Howzat!

“Look at those dicks.”
“Hm?’’
“Look at them dicks, I said. Eejits.”
“Aye. I suppose.”
“Such a game. If it is a game.”
“Aye. I suppose.”
“Cricket.”
“Aye.”
“Here in the middle of Dublin.”
“Aye. Cricket. Here in the middle of Dublin.”
“You would think that this part of Ireland have never broken the connection with Britain.”
“Aye.”
“Playing cricket like they were frigging English.”
“Aye.”
“Do you smell that?”
“Newly-cut grass.”
“Nah – money.”
“Money?”
“Privilege.”
“Privilege?”
“They disgust me, the Dublin Four fuckers and their cricket.”
“Aye. Disgusting.”
“But that’s the shower that is in charge of this country, the TCD elite.”
“A right shower. Aye.”
“We should send the whole lot to the firing squad.”
“Aye.”
“I’m telling you. That’s the best way to get rid of them.”
“Aye.”
“Stinking Staters. You’d think they’d be ashamed to play cricket. Scum.”
“Aye.”
“That’s the shower that is in charge of this country. It won’t be long before these students are in charge of the courts and the money and the political parties.”
“Aye.”
“Privilege.”
“Aye. Privilege.”
“They think they’re the aristocracy, the shower that blossomed after the Civil War, the shower that betrayed the Republic. Middle-class vultures. Privileged vultures. Greedy vultures. England’s vultures in Ireland. They’d prefer it if Ireland were still in the United Kingdom.”
“Aye. They would.”
“Dublin 4’s own, green unionists.”
“Aye.”
“Rotten scum. Traitors.”
“Aye.”
“A firing squad. I’m telling you. When an Ireland comes, let’s send them all to a firing squad.”
“Aye.”
“We have to decommission them.”
“We have to.”
“That’s the best way of getting rid of the bullets – by decommissioning that shower and their cricket.”
“What time is it?”
“A quarter to two.”
“The meeting is at two?”
“Yes. In the big hall or the Aula Maximus if you prefer.”
“Do you think there will be many?”
“Oh aye. You’re well known.”
“Aye.” Caoimhín stood up: “We might as well head.”
“Aye,” said his companion, “let’s go before I start boking up.”
Caoimhín took one final look at the students playing. “Perverts,” said his companion in parting, “let’s send the whole lot of them to a firing squad.”

Caoimhín said nothing. He could not. He was enchanted by the sight of the players in their bright uniforms. He delayed for another moment. The bowler surged towards the wicket and threw the little red ball towards the batsman. The ball swung in the air, bounced once and jumped over the willow bat before striking the batman’s leg. The bowler spun on his heels towards the umpire, threw his hands in the air, bent a single finger towards the sky like a pike man and let out a shout that filled the green with its intensity: “Howzatttt!!!!’ He shouted again as if afraid the umpire would let him down, as if offended that he would not believe the honesty of his appeal: “Howzattt!!!!”

The umpire hesitated, looked towards the batsman and made the slightest movement of his head before raising a finger skywards. The batsman turned and walked away. The other players ran towards the bowler shouting. The games was theirs; they had banished the batsman. They crowded together, high-fiving and did a little dance of joy that reminded Caoimhín of Cor Seisear Déag. “Perverts,” his companion said again, “perverts.”

Caoimhín said nothing. The only pervert, he thought, was the umpire. There was no way that that ball was LBW. No way. The ball was too high; it wouldn’t have hit the stump had the batsman let it pass. No chance. He looked at his companion and almost told him that before realising that republicans were not supposed to be interested in cricket, especially if they were ex-prisoners like himself.

“Are you coming?” his companion asked.
“Fire away,” Caoimhín replied and followed. It was a pity the batsman lost his wicket, he thought. He knew what he was about and he had defended the wicket well while stealing runs and hitting the odd four when the opportunity arose. Caoimhín could see why the other team wanted him out. The batsman had controlled the match and set its pace comfortably. It was a shame that the umpire had made such a poor decision. He obviously hadn’t been paying attention and then, when caught out, took the easy way out. “Probably wanted to get to the clubhouse for a g and t,” thought Caoimhín. A bad decision. Of that he was sure.
“You are very quiet,” his companion said, “are you worried about the speech?”
“Jesus, no. I could give this speech tied upside from the ceiling. I’ve been giving this speech since I started in politics. I’ll attack the Brits, attack the Irish government, attack the SDLP…”
“Attack everyone but us.”
“That’s it. Attack everyone but us. We are never at fault.”

Caoimhín carried on thinking about the cricket. He wanted to discuss the match with his comrade but he knew he couldn’t. If he mentioned it, he’d slag him off. He heard the disgust in his friend’s voice again: “Perverts.”

But there was a mystery to cricket that attracted Caoimhín. He preferred it to hurling though he could never mention that out loud. It was part of his political duties to attend Gaelic games so the voters could see him supporting native culture. He had spent many an evening in Casement Park watching Antrim or a local club hurl. He did it because he was expected to do it. It was for the cause; and a couple of votes. Despite that he just couldn’t get worked up about the game. Hurling was just, too, well, too anarchic for his tastes. He could see no rhythm or reason to the swinging hurls or the sliotar. Ash clashed with ash; the sliotar shot forward and it went over the bar or it didn’t go over the bar. He saw nothing of beauty in it; the game was nothing but mad slashing wood with a ball somewhere in the middle of the action. And talk about rough! He winched every time he saw a hurl rise and fall around the players. Hurling was, Caoimhín said under his breath many times, a game for mad bastards.

Cricket, however, was different. Cricket followers were mannerly and played the game in good weather while enjoying fine food. All you had to do was stretch yourself by the side of the pitch and dip your hand into a basket, take out a sandwich and, perhaps, enjoy a nice, cold glass of cider. Now, that’s culture, thought Caoimhín. That’s the way to spend an afternoon.

