedium.

As she verged on a strop, many nodded in her direction knowingly, wishing they could tug at someone’s coat repeatedly until they were informed they could finally leave. Sadly, while Ava’s torment was relatively brief, those tasked with following this election, with totting up the votes, fielding the offensive drawings of genitalia and whatnot, and noting that Jim Gavin had finished fourth in a two-horse race, were left to complete the formalities, their only solace being that they wouldn’t be back here for at least four years.

Funded by the Local Democracy Reporting Scheme.