Leo Varadkar suggests we do the ­interview at his house in Dublin. It’s unusual for ­politicians to invite you into their home, but Ireland is famous for its hospitality. The house looks impressively humble – a tiny, ­unprepossessing terrace. A woman answers. “Hi,” I say. “Does the taoiseach live here? “No,” she says.

I start to panic. Our interview is due to start in two minutes.

Can you tell me the postcode here?

“No.”

She shuts the door.

Now I’m in full panic mode. There must be another road with the same name nearby and the taxi driver has taken me to the wrong place.

As I walk away, I see another cab. Phew. I hail it. Thankfully two people are getting out, and the driver says he’s free.

Then I notice one of the passengers is Leo Varadkar and he’s walking towards the house that isn’t his.

I chase after him, breathless. “Leo, a woman told me this wasn’t your house. I asked if the taoiseach lived there, and she said no.”

“Ah, I forgot to tell her,” he says. “And actually she’s right. I’m not the taoiseach.” Varadkar resigned as head of the Irish government in April 2024.

Accompanying Varadkar is his book publicist, Cliona. She says he would like to have something to eat and suggests she and I return in half an hour.

We find a general shop that sells automated coffee and a bench of sorts and while away the half hour. Cliona tells me that Varadkar isn’t like most politicians. The former leader of Fine Gael (which is perhaps closest to a moderate, old-fashioned Tory party) is famous for speaking his mind. He’s also unusual for having walked away from politics while in his 40s, when many of his rivals are still trying to wheedle their way to power. And he is gay and of Asian heritage (his father was an Indian GP, his mother an Irish nurse) – both of them firsts for a taoiseach.

Half an hour later, we return to his house. He answers the door. The woman, who is cleaning, looks at me as if it’s the first time we’ve met. Varadkar is a youthful 46 – trim, black hair, smart-casual in a blue shirt, cream chinos and spotless trainers. His memoir Speaking My Mind, as you might expect, is refreshingly honest. It starts with him as a little boy going with his mother to vote at the polling station. From then on, he wanted to go into politics. Actually, from then on he wanted to be taoiseach.

I was always interested in politics. I was fascinated with elections and the way they can turn ordinary people into people of influence

By the time I reach the end of the book, I feel I know every significant incident that happened in his political life, and every player in Irish politics, but one question remains. Why was he so desperate to be taoiseach? Boris Johnson was another prime minister who stated his ambition young, but he couldn’t be a more different character. While Johnson is all pompous bluster, Varadkar appears to be a modest man with a hint of a stammer. While Johnson talks in rambling generalities, Varadkar is all about the detail, delivered in fully formed sentences.

It feels as if you wanted to run the country from day zero I say. “I’m not sure about day zero,” he says with a smile. What was behind that drive? “The truth is I don’t know. For sure, I was always interested in politics. I was fascinated with elections and the process by which elections can turn ordinary people into people of influence. Then as I got older, living in west Dublin, my community was very short in terms of services, playgrounds, schools, you name it.”

With his parents Miriam and Ashok, 2017. Photograph: Frank McGrath /Irish Independent

Varadkar went on to study medicine at Trinity College Dublin and became a GP, like his father, Ashok, who first moved to Ireland from Mumbai in the 1960s. His time as a doctor hardened his resolve to make a career of politics. Varadkar saw problems in the health service and thought there was more chance of solving them as a teachta dála (or TD, the equivalent of a British MP) than as a doctor. “It was definitely in my personality to want to get stuck in and put something right rather than say someone else should fix it, or dump on the people who were trying to fix it.”

He’s still pondering my question about why he wanted to lead the country. “Is the answer in the book there somewhere?” he asks hopefully. Well, no, I don’t think it is, I say. Was it ambition or the desire to serve? “Politicians are driven by a combination of ego and altruism. So you do want to do things to make things better and you need that self-belief.”