He remembered one afternoon he had been travelling through Tyrone. There was a cricket game being played. Caoimhín had been heading to an election meeting in Fermanagh when he saw the teams playing under the shadow of an army barracks. He had been in a hurry and almost drove on but something made him stop. A meeting. Another frigging meeting, he thought. He could hear the talk already: the points of procedure; the cúpla focal, a chathaoirligh, a chara; the suggestions; the plan of action; the lists of voters; the cars available; the ex-prisoners and old republicans who had to be visited; the streets and villages that had to be avoided. Another frigging meeting.

He stopped the car and pulled in to the side of the road. They would not know him here. He was not that familiar a face outside of Belfast. He could watch from the car. No, that might be too suspicious. They might think he was up to something. If the cops came, they might make allegations. Better to drive on. Another frigging meeting. No. Stay. Get out off the car. Walk over and blend in. He bent down to the passenger side and rummaged in the plastic bag in which he had thrown a sandwich and a can of coke. He took them out. It was a lovely day, he thought. I’ll take a break. Twenty minutes, that’s all, I’m owed twenty minutes at least.

He had two baseball hats in the glove compartment – one was an saffron Antrim GAA cap; the other was a dark blue one with NY stitched on it. He took the second one and settled it on his head. No one will know me here, he thought, no one. I am safe enough. He crossed the road excitedly. It wasn’t a big crowd but there were enough people so that he didn’t stand out. He found a spot at the edge of the pitch and settled himself down. No sooner had he sat than he heard a loud “pock” and the little, red ball ran towards the boundary. The batsmen didn’t move. “They know they have got four runs,” thought Caoimhín, “they know they don’t need to move.”

The little red ball hopped over the boundary line and a polite round of clapping flitted around the ground. Caoimhín looked around. No one knows me here, he thought and joined in slowly. He looked at his watch. Half an hour, I’m owed half an hour. He took out his sandwiches and snapped open a tin of coke. An hour; I’m owed that much, he thought, as the bowler ran towards the batsman. The ball flew from his fist and the batsman swung at it with easy contempt. Pock! “Another four,” thought Caoimhín and he began to clap. His eyes and ears sucked in every sight, sound, every shout and movement of what happened on the grass.

This was his first live match and he did not want to miss a single second. He examined how the players were set, how they drew into the batsman as the bowler made his approach. He understood what they were doing; they were trying to intimidate him, distract him a little from the bowler, lessen the field and tighten the noose. He could see them going down on their honkers, bouncing like children in the playground, hands sweeping the grass while the bowler strode down the pitch, readying himself and then firing the ball. This, then, was the highlight of the play, this was the moment of truth for bowler and batsman, that little wait of moments before the ball and bat connected – if at all. Would the batsman stab the ball left or right, would he satisfy himself with a simple, safe push back or would he judge, in those few seconds, that the bowler had misjudged his pitch, that he tossed the ball too short and too high and that the batsman could loosen his body and strike forcefully?

Caoimhín held his breath as the ball rose and fell. The batsman came out, swung – pock! – the ball flew towards the boundary. An out-field player threw himself to his left. It was no good. The ball’s momentum carried it past his fingers and away to safety. Caoimhín clapped again, this time, with more enthusiasm. A good stroke, a really good stroke, he thought. The batsman knows his business; the bowler is beat; he simply doesn’t know it yet. He carried on watching. His judgment was correct; the batsman was not about to cede his wicket. He pushed and swung the bat and bullied the bowler and ball into submission.

Caoimhín felt the warm sun on his head and looked at his watch. The meeting would be well under way by now. Stuff it. They owe me a day. One day at least. He lay back on the verge and settled himself. He had forgotten how warm it could become in the open. He had forgotten the sounds of birds, cars, cows and tractors in open spaces. A blackbird hopped down in front of him, fanned its tail and then crooked its ear to the ground.

Caoimhín could almost hear the bird listening for the rustle of worms below. He could feel its little orange-tipped radar scan for monsters of the deep. The bird stamped its feet, moved on, listened. A sudden round of clapping broke its concentration and it rose to the air, shrieking a warning to the world. Caoimhín closed his eyes. What a wonderful sight, he thought, and let himself doze off. He woke with a start. An old man was struggling towards his car with a collection of bats, stumps and jerseys under his arm. “You’re just right, son,” he said to Caoimhín smiling, “there was little there to hold your attention.”
“I fell asleep,” said Caoimhín un-necessarily. He stood and hesitated. “Do you need a hand?” he asked the old man.
“You could grab a couple of them bats,” said the old man. “Everyone likes to play but not everyone likes to tidy up.”

Caoimhín lifted a handful of bats from under the old man’s arm and nestled them against his chest. “I’m just over here,” said the old fellow. Caoimhín followed him and waited until he had opened the boot of his car before setting the bats in carefully. “You’re a gentleman. That’s a great help,” said the old man. “Do you play yourself?”
“No,” said Caoimhín, “I was just passing through.”
“Aye, well, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon,” replied the old man as he opened the car door and got in. “Many thanks, now. Safe journey.”
“Yes,” said Caoimhín. “Take care.”

He looked at his watch. The meeting would be well over by now. Frig it, he thought. They owe me a day, at least one day. Still, they would want to know what happened to him. He couldn’t say that he fell asleep at a cricket match. He needed a better excuse and then he saw it. Two army jeeps passed by and turned up towards the barracks.

Caoimhín smiled: “I’ll blame the Brits.” No one would question that. Frig them anyway. They didn’t own him. He was his own man. The Brits. That’ll do fine. He could hear them now: “We’ll release a press statement. This is ridiculous. There is supposed to be a peace process. You are an important party representative. They can’t do that. Not anymore. We’ll give them hell in the press release.”

