And then there were those blank cheques.

Each missile flew past and Ahern straightened himself up and moved on, the Teflon Taoiseach. Ultimately, there was not one scrap of evidence that he had acted in any way corruptly while those around him . . . Haughey, Burke, Lawlor, Pee Flynn . . . dipped their beaks.

But in the end, the welter of allegations led to probing. He handed over his financial records to Mahon. And out of that came the eight grand, a nice little earner for telling a roomful of Manchester businessmen how he was navigating the Irish economy. Except, he was speaking . . . or not speaking . . . as private citizen Bertie rather than finance minister Ahern, a distinction that is difficult for the average person to grasp.

Ahern is the only man to come near De Valera in terms of longevity as the great helmsman of Fianna Fail and the country. The two men shared a character trait that projects the veneer of a straightforward individual, beneath which swarms a mass of contradictions.

Take his handling of the current crisis. The politician Haughey heralded as the "most devious, the most cunning", the man proclaimed as the greatest electoral weapon of his party, made a hames of things. Last Thursday week, he gifted the media and opposition a hostage to fortune when the story broke. He should have hidden behind the tribunal, but instead threw out a few vague details. Then on Thursday last, in Cavan, he slipped towards the abyss with a rambling, impromptu press conference on the most critical personal issue he has had to deal with since coming to power. Where was the masterful politician?

The handling resonated with a minor crisis he suffered in 1998. Following years of vicious, unfounded rumours about marital abuse, Ahern decided to use the opportunity of a biography to knock the stuff on the head once and for all. He had known one of the authors, Ken Whelan, for 20 years and was confident he would receive fair treatment.

When the book . . . Bertie Ahern Taoiseach and Peacemaker . . . was serialised in a Sunday paper, his people hit the roof. Salacious radio advertising prompted a spin-fest from the handlers, in which Bertie denied speaking on the record.

Senior party men were sent out to rubbish the book and its authors, Whelan and Eugene Masterson. Through it all, Bertie maintained a hurt air. In the end, the two men reluctantly published a copy of the draft manuscript which clearly showed Ahern's handwritten corrections in the margin.

When exposed as having a somewhat tangential relationship with the truth, the Teflon Taoiseach just shrugged, and said "Ah sure, you never know". Nobody kicked up about it. There goes a nice man, and the world makes special allowances for people like that.

Something for everyone in the audience His niceness has been his greatest asset. He avoids confrontation until pushed into it. He always attempts to seek the middle ground, to have something for everybody in the audience. As minister for labour, he was integral to kicking off the national partnership agreements, an ideal forum for his talents. He played a straight, solid game on the North, always prepared to go the extra mile.

His most serious contribution to the state as finance minister was the introduction of a tax amnesty, which facilitated thousands to launder their dirty money. This from a man who labels himself a socialist.

He never goads his enemies. In the Dail, he rarely loses the rag, despite ample provocation.

Only his fellow socialist, Joe Higgins, has the ability to get really under his skin.

Michael O'Leary has given him dog's abuse, but Ahern merely smiles and says, "sure, God love him". But behind the cold smile, he is adamant that the Ryanair man won't get his way.

When he has to get rid of troublesome staff, like Ivor Callely or Ned O'Keeffe, he gives them plenty of time to do the decent thing. But he is firm if there is too much doddering about doing the decent thing. He had to hurry Charlie McCreevy along to Brussels.

Martin Cullen's employment of Monica Leech on big bucks had the capacity to annoy him.

But Bertie retained and even promoted him.

He doesn't hold a grudge. Pragmatism is his middle name.

He is known to enjoy a pint but, unusually for a man with a long record in public life, there are no tales of him ever being drunk. He keeps his ego under wraps, which makes him easy company.

Women love him, but he is a man's man. Last week he told how he met most of his 12 apostles on a weekly basis. How many middle-aged men in gainful employment get to hang out with a large circle of mates that frequently?

He is at his easiest when dealing with so-called "ordinary people", who live beyond the boundaries of public life. Earlier this year, he appeared on the Ryan Tubridy television show and played a blinder. These were his people, who wanted to hear of the human being behind the politician, and were given nice, cuddly Bertie. It was a far cry from the confines of the Dail, where his verbal forays chug along through strangled syntax into the odd burst of clarity.

He is the man who won the election in 2002.

Throughout that campaign, his image dominated. The election came down to a contract between the man of the people and his people. A lot done, more to do, sure doing a bit and what more could you ask for from a salt-of-the-earth ordinary guy like Bertie.

After the 2002 election, when the extent of the government's deception became clear, Bertie was booed on public occasions, including the opening of the Special Olympics. That would hurt anybody, but must have devastated a man who thrives on communion with the masses.

Last Tuesday, through RTE, he decided to talk directly to the people. They would give him a fair shake. A man in his position must have known his first duty was to parliament, which had set up the tribunal from whence the bad stuff leaked. But he ignored his duty to the state. His first duty is always to himself.

How could he get it so wrong?

If he has any real political philosophy, he has never expressed it. He claims to be a socialist, but everybody gets a good chuckle out of that.

Labour might be closer to his gut politics than the PDs, but the latter are a smaller party, and are entitled to fewer seats in government, so he prefers to do business with them.

From 1997 to 2002, he effectively handed over the running of the economy to the PDs and their proxy minister, Charlie McCreevy. When that philosophy began to wear thin, he manoeuvred McCreevy out, doing so with his customary smile.

His latest wheeze has been social capital and volunteerism. The country has gone too materialistic, he says, sounding like a ship's captain who's just emerged from his cabin to see that the crew have charted a crazy course while he was asleep.

He represents the poorest constituency in the state, yet hosts the biggest political fundraiser in Clontarf Castle, where developers and captains of industry pay homage. Under his stewardship, the country has grown hugely prosperous, yet divisions have deepened. Millionaires are ten-apenny. There is chaos in A&E wards, and holes in the prefabs where some children are sent to school. Through it all, Bertie retains the air of a man who is not so much in control as in charge.

Whether or not this past week ends his career, the image of the pint-loving Hill 16 patron has been fatally damaged. It served him well, particularly, as Pat Rabbitte pointed out on Wednesday, considering that he has been driven around in a state car since 1987.

Few men or women of the people have access to friends who could club together 50,000 at a time of moderate financial difficulties. Fewer still could expect stg£8,000 from a group of rich businessmen, at least some of whom the Taoiseach didn't know personally.

Even in his current difficulties, the contradictions scream out. Ahern is not interested in personal wealth, yet he took a big wad of cash when he was minister for finance, a simple no-no.

It was at a time when he was under some financial pressure and personal strain because of the breakdown of his marriage. His judgement may not have been at a premium, but considering the culture in which he came of political age, it was small beer. His subsequently handling of the situation has amplified the damage. How could the consummate politician get it so wrong?

Now the end may be near. Through his long career, this most popular of leaders remained distant from his senior colleagues. On the backbenches, they remember how he put noses out of joint last year in the succession race for Ivor Callely's job, when Callely was fired over a free daub of paint. Who, beyond his Drumcondra confidants, will he be able to rely on as the pressure mounts?