The young Varadkar had extraordinary self-belief. “I first ran for election when I was 20, which was kind of crazy. But I didn’t get elected. I got on to the council when I was 24.” Within four years, he was a TD. But he was as awkward as he was confident. Irish politicians are renowned for plámás – their ability to work the room, schmooze and flatter. Varadkar had none of that. He barely knew how to talk to people, let alone flatter them. In her recent memoir, the former SNP leader Nicola Sturgeon said she was always glad to find Varadkar in a room full of people with her because she knew that at least there was somebody as shy as her. “He was even more introverted than me,” she wrote.

Was he aware of his lack of social niceties? “Yes. I’ve never been great at working the room and making friends. The upside is I’m fairly immune to the sycophancy and plámás some politicians practise.”

Photograph: Linda Brownlee/The Guardian

He quickly became known as Fine Gael’s rottweiler. “I was the go-to attack dog if they needed somebody to go on the radio or on TV.” He says he really was an angry young man back then – Fine Gael’s rival party, Fianna Fáil, had been in power for an eternity and the country went through a terrible recession amid the global financial crisis in 2008. “There was a world financial crisis, but only seven countries had the IMF [International Monetary Fund] in.” Ireland was one of them. “My generation of people had homes that were worth a fraction of what we paid for them. People were once again being forced to leave Ireland because they couldn’t find employment here. And, working in the health service, I saw big cuts to budgets that affected the patients around me.”

But he says you can’t stay an attack dog for long if you want to progress in politics. “It’s easy when you’re a newly elected politician in opposition to be angry and righteous, and I had to modify that as I became more and more responsible for the country. I definitely mellowed over time.” He says his early sense of certainty was delusional. “I was sure I knew what needed to be done and I could get it done. Over time I learned I wasn’t always right and getting things done is a lot harder than people think.” After stints as transport minister and health minister, he became taoiseach at the age of 38.

Varadkar asks if I want a drink. We head downstairs. The kitchen is spacious and stylish. There are lots of photos, mainly of him and his partner, Matt Barrett, a cardiologist, with friends and family. He proudly points to their invitation to King Charles’s coronation, which is framed on the wall. One of the likable things about Varadkar is that awkwardness. It’s given him a reputation for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. In this case, he was filmed picking his nose on the way into the ceremony.

Coming out opened up a whole new life to me: a partner of 10 years I thought I’d never have, a whole new bunch of friends, a whole new way of seeing the world

The house has a lovely relaxed feel. The front door rug, a gift from his former PA, features an illustration of him and Barrett wearing shades and personalised T-shirts alongside a ginger tabby, and says: “Go away unless you have alcohol and cat treats.” On the wall is a copy of a mural of two men hugging from the 2015 marriage equality referendum, which made Ireland the first country in the world to legalise same-sex marriage by popular vote.

Varadkar came out in January 2015 on his 36th birthday, four months before the referendum. He says it was a calculated decision. If he was going to lead the country, he felt he had to disclose his sexuality. “I was ready anyway. I wasn’t pretending any more. I was going to gay bars in Dublin. People were seeing me. Journalists were talking about it. It wasn’t really a secret at that stage.”

Was it a defining event in his life? “Yes, but what’s strange is at the time I didn’t think it was.” Why not? “I just thought: I am gay, I’m not going to pretend any more. If it damages my career, I don’t really care. The referendum was coming up, so I just thought, I’ll get it out of the way and then forget about it. And that was untrue, because it opened up a whole new life to me – a partner of 10 years that I thought I’d never have, a whole new bunch of friends, a whole new way of seeing the world.”

As a politician he was known for being fiscally conservative and socially liberal. As a young man, though, he says, he was conservative on all fronts. “It’s very easy to be black and white about life when you haven’t lived much of a life. As you go on, you understand ambiguity and how grey things can be.” But, he says, there was more to it than that. “I think part of it was also that I was a closeted gay man, and it’s not uncommon for closeted gay men to be a bit more conservative and a bit more judgmental, where you feel if you have to live a certain life and conform to certain social standards, well, other people should be willing to do that, too.”