And Caoimhín would just say: “Never bother. I’ve put up with worse. Most of us have put up with worse. Just leave it and let’s get on with the election. I’ll save the whole episode for my autobiography.” That would knock it all on the head, he thought. He turned around. The cricket pitch had emptied. He was alone at the side of the road. He got into his car, turned it around and headed back to the city. “I’m going to pack it in,” he thought. “I’ve had enough.”

He had surrendered his whole life to the cause; had spent years in prison and just as many outside canvassing for the party. He wasn’t sure which was worse anymore: the stink of prison cells or the stale smell of endless meetings up and down the country. He had never imagined himself as full-time politician encased in a shirt and tie most of the week, listening to the same oul shite from the same oul gurns, week after week. “We need to canvas here. We need to address this issue. This is what you should say. This is what you shouldn’t say.” And he listened and put up with it. Just as he listened and put up with the meetings and the eejits and the handshaking, all in the hope that he would get a vote or two more. Give me your vote. For Ireland. For the cause. Shite. All of it. Just shite.

He smiled when he thought of the cricket. There was sense in cricket. He saw his first game in the H-Blocks–the West Indies against England. He marvelled at the stupidity of the game for a moment or two; let himself mock the proceedings publicly before moving on. Bit by bit, however, he felt the game exercise its magic on him. There was something mysterious about it – the way in which the players bobbed around the field; the bowler’s natural rhythm; the batsman’s stubborn defence of his wicket; the way in which he alone stood against the other team trying to attack the ball and make some runs while also trying to keep his stumps safe.
The batsman could have been Cú Chulainn at the ford, he thought.

And then there was the sound of the game; it was hypnotic. He could hear the footsteps of the bowler on the shorn grass and the soft sound of bat striking ball; he could hear the batsman’s trousers and pads rustling against one another as he ran. It was the silence that attracted him, the way in which play created a sanctuary in the soul of those who watched the game; it was a magical meditation on physics. All you had to do, he realised, was surrender to the game, give way to its ebb and flow and you would understand its secret and the grip it took on people.

He supported the West Indies and began to scan the Irish News for little tit bits about scores and players. Hadn’t generations of Irish people been banished to the West Indies. Indeed, there were Irish surnames to be found amongst many of the island’s inhabitants, a sure sign that the native Irish had been swept from Ireland by sword and gun by Cromwell and all who followed him.

Yes, he reasoned, he could safely support the West Indies. Then he began to look through the News Letter and the Belfast Telegraph. “You’re not going over to the other side, are you Caoimhín?” they asked him. “Ah, no. Just seeing what they’re writing about us.” Gradually, he built up a picture of who was playing and the ranking of different countries. He carried the information in his head and spoke to no one about it.

The game was even more mysterious when played at night. He had listened to late-night radio reports while India toured Australia, hidden under the blankets in his cell. The voices of the commentators sounded clear through the headphones and totted up the number of runs scored, wickets taken and overs played. He felt comfortable listening to the tour, the earlier sense of treachery gradually fading. After all, India had been inspired by Ireland’s fight for freedom and had even adapted the tricolour as recognition of their common cause. And, Australia, well, John Mitchell had escaped from it and written his Jail Journal about his experiences there. That was enough in itself. His behaviour did not pass without comment, however. “What programme were you listening to last night?” his cellmate asked him. “You seemed to me very taken with it.”
“Oh, something on Australian politics,” Caoimhín lied. “It’s shameful what’s going on out there.”
“The Aboriginals? Aye, shameful.”

He was annoyed by the question but would still not admit his interest in the sport. It was perfectly legitimate to support Australia and India in cricket, he thought. As long as I don’t support England, he thought. England was the enemy. England was always the enemy. My enemy’s enemy, Caoimhín thought, that’s what this is all about; striking back at them wherever possible. There was no loss of principle or disregard for native culture by taking an interest in cricket. It was simply another way to attack the English. They liked to think of cricket as the game they gave the world, he reasoned. If the world took the game from them and played it so much better than them, it galled them. Galled them, yes, thought Caoimhín, galled them, made the very things they thought of as distinctly and uniquely their and made them foreign. That’s all he was doing, taking part in a cultural struggle by changing the terms of reference, subverting them and making the game his own. Cricket was the most English of games. It was their sean—nós with its bizarre vocabulary of googly; yorker; maiden over; leg-spin; off-side and leg-break.

We should study our enemy as much as possible, he thought. We should look at their games and learn about their minds from them and then beat them at all. Yes, beat them at their own game. That’s what we should do. We should put together a team of ex-prisoners and get a grant for it, he thought. That would really put the republican cat amongst the English pigeons. Talk about a revolution. It would annoy the Brits no end to see a republican cricket team walk out at Lord’s and to take their own game from them in their own country. It would be cultural revenge. They had taken our language and we would take theirs in turn. To steal their own game from them.

Such a thought. Such a victory. The English would keek themselves to see a team of ex-bombers and ex-gunmen walking out in the most hallowed of English venues. It could be done. He was certain it could be done. He could see himself hurtling down the pitch, the ball nestled in his palm while one of England’s top batsmen waited for the delivery. He could hear the commentators hush in anticipation and awe as he threw the ball as he bowled: “He’s 8 for none so far. England are in real trouble here if he finishes of these tail-enders with the same ease with which he dispatched the opening batsmen and middle order.”

He could see the little red ball hit the pitch, bounce, swing around the bat and watch as the terrified batsman realised that he was out. He could see the wicket crumple and the bales fly into the air. He would whirl around, punch his hands into the sky and scream at television cameras: “Howzat! Howzat! Howzat!” Ireland have won! Ireland have beaten England at cricket! Yes, it could be done. He could do it. He could beat the English at their own game.

