The reason for O’Donovan’s phenomenal success, however, has more to do with chicanery than popularity. O’Donovan has always performed better in secret ballots than in workplace shows of hands.

The reason for this is that in Irish secret ballots, the ballot papers never actually reach the voters, particularly in the offices of more remote local papers where there is traditionally a low or non-existent turn-out in union elections.

And in the major newspaper offices where the forms are actually handed out, Fearghal’s cohorts simply make sure they collect up any unused forms, then put the crosses in Fearghal’s box.

What’s in it for them? Well, guess who controls all the highly-paid casual Saturday night-shifts at the Sunday Sentinel? None other than Dermot O’Donovan, brother of the more famous Fearghal.

Of course, Fearghal will deny Conference Chronicle’s claim. Maybe it’s time someone went through the ballot papers and compared how many were filled in with the identical pen and the identical cross.

Lindsay reached the end of the piece ahead of the young man. She couldn’t keep a smile from her lips. There were a lot of journalists who’d be walking round with sanctimonious smirks on their faces when they saw that. All their wild claims about the corruption and nepotism of the traditional print unions would be vindicated by that one anonymous article. The air would be thick with the sound of “I told you so.”

“Sure, they can’t prove a thing, so,” the young man protested in the softer Dublin accent. “They shouldn’t be let away with the likes of this, though. Fearghal’ll be biting the carpet. Where did you get it?”

The woman, red-faced in her anger, said, “It was shoved under my bedroom door. Everybody’s got one. It’s a scandal, so it is.”

“Who’s behind it?” the young man asked, handing the sheet back as the queue moved forward.

“It’ll be them bloody journalists, trying to run everything their way. As if it’s not enough that their man got the general secretary job, they have to stoop to telling lies about a decent man who’ll stand up to them.” She was building up a fine head of steam. Lindsay hoped the woman wouldn’t round on her and demand to know which sector of the union she belonged to.

“What’s Fearghal saying to it?” the young man asked.

The woman snorted. “Let me tell you, that man’s a saint. He’s gone to see Standing Orders Sub-Committee about an emergency motion to clear his name. And in the face of this,” she added, waving the offending article, “I don’t doubt they’ll see things his way. I’ve never seen the like, not in all my years as a union official. What we’ve got to do is, we’ve got to organize a proper investigation into who’s doing this.”