How old was he when he had his first relationship? “My first real relationship?” Yes, I say, or your first sexual experience? “I’m not telling you that! Hahaha.” When he laughs, he does so with shoulder-shaking gusto. OK, first relationship then? “I was well into my 30s, yeah.” Had he been reluctant to have a relationship because he wasn’t out and he was worried that it could threaten his political ambitions? “Yeah, I was avoiding it, really. Like a lot of [closeted] gay men, you throw yourself into your career or whatever your thing is.” That must mess with your head, I say. “It’s called the velvet rage. It’s this concept of closeted gay men who throw themselves into their art or their work or their business and then after you come out you’re a bit annoyed about all the years you’ve missed that could have been great fun. I might even have it there.” He goes to his bookshelf, and among the many political biographies is a book called The Velvet Rage by Alan Downs. “There we are,” he says, passing it over.

Was he supported by his family when he came out? “Very much so.” Varadkar verges on the apologetic when talking about it. “I am aware that coming out when you’re a doctor in your 30s who’s a government minister is a bit different to an 18-year-old kid.” It’s easier? “Yes, of course. I was financially secure. I had status. It’s a very different experience. There are still kids who get kicked out of home. Who was going to do that to me? My officials in my department weren’t going to refuse to work with me. So I was able to do it from a position of privilege and strength. I get that.” Were his friends upset that it had taken him so long to come out? “My straight friends?” No, your gay friends. “I didn’t have any gay friends at that time. Maybe if I’d made gay friends already I’d have come out earlier.”

He had long been aware that his life was taking a different shape to many of his friends’. “They were already going in different directions, forming families, having kids. They were very keen to tell you about their kids.” He makes it clear that he found all the family talk boring.

What advice would he give to kids coming out? “I’d be careful about giving advice to minors. But 18, 19, 20: I’d say I’ve never met anybody who regrets it – even people who had a bad experience coming out.”

Varadkar became a figurehead of the new socially liberal Ireland, even though he’d hardly been in the vanguard of the campaign for marital equality. At the time, he was health minister, which was regarded as the poisoned chalice of politics. He survived it, and on 2 June 2017 he won the battle to lead Fine Gael after Enda Kenny’s resignation. Twelve days later, he was voted in as taoiseach by the Dáil in Dublin. Kenny, who had led the country for six years, said Varadkar represented a “modest, diverse and inclusive Ireland”.

With Boris Johnson in Dublin, 2019. Photograph: Phil Noble/Reuters

From the start, Varadkar faced significant challenges, not least the upcoming abortion referendum and the fight with Britain to ensure that there was no hard border on the island of Ireland after the Brexit vote. In May 2018, Ireland voted overwhelmingly by 66.4% to 33.6% to overturn the abortion ban. It was seen by many as proof that the country had finally evolved from a secretive clerical state to a modern liberal democracy. Varadkar, who had campaigned in favour of liberalisation, called it “a historic day for Ireland”, saying that a “quiet revolution” had taken place. “It’s also a day when we say no more,” he said. “No more to doctors telling their patients there’s nothing that can be done for them in their own country, no more lonely journeys across the Irish Sea, no more stigma as the veil of secrecy is lifted and no more isolation as the burden of shame is gone.”

He was praised for standing his ground on Brexit and, eventually, the then British prime minister Boris Johnson was forced to agree to the Northern Ireland protocol and a de facto trade border in the Irish Sea. How did he get on with Johnson? “I got on well with him. He was someone I felt I could talk to. And we’re both interested in history and the classics. He’s got a good sense of humour, and I felt I could deal with him one to one in a way that was much more difficult with prime minister [Theresa] May, because she was much more formal and stuck to her briefs. Eventually, we were able to make a deal. We agreed on the protocol.”

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That sounds like a glowing character reference? Well, not quite, he says. “Within months he tried to renege on it. I felt betrayed by that because we’d come to an agreement he’d sold to the British people as the oven-ready deal we’d cooked together. He won the election on it, got it through parliament and then within months was trying to unwind it.” You sound surprised, I say, but Johnson is famous for saying one thing and doing the other. “I suppose he hadn’t done it to me then. Dominic Cummings said he’d always intended to break the agreement.”