“Hey,” he called to his companion as they approached the Great Hall, “who is in charge of the cricket club here anyway?”

Breen there, done that

Suzanne Breen has an insightful round-up of the North’s politics during 2007 in the Sunday Tribune and she even looks into her crystal ball for the coming year. She wonders whether the Rev Ian Paisley might step down as First Minister during 2008 (he is 81 years old) and make way for Peter Robinson. Paisley, she writes, has said he won’t go but Breen reckons that there are some in the DUP who have a different view. Robinson, she writes, has moved well ahead of his party rivals and “has excelled himself in the finance department. His professionalism and competence have won him admiration from even those in the fundamentalist wing of the party, who had long disliked him because of his eagerness for a political deal”. Breen argues that Robinson as First Minister would not “necessarily mean fireworks between the DUP and Sinn Féin, but the nature of the business could be affected”.

She writes that Sinn Féin’s dominance of Northern nationalism is undisputed but that the election in the Republic did have an impact: “Gerry Adam’s poor performance during the Republic’s election campaign, coupled with the fact that Martin McGuinness is now Sinn Féin’s main man at Stormont, have placed a question mark over Adams’s future in the cut and thrust of everyday politics. Maybe an international statesman-like role beckons?”

Turning to the SDLP, she writes that the party “seriously needs a reality check”. She quotes one unnamed SDLP Border-based member as welcoming Fianna Fáil’s overtures but Breen thinks any merger will be a case of “unrequited love”. She does not see the SDLP running Sinn Féin close in the North without Fianna Fáil. She praises SDLP social development minister, Margaret Ritchie, for taking a “principled and lonely stand” against funding the UDA.

She also praises former Sinn Féin representative, Jim McAllister, for his “remarkable courage” after the murder of Paul Quinn: “McAllister’s public support for the family when they were still too shaken to face the cameras ensured their story was heard.”

She continues: “The last day of January will be the third anniversary of Robert McCartney’s death. Let’s hope 2008 brings justice for the Quinns and the McCartneys, and a future when thugs who think they’re still somebody become well and truly yesterday’s men.”

Amen to that.

Merry Christmas And A Happy New Year From El Blogador!

It's that time of year again. Ho-ho-ho.

2007 was an eventful year- the DUP and Sinn Féin, two lifelong political enemies, came together in a show of unbelievable unity to form... the Chuckle Brothers. Jim Allister quit the DUP to form an old boys' club. Literally. The UUP and SDLP continued to feel the electoral heat, securing only three seats in the Stormont Executive between them. Bertie managed to convince enough people in the south to vote for Fianna Fáil, although Fine Gael managed to boost their strength also.

We'd like to thank all our visitors and people who left comments, and hopefully El Blogador will be even bigger and better in 2008. I'll be popping on the old comment moderation over the festive period in case I'm not near a computer enough to ensure that no unsavoury stuff appears on our hallowed comments sections.

Best wishes from nineteensixtyseven, Pól and myself.

Nollaig Shona daoibh agus Bliain Úr faoi mhaise daoibh. Go raibh maith agaibh!

Back to books

Fergus O’Donoghue’s editorial in Studies, blogged here last week, reminded me to lift the works of James Connolly from the shelf. Connolly was never a big figure in west Belfast when I was growing up and he remains a marginal figure in the North. The first Connolly books I bought were purchased from the People’s Democracy bookshop in Andersonstown which used to be situated beside the Busy Bee shopping centre. Connolly was never a major figure in republicanism – mainly because the Provos were not great ones for reading; they preferred weapons to writings.

That Connolly is not read as widely as he should be is down to two main factors: the cultural cringe and guilt by association. The cultural cringe is a long-established phenomenon whereby Irish writers are regarded as being lesser than writers from across the water. Few people would quote Connolly with the ease they quote, say, George Orwell, a fine writer and no pacifist either. Ironically, Orwell’s participation in the Spanish Civil War tends to raise his stature among many but Connolly’s part in the Rising reduces his.

And that leads us on to guilt by association: Connolly has been appropriated by Sinn Féin. Republicans would think it ludicrous were Mark Durkan to quote Connolly. In fact, it should be a lot less ludicrous than Gerry Adams quoting him. After all it is only a matter of mere weeks since Adams told party delegates in the Republic that they would have to become as comfortable with the words “prosperity” and “economic opportunity” as they were with “equality” and “independence”. Not exactly the sort of clarion call Connolly would have issued!

There is no doubt that politics in Ireland are changing. As part of that change, we should go back to the writings of Connolly and indeed Patrick Pearse and begin to re-evaluate them in the light of common sense and reason rather than through the fog of gun smoke and Semtex.

Not so much back to basics as back to books.

Breaking News: Taoiseach meets with Quinns

The Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, met with the Stephen and Breige Quinn, the parents of murdered Armagh man, Paul, this morning. The Taoiseach was accompanied by the Republic’s Minister for Justice, Brian Lenihan, and Fianna Fáil TDs from Monaghan. Talking to El Blogador in Irish after the meeting, the SDLP MLA, Dominic Bradley, who accompanied the Quinns at their request, said that they had not expected to meet with the Taoiseach; their meeting had been arranged with the Minister for Justice only.

Bradley said that the Taoiseach offered his condolences to the Quinns and repeated what he had said in the Dáil yesterday, that he had not intended to suggest that Paul Quinn was a criminal. The family were very happy that the Irish government were now in agreement with them on this, said Bradley. He said that the Taoiseach and Minister for Justice said that every resource would be made available to the Gardaí to catch Paul Quinn’s killers and that they would not stop until his killers were apprehended. They were very happy with the help that the people of South Armagh were giving to the authorities.

