It cost €130.” And while Maurice was mulling over his choice of suit on Saturday morning, the other woman in his life, his mum Marie - confined to a wheelchair due to a foot injury - was praying to her late husband for divine inspiration.

“He is with us in spirit,” she said of former Ranks worker Paddy.

We have had it tough along the line but very happy to have our seat”. The minister strolled across the hall for the official declaration. ” asked the Leader’s very own Eugene Phelan, a seasoned campaigner himself. ” the Minister asked, his low, signature drawl, drawing laughter all round. ” “I think you dreamt that Eugene,” smiled the minister in an exchange that begged to be mimicked by Mario Rosenstock. The laughter faded, the curtain came down, and we all left the stage.

There was no shoulder-high business – the old firm hand shake more than sufficed. “That was the night in South’s you told me you were retiring,” the minister went on, “and I said I might retire myself.

“I spoke to him coming out this morning and said; ‘Now, listen, Paddy you better do this’ and then I said; ‘No Paddy that’s not right, I’m always asking you to do things since you died’.” Well, Paddy was listening.

His youngest son went on to take the second seat in the Limerick City constituency with 5,894 first preference votes.

In the Nineties, he’s everywhere and he’s going shopping.” As a nineties kid and a noughties teenager, it was a term that I grew up with – citing David Beckham as the metrosexual archetype.

But 12 years after the term was first used by Simpson, I’m pleased to declare that the metrosexual is dead, and here’s why…

The word ‘metrosexual’ is a lazy term to categorise any guy who likes to look after himself and his appearance. Originating in an article for the Independent on November 15, 1994, Mark Simpson wrote: “Metrosexual man, the single young man with a high disposable income, living or working in the city (because that’s where all the best shops are), is perhaps the most promising consumer market of the decade.

In the Eighties he was only to be found inside fashion magazines such as GQ.

“I said it straight away that they would be up to possibly 40 seats in the next election,” said a slightly giddy Bill at the realisation that his prediction had come true.

“My father (PJ) this morning, the first thing he shouted down the stairs to me was – ‘you were right about Fianna Fail! ” queried an under deadline Eric Clarke from UTV Ireland, as our eyes scanned a room full of wide shoulders and shiny foreheads.

With a rub of the eyes he elicited a big satisfying yawn - the ones you smother when in strange company.