Welcoming Donald Trump and his wife Melania to Ireland during the president’s first term of office, 2019. Photograph: Liam McBurney/PAWith then MEP Nigel Farage after Varadkar addressed the European parliament, 2018 Photograph: Courtesy of Leo Varadkar

How did he get on with Donald Trump? “Erm, actually well.” Has he got a thing for rightwing populists? “Well, I think part of the reason they’re successful is they’re generally quite likable. Nigel Farage is quite likable, too. Trump has been very welcoming to me any time we’ve met …” But? “You go in there to the Oval Office and you feel you’re a guest on his show. And, on another level, it feels like a medieval court. When you met, for example, President Biden you might be in one to one, and then you might meet with a small group of, say, six people. With Trump, there might be 20 people in the room.”

Does Trump’s influence scare him? “I’m much more worried about his second term than his first. Trump 2.0 is different from Trump 1.0. In his first term he had a lot of restraining influences around him like Mike Pence. He’s come back and is only surrounding himself with people who stood by him after January 6, so it’s a much more extreme administration.”

In what way? “On LGBT issues, for example. He wasn’t interested in that in his first term and now it’s become one of the focuses, which is to erase trans people and also downgrade the whole idea of diversity, equity and inclusion.”

I ask which leader he admired most. “Angela Merkel,” he says instantly. “She knew how to use power very skilfully. She was the head of a big country, the biggest economy in Europe, 80 million people, and never threw her weight around. She was clever in the way she used power, from listening to the debate on different sides then coming up with the compromise that everyone would come in behind, or being very sensitive around the needs of smaller countries. She also got elected for four terms. My party managed to get four terms, but with three leaders. She did that all on her own.”

Varadkar was taoiseach for three years from June 2017. He was returned to power in 2020 as part of a historic coalition with Fianna Fáil (to the left of Fine Gael and thought of as the party of government through the 20th century), first as tánaiste (deputy leader) and then again as taoiseach. He led the country through a tough time that included Brexit, Russia’s war against Ukraine and the pandemic, and is generally thought to have done well on all fronts. Ireland was incredibly generous to Ukrainian refugees, taking in more than 100,000 and providing housing and benefits under the EU’s temporary protection directive. During the pandemic, Varadkar briefly returned to work as a GP and was hailed as a “badass” by the Hollywood actor Matt Damon. Ireland had one of the lowest Covid death rates in western Europe.

Photograph: Linda Brownlee/The Guardian

And yet, travelling through Ireland the week I interview Varadkar, I get little sense of love for him. There is certainly not the affection the public has for the president, Michael D Higgins. The most common criticism is that he failed to deal with Ireland’s housing crisis. Varadkar says his critics have a point. “We made efforts to deal with it, but we didn’t succeed. But a lot of people have come to believe the narrative that we didn’t solve the housing crisis because we didn’t care or we had the wrong policies. The year we came in, 7,000 homes were built in the entire country, and the year I finished there were 32,000.” The problem is, he says, he was too fiscally cautious, determined to run a budget surplus so he could build a war chest to cover the impact of Brexit. But ultimately that proved unnecessary. “We thought there may be an economic hit coming from Brexit. Had we known we would get a good deal on Brexit in the end, we would have probably run a small deficit, and that would have freed up some money for housing.”

His popularity also suffered when he was investigated for corruption after “leaking” a confidential document to a friend. The allegation was clouded in confusion, partly because the issue was so knotty and partly because it was such small fry. In April 2019, he sent a copy of a draft contract between the state and the Irish Medical Organisation to Dr Maitiú Ó Tuathail, who was then head of the National Association of General Practitioners, which is now defunct but was then regarded as a rival of the IMO. Varadkar said the allegations that he broke the law in doing so were made by “sworn political opponents”. In July 2022, after a two-year investigation by the Garda Síochána (Irish police), the director of public prosecutions concluded that he would not be prosecuted. Varadkar apologised for what he had done, calling it “inappropriate” and an “error”. At the time, he was tánaiste, and five months later he took over as prime minister for a second stint, this time as part of the coalition government.