Meanwhile the SDLP re-iterated their support for the Quinns. In a statement released yesterday, the SDLP said that the Quinns were certain that Paul Quinn “had been kidnapped and killed by the Provisional IRA following specific threats and an exiling order issued through a credible intermediary in the name of the Provisional IRA. The SDLP believes the family’s account of events. We believe they are right to reject the instant exoneration of any and all members of the Provisional IRA by Sinn Fein spokespersons and subsequent accusations of criminality against their dead son by people desperate to make the Sinn Fein story of a criminal feud stand up. We commend them for speaking out so courageously in the midst of their grief.

“From the very first, the Garda information indicated clear paramilitary involvement, as did all the information circulating in the area and the whole chain of events at the scene of the crime. The IMC report, based on Garda and PSNI intelligence, stated very bluntly that Paul was murdered by current or former members or associates of the Provisional IRA. Yet within 24 hours the Irish government's line was the exact opposite, and it was immediately echoed in London. The reason was clear in the panic in the faces and voices of Sinn Féin spokespersons.

“The two governments must not shield murder and murderers. The level at which this murder was sanctioned may be politically sensitive, but they should not run away from their responsibilities even if Sinn Féin does. That is why we are insisting on the dismantling of the local murder machine where the death warrants are signed and executed. We are also supporting and participating actively in the family’s campaign for truth and justice.”

The Quinns will also meet with the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Shaun Woodward, this Friday and the Quinn Support Group will hold another public meeting in Castleblaney, Co Monaghan, next month.

DUP cross Borders

Don’t tell anyone but the new boards of the North/South implementation bodies were announced Monday (December 17th). Don’t panic if you had not noticed. There are six bodies and, if I did not have a professional interest in one of them, I would not have noticed myself. The new board members were announced in such a quiet manner that one wonders if the DUP were a little worried about trumpeting the fact that they were now operating the dreaded North/South agenda – even going so far as to appoint two members on the board of Foras na Gaeilge, the cross-Border body responsible for promoting the Irish language.

It is not the first time that unionists have appointed representatives to Foras na Gaeilge. The Ulster Unionist party appointed two. Still, it would seem that the DUP are not in any hurry to translate their new interest in the Irish language into headlines. (As of this morning, there is no press release about the language appointments from the DUP’s Culture Minister, Edwin Poots, on DCAL’s website.)

The press release for the appointments came from the Republic’s Department of Foreign Affairs after a meeting of the North/South Ministerial Council in Belfast attended by the Republic’s Minister for Foreign Affairs, Dermot Ahern; the Deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland, Martin McGuinness and Junior Ministers Ian Paisley and Gerry Kelly. Making the announcement, they said: “We are grateful to those who have agreed to serve on the Bodies and we wish them well for the next four years. We are appointing today many highly talented men and women to take forward the work of the North/South Bodies, and we wish them every success in their endeavours over the coming years.”

Ian Óg wishing the work of North/South bodies well? Surely a Christmas present to cheer everyone up.

Bertie Backs Down On Quinn Claims

Bertie Ahern staged somewhat of a u-turn on the floor of the Dáil today when he backtracked on his previous claims that Paul Quinn died as the result of some sort of criminal feud. When asked to comment on the case by Fine Gael leader Enda Kenny, Ahern came up with a rather prosaic response that there is an “ongoing police investigation into the murder and the Garda is working very closely with the PSNI to ensure that everything possible is being done to bring the perpetrators to justice. I urge anyone with information to co-operate fully with the police investigation. It is only through full co-operation with the law enforcement agencies that the perpetrators of this vicious crime will be brought to justice.”

When pressed by Labour leader Eamon Gilmore, who asked: “Will the Taoiseach take this opportunity to withdraw the remarks he made about the matter in October in order to correct the record and confirm what the Minister, Deputy Dermot Ahern, told the family yesterday?”, Bertie replied: “I fully support everything the Minister for Foreign Affairs had to say to the family. As I previously stated when asked about this matter, albeit not on the occasion to which Deputy Gilmore referred, the only people in this case who are criminals are the ones who murdered Paul. In dealing with questions in this House and elsewhere, I shared certain information about the lines of inquiry being pursued and in speaking about criminality I was responding to questions asked on whether the murder had a political motivation or implications for the Northern Ireland Executive. I did not in any way intend to make an issue out of the character of Paul Quinn and I am happy to make that clear to the House.”

When pushed further by Gilmore, Ahern stated: “I am glad to state what the Minister told the family yesterday, that we have no evidence whatsoever that Paul Quinn was involved in criminal activity.”

Well that clears that up anyway, even if it was like getting blood from a stone. I'm sure the displeasure of people such as Fianna Fáil Monaghan councillor Padraig McNally, who was displeased at the Fianna Fáil TD/ Senator no-show at the Crossmaglen meeting and said, "I was somewhat disappointed with the statements made by a number of people, including my leader and Taoiseach, at a very early stage in this whole situation. I would feel if people don't know the facts they shouldn't comment," played a role in Bertie catching himself on.

What we need now are arrests and convictions, and then Bertie will also have the opportunity to stage an about-turn on his ‘understanding’ that there was no provo involvement. In fact, he’s already moved to say that he only believes that the killing was not “authorised or sanctioned by the IRA,” which is different from denying that provos were involved altogether. Hopefully he’ll be able to come full circle sooner rather than later.

Bon jour Belfast

This month’s Magill has an interview with the writer Robert McLiam Wilson by Max McGuinness. McLiam Wilson and Glenn Patterson were, by far, the two most recognisable writers of their (40ish) generation in the North and, fortuitously, came from different parts of Belfast: McLiam Wilson from nationalist west Belfast and Patterson from loyalist south Belfast. Both their first novels were published to critical acclaim.

McLiam Wilson was certainly the more outspoken of the two. Patterson – who I know – can be ferocious in print about paramilitaries but has never courted the same controversy as his contemporary. McLiam Wilson, on the other hand, undertook a very brave one-man mission to take on IRA violence in west Belfast. He made a television documentary on punishment beatings based around the baseball bat and turned up at Sinn Féin’s Falls Road headquarters trying to find the local republican baseball team.

I interviewed McLiam Wilson on the publication of his second novel, Eureka Street, which it transpires was more than 10 years ago. He was pleasant but the novel was uneven and unimpressive. At the time, he was talking about moving to Paris where he seemed to have a bit of a fan base and that indeed is where he is currently living. He is putting the finishing touches to two new novels. (What’s that old adage about buses?)

McLiam Wilson is unimpressed by Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness’s double act. He worries that the potential for violence in the North will not disappear and argues that the Irish are “predisposed towards the fight, the scrap” – a trait of McLiam Wilson’s it must be said. Certainly, he has been less than complimentary in print about Seamus Heaney’s work and hints at that again in this interview.

Still, the literary jury is still very much out on McLiam Wilson. Patterson has continued to publish novels on a regular basis and, while not being commercially successful, has a built up a substantial body of work. Will McLiam Wilson’s new novels give us something new to chew over in the New Year? I will certainly buy the first one – just out of curiosity.

Jesuits for Connolly

Studies is a quarterly magazine published by the Irish Jesuits and has been on the go since 1912. (I contribute an occasional book review and have met the editor, Father Fergus O’Donoghue, S.J.) Each issue of the review deals with a particular topic and allows the writers to develop their arguments/book reviews with a little more space than they might get in a newspaper. The net result are usually some very thoughtful reflections on life. (But no pictures! Studies does not do pictures.) The current issue looks at, amongst other things, the Irish experience of cancer, the crisis in universities, Michael Collins’s religious faith and Thomas Davis, The Nation and the Irish Language.

Apart from that, O’Donoghue’s always pens a fine editorial on the issue of the day. They are little master-classes in succinct, critical and enlightening writing. Currently, he writes that interpreting the Irish past solely in economic terms is to misunderstand our ancestors’ faith and their fear of disease and death: “The inevitability of disease and death shaped the thinking of previous generations to an incalculable degree, but we tend to think that all illness can be cured in a society that is happier ignoring death, whilst encouraging self-indulgence.”

He also writes: “The decline in church attendance and in the prominence of clergy as nationally recognised figures is treated as proof of modernity, but little is said about the decline of the Left in Irish life. Some of us are old enough to remember the promise that “The Seventies will be Socialist”, but they were, in fact, one more step in the continued triumph of middle class values in the Republic, which was reinforced by a determination not to be affected by events in the North. An impressive statue of James Connolly does indeed face Liberty Hall in Dublin, but it is placed on one of the busiest street corners in the city, so thousands of people pass it every hour, but few have time to notice it; thus an outstanding and original figure in Irish history is honoured – and ignored.”

It is not often that one finds a priest standing up for Connolly and his critique of the triumph of middle-class mores in the Republic – with all that that entails culturally, religiously and intellectually – seems, to me, to be very accurate.

The current issue is on-line at www.studiesirishreview.ie It is well worth a read and I am sure that Fergus would welcome a subscription or two!

Quinns talk ahead of public meeting

Stephen and Breige Quinn, the parents of murdered Armagh man, Paul, are interviewed in this morning’s Irish News ahead of a public meeting in South Armagh tonight. The dead man’s family reiterate their belief that the IRA were responsible for his killing: “We have been told that it wasn’t sanctioned by the leadership but that there were members or former IRA members involved.”

The Quinns say they are not interested in turning their son’s death into a political football; they just want to see justice for him: “I don’t think they actually went out to kill Paul. I think they set out to make an example of him. They wanted to show that the IRA is in charge of south Armagh and no-one else. But at the end of the day they killed him. The broke nearly every bone in his body. They robbed me and Breige of a son and Paul of his life.

“People trusted Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness when they said they wanted peace. Well, they’ve got that now, so why do they need the IRA? There’s no need for the boys hiding in the ditches anymore but they don’t want to give up control down here. They need to leave people alone so that we can get on with our lives.”

The Quinns also say that sisters of murdered east Belfast man, Robert McCartney, will also be in attendance at the meeting.

Writing in the Irish Independent recently about the Quinn murder and a previous public meeting held to highlight the Quinns’ case, former Senator Maurice Hayes noted: “What republicans, and especially Sinn Fein, will find, like the ANC in South Africa, is that if you encourage young people over a lengthy period to defy authority, to break the law, to destroy public property and to enforce rough justice, they get into the habit and continue to do so, even when you have become the authority …

“It is an encouraging sign of political stability, and people’s belief that it will continue in the future, that they are prepared to tell those who wish to perpetuate the rule of fear based on possession of guns and the willingness to use strong-arm methods that their day is coming to a close. For most, it could not come quickly enough.”

Amen to that, brother.

The meeting will take place tonight in the community centre, Crossmaglen, at 8pm

The Katy French Case: What Place For Celebrity In A Republic?

Kevin Myers has an interesting piece in today's Irish Independent in which he lambasts Taoiseach Bertie Ahern for sending his aide de camp to the funeral of Katy French. Myers believes that the phenomenon of French's rise as a 'celebrity' is a concept imported from Britain, adding that "this degrading business of copying like ill-bred monkeys is not new: the hideous showbands of yesteryear attempted to be what they were not -- Nashville, Elvis, even the Beatles."

Myers notes the death of the two Waterford men in apparently similar circumstances to French. Was any government representative at their funeral?