The allegation of corruption could have destroyed you, I say. “Yes, totally.” Could he have ended up in prison? “Erm, I don’t ever think that was likely, but in theory. In the end, the most important thing is the Garda found nothing against me, then the DPP said I had no case to answer, and then it went to the ethics body who decided there was no breach of the code of conduct. But I did worry that this might be the thing that brings me down. And it was such a small thing.” He says he found it cathartic to be able to tell his side of the story in his memoir. “It helped me realise how silly the whole thing was. I was acting in good faith and there was no question that I was trying to benefit myself or the person I gave the document to. A priority of the deal was to extend free GP care to more children, which is a good thing to do, you know!”

How did the investigation affect him? “It was draining. It was very tough and I had to put on a brave face. Journalists always asked, ‘Is this a distraction from your work?’, and my answer was always no. But of course it was a distraction. It was on my mind all the time, and the most difficult thing was it went on for so long. I was surprised that the police were investigating it at all. I think most people were quite frankly, including politicians and journalists.”

In March 2024, halfway through his second stint as taoiseach, he announced he was resigning. There had been no sign this was coming, and no obvious reason for it. It shocked the country in much the way Jacinda Ardern’s resignation as New Zealand’s prime minister had done a year earlier. There is a remarkable symmetry between the two politicians. Both took power in 2017, both were remarkably young (she 37, he 38), and both quit because they’d had enough when they were still young enough to be starting out.

Why did he resign? “On a personal level, I wasn’t loving it any more. The job is so full-on. You have to like it, and I wasn’t enjoying it.” Had he fallen out of love with politics? “Yeah, not politics per se, but the job. Being on the frontline. Being the commander. I certainly fell out of love with being taoiseach.” Why? “I had been doing it for a long time. I also found – maybe they’re connected – that my political capital had depleted. We were heading into local elections, and there were a lot of colleagues whose seats were in jeopardy. I felt the party had a better chance to refresh and rebrand without me.”

Like Ardern, who led through Covid, he was exhausted. And he found the global move towards rightwing populism depressing. There had been so much social progress in Ireland, but he could see the start of a backlash. There were now increasing incidents of homophobia and racism. In September 2023, a protest outside the Dáil featured an effigy of a man hanging from a gallows, on which were stuck pictures of politicians, including one of Varadkar labelled “GLOBALIST TRAITOR”. Far-right protesters chanted against transgender rights, migration and planned hate speech laws, and held signs saying “Irish lives matter”.

Two months later, there was a riot in Dublin after a man who was originally from Algeria stabbed three children and a care worker. Police described it as the most violent riot in modern Dublin history, and Garda commissioner Drew Harris blamed it on a “lunatic, hooligan faction driven by a far-right ideology”.

Some said Varadkar’s generosity towards Ukrainian refugees was partly responsible for the upsurge in anti-migrant feeling. “I don’t regret for a second that we opened our door to Ukrainians,” he says. Varadkar and Barrett hosted a Ukrainian refugee in their home for nine months. Today, he wears a bracelet made of steel from the Azovstal steel and iron plant in Mariupol that held out for 82 days in 2022 against Russian air bombardment and became a symbol of Ukrainian resistance.

With his partner Matt Barrett (far right) and former US vice-president Mike Pence and his sister Anne, 2019. Photograph: Brian Lawless/PA

Last month, Varadkar wrote a piece for the Sunday Times about the recent attacks on Indian migrants. “But it’s not just about Indians,” he stresses. “A country that has become very liberal and tolerant is now facing a backlash. A certain degree of xenophobia and homophobia is more acceptable than it was a few years ago. For a minority of people it’s become socially acceptable again to dislike the other, and even harm them.”

As a gay, mixed-race taoiseach, Varadkar has been the supreme symbol of that tolerance. Even so, he occasionally suffered coded homophobia during his time in office. In 2019, it emerged that he had sent Kylie Minogue a letter saying he was a huge fan and would love to welcome her to Dublin personally before her concert. It became something of a national joke. “Had I written that note to a golfer or footballer or Bruce Springsteen it wouldn’t have been framed in the same way; that I was ‘fan-girling’ over Kylie! I didn’t lose any sleep over it because it wasn’t that big a deal. I met Cher and nobody took a photograph of that! And she asked to meet me!”

It seems from the book that Barrett found it particularly difficult in coping with media attention, I say. “Well, he and me. We never bought into political life as a couple. You often see the wife of a politician who is very dedicated to her husband’s career or vice versa. But we never agreed on that political path.” In December 2022, shortly before beginning his second stint as taoiseach, Varadkar was secretly filmed snogging a young man in a nightclub. Barrett was there, too. Did it shock him that it was leaked to the press? “It’s a slightly difficult thing to talk about because it involves other people and I want to protect their privacy.” He says that a bigger deal was made of footage of Finland’s Sanna Marin dancing with her friends. Marin, who became the world’s youngest serving prime minister at 34, quit politics when she was only 37. “I was fortunate that the gay community rallied around me, and that the Irish media and public wanted to treat it as a private matter. It may not have been the same in other countries.”

Is Ireland sufficiently liberal that it could accept a leader who was in an open relationship? For the first time he balks at a question. “Well, we’re in a long-term committed relationship of 10 years, so that doesn’t arise. That’s not to say we haven’t had our slip-ups from time to time, but that’s our business.”

I’m not allowing myself to contemplate ever running for election again

Varadkar, Ardern, Marin – all refreshingly modern politicians who ultimately put their personal life before their professional one. Varadkar believes we’re witnessing the end of the career politician. “I think the turnover is going to be quicker in politics. My generation has a different attitude. Politicians don’t necessarily want the job for life like they used to, and also people get sick of politicians quicker than they did before. You can see in Britain how quickly the new government’s become unpopular.”

He insists he has no interest in going back into politics. For now, he’s happy with a portfolio career – writing occasional newspaper articles, teaching part-time at Harvard, working in an advisory role with the US-based PR firm Penta Group. In recent weeks, singer Bob Geldof, Riverdance star Michael Flatley and MMA fighter Conor McGregor have all been rumoured to be joining the race to become the next president of Ireland in October. Would he stand for the presidency? “No. I’m not allowing myself to contemplate ever running for election again.”

When he assesses his record, is he pleased at what he’s achieved? “I really don’t want to write my own report card. It’s for others to make that judgment. I think it’s only over time that you can judge the performance of a prime minister or politician – 10 or 20 years later, when you’ve seen what’s come next.” Perhaps. In the short term, it feels as if Varadkar is more appreciated away from home than in Ireland. Maybe his achievements are best judged in terms of what he didn’t do rather than what he did. After all, he led Ireland through a period of relative stability and calm when neighbouring countries in Britain imploded in a series of scandals that destroyed trust in party politics.

Despite the negatives, he hopes to encourage decent people to go into politics. “There is a profound risk that politics will only attract people who are perfect or shameless. And that wouldn’t be a good thing, because you need human beings in politics. I want to say to people, ‘You can go for it; it doesn’t have to be for life.’ People are very aware of the abuse politicians get, but the vast majority of people you meet just want to say hello. They might even thank you for the work you’re doing. I really hope that people thinking of going into politics now don’t think it’s awful, because it’s not. It’s actually really rewarding. You can make changes for the better and the negative stuff isn’t as bad as people think.”

Meanwhile, he’s loving his new freedom. “You can speak more freely, write more freely and think more freely. And I’ve got time to go to the gym.” He spoke to Ardern before resigning, and her advice helped him make up his mind. “She crystallised my thoughts. She said there are three ways it ends as prime minister – you die, you lose or you resign. I always wanted to go on my own terms. I know a lot of people in politics who were forced to resign or who lost their seat and they’re still bitter about it, whereas I made my decision. I took control.”

Speaking My Mind by Leo Varadkar is published by Sandycove (£25). To support the Guardian order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply. .