He also mentions the tragic death of a woman and her unborn child in a car crash which happened around the same time as French's passing. The victim left behind a grieving husband, but as Myers points out, such human tragedy does not provide the same level of tabloid-fodder as the public demise of someone whose fame existed in that very place- the pages of the tabloids.

Another point raised by Myers is the apparent contradiction by the southern government in that they say they want to tackle drugs and encourage people not to use them, but then turn around and send a representative to the funeral of a high-profile drug-user.

The article does touch on some interesting areas. What exactly does someone have to do to warrant government attention of this sort? It seems celebrity for celebrity's sake is enough. There are plenty of families across Ireland who have lost loved ones in terrible, tragic cirumstances, yet hardly an eyelid is batted.

As I mentioned previously, the idea is circulating that there might be an honours system introduced in the south. If this performance by the government is anything to go by, then it should be avoided at all costs. This small incident highlights the problem- an honours system is likely to descend into cronyism and populism, rather than actually honouring those who have made a real, tangible difference to people's lives. How would the hierarchy of 'worthiness' be decided?

Myers' point about the importation of the celebrity concept from across the water is also a valid one- just switch on TV3 and you'll see similcasts of British instant-fame 'talent' competitions filling the airwaves. Do we really want to decend to that level of vacuous banality? What's the point of getting rid of British rule if it's just replaced with the worst forms of British 'culture'.

The death of Katy French was indeed sad. But, like Myers, I'd never heard of her before she fell ill. For certain elements of the media, her demise was not noteworthy for its intrinsic tragedy, but simply because it was a good way to grab public attention and sell newspapers.

Simpering sycophants and country bumpkins

Brian Feeney gets wired into Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness for the second week in a row in his Irish News column. He mocks both for their meeting with US president George W. Bush and says that Bush was “laughing at them [Feeney's emphasis]. He was laughing at them because he recognised them for what they are – two country bumpkins star-struck by being in Washington and sitting in the White House with the president.”

Feeney thinks it was a relief for Bush to have these “two sycophants” for company as all Bush’s other political allies have been cast aside: “Which raises the question what Martin McGuinness was doing fawning over this guy? Paisley you can understand since he has ideas even more daft than Bush but McGuinness, whose party opposes everything Bush has ever done? … Yet there’s Martin McGuinness grinning and simpering as if he was in the presence of a respected statesman.”

Feeney thinks that McGuinness’s “White House smarm-in got virtually zero coverage in the US, so what was the point in letting people here see him glad-handling the man every Sinn Féin voter despises?” Bush, writes Feeney, will never visit the North and the Chuckle Brothers were not able to announce a single investment deal as a result of their visit.

In this season of good-will to all men – except Paisley and McGuinness – would anyone like to bet that Feeney’s article next week will be in praise of Mark Durkan and the SDLP?

Ho! Ho! Ho!

Fianna Fáil unionists

Thoughtful piece, as ever, from Barry White in today’s Belfast Telegraph where he looks to the future and the possibilities of the North’s new politics. Taking Ian Paisley’s and Martin McGuinness’s trip to the US of A as a starting point, White believes that local politics may have a firmer foundation that suspected because “both sides have learned the art of compromise”.

He also writes that the “arrival of Fianna Fáil on the scene will be a test of the new politics. They must team up with the SDLP, since they have much more than their opposition to Sinn Féin in common, and together the two would constitute a powerful, pragmatic nationalist voice.”

Beyond that, White believes that Fianna Fáil’s arrival will cause trouble for unionist parties – by attracting unionist voters to the Soldiers of Destiny: “Whatever you think of Bertie Ahern and his personal finances, Fianna Fáil has an influence on events in Europe and elsewhere that none of the parties here have. Some disillusioned unionists, who find it impossible to vote UUP or DUP, may welcome the chance to support a party that has some governmental clout – and can stand up to the more aggressive nationalism of Sinn Féin.”

White also writes that the continuing fracturing of the unionist vote between the various “No” camps mean that unionists may be “fighting to stay ahead of the SF, SDLP-FF vote – and the DUP may even lose its lead in next year’s European election.”

(I wonder if we can take White’s scenario further? Is it possible that the DUP might lose their Euro seat and nationalists – the SDLP – take a second one? This is certainly just speculation at the moment; there is a long way to go until the next European election and it remains to be seen how much support Jim Allister can really muster. However, is the ‘South Belfast Scenario’ a possibility for the SDLP? Alasdair McDonnell took the Westminster seat with a perfect UUP/DUP split. Of course, it also helped enormously that he was a well-prepared and well-known local candidate who had represented his constituents for years as a councillor and MLA. Is it (already!) time for the SDLP to start thinking of a European candidate?)

Catch 26 Counties

Did the Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, announce that Fianna Fáil is now a registered political party in the North just before Sinn Féin’s special conference in the Republic to remind republicans that he hadn't gone away, you know? It was like a cheery wave from a ministerial Merc as he passed Adams in his broken down jalopy.

The conference was organised to pick over the bones of Sinn Féin’s abysmal performance in the Republic’s general election. Sinn Féin president, Gerry Adams, told his party that they needed to become as comfortable with the words “prosperity” and “economic opportunity” as they were with “equality” and “independence”. The party needs “relevant, modern politics” and they need to widen their political appeal and become stronger on the ground: “Today the frontline of the struggle is here in the south. That means adopting and developing new strategies and tactics to meet the challenges facing republicanism in this part of the island.”

Adams also said that the party’s leadership needed to be expanded to be “truly national” but, apparently, that does not mean Adams will be taking a back seat; rather attempts will be made to give local candidates a higher profile – though how that is different from what Sinn Féin do now is not clear to me.

Adams’ words betray his own lack of forward thinking. Talking of “the struggle” in the context of Southern politics is just silly. I suspect that the nub of Sinn Féin’s problems lie – and will continue to lie – in the fact that the party is a Northern construct and that the leadership do not understand the nuances and rhythm of life in the Republic.

Partition did great damage to the way in which people view Ireland and the Troubles added greatly to that harm. People in the Republic speak more and more of “the country” by which they mean 26 counties. Many Southerners see “Ireland” as stopping at Dundalk. Conversely, they are very proud of their own political institutions, hence their anger at corrupt politicians. The attitude for long enough has been that they had little but were proud of what they had achieved. Now, they have a lot and do not necessarily want to share it or be drawn back into Civil War politics.

If Sinn Féin continue to rely on Adams to look into his soul, they will continue to lose in the Republic. However, they cannot realistically move him aside either as Adams is the be all and end all of the republican movement. Catch 22. Or perhaps Catch 26 Counties in this case.

Allister in Wonderland

After watching Jim Allister's appearance on Hearts and Minds this week one can't help but notice his complete lack of ideas for the future and his refusal to acknowledge the the suitability of the North's consociational model to its political culture.

It is not by accident that we have a mandatory coalition and d'Hondt in this country and it is by no means unique. Allister clearly is not aware of the schismatic nature of Belgian society (the home of the eponymous Victor D'Hondt) and the utilisation of the d'Hondt system there nor of the history of consociational democracy in other European states such as the Netherlands. In fact, he even goes as far as to state that we are the only western democracy using such a system.

The reasons why systems are set up on a consociational basis is well-documented; these are societies characterised by ethnic or national divisions and the system is designed to prevent the hegemony of one over the other. The logical conclusion to Allister's opposition to the GFA and to the system that it set up is that he wishes to return to the dark days of the old Stormont regime; the regime that acted in the interests of only one section of society and oppressed the other section until elements within it exploded with terrible consequences.

While I am the first to accept that the present setup is far from ideal we must acknowledge that we live in the real world and not in some ideologically pure astral plane. Politics is the art of the possible and no other settlement will possibly deliver the necessary safeguards for our communities to facilitate a working democracy in the North of Ireland.

Allister's ideas are nothing if not intellectually bankrupt and reactionary but they must be heard. It is true that many unionists voted for the DUP and now feel cheated and those unionists must have a voice (that is a central tenant of pluralist liberal democracy) but did they really think Paisley would act differently? Of course none of us expected the almost sickening degree of joviality and the surprising rapport between Barry and Paul (sorry, Marty and Ian) but the signs were clear that the DUP were ready to move into powersharing. They had dragged their feet until the Ulster Unionists were dead in the water and now it was Paisley's turn to U-turn and take power when it suited him to do so. If and when Allister's new 'political movement' becomes a political party we will see how many unionists will support him now that the DUP and the UUP are roughly-speaking on the same wavelength (comparisons to McCartney are slightly disingenuous given that some supporters of the DUP voted on a quasi-anti-agreement platform in March and might have supported an anti-agreement candidate or party if they had have had the benefit of hindsight).

However, if Allister does get some sort of mandate it will be interesting to see where he goes next; will he take a seat in a system he despises, will he just shout from the sidelines? Either way I believe having an anti-agreement party with a mandate will create more problems than it solves and will test an already shaky foundation for democracy in the North. I pray that unionists will see sense and realise Allister and his motley crew of has-beens are leading them up a blind alley.

Quinn Support Group Public Meeting In Crossmaglen

After the great success of the Quinn Support Group's first public meeting in Cullyhanna just over a week ago, another meeting has been arranaged for Crossmaglen. Initially it was to have taken place in the GAA club, but it has now been moved to the community centre. The meeting takes place next Thursday, 13th December, at 8pm.

Given that there was standing room only at the Cullyhanna meeting, let's hope there's enough room in Cross to fit everyone in...

All-Ireland Unionists

David Shiels, a graduate historian at Cambridge, has a hard-hitting article in today’s Belfast Telegraph in which he argues that unionists’ boycotting of the newly-formed Dáil committee on the Good Friday Agreement is counter-productive. Rather than ignoring the committee, unionists should embrace it and all other opportunities to put their case against a united Ireland: “But if the unionist reaction has been surprisingly limp, it is no less unimaginative than usual … Most unionists insist, of course, that there is nothing inevitable about a United Ireland. This is true: the Good Friday Agreement explicitly stated that it was for the people of Northern Ireland to determine their own fate. The problem is that this clause only provides limited comfort. While it guarantees the Union for the time being, it also denies unionists the luxury of permanency. The prospect of a United Ireland, therefore, remains a constant threat.”

He points to the contributions that Sam McAughtry and Gordon Wilson made in the Senate without “jeopardising their British identity” and warns unionists not to rest on their laurels. Sinn Féin may have been seen off in the Republic for the moment but “the real battle for Irish national identity is only just beginning. Fianna Fáil’s announcement that it is considering a future in the North is confirmation that they are bedding down for a long and hard battle for the republican mantra. Sinn Féin will ruthlessly exploit every opportunity to ensure this battle will be fought on its terms.”

Shiels concludes that unionist must adopt an all-Ireland approach and put their case whenever the opportunity arises. This would give Southerners “a cold reality-check about the possibility of Irish Unity. The prospect of Peter Robinson, Nigel Dodds or Sammy Wilson sitting in the Dáil would surely convince most TDs to think twice about indulging Northern nationalists in flights of fancy.”

Shiels is very tart in his observations about the Republic and nationalism. (Is a united Ireland really a “threat”?) That said, his proposal might turn out to be a double-edged sword. The sight of Peter Robinson, Nigel Dodds or Sammy Wilson in the Dáil might just remind Southerners why northern nationalists suffer so much under partition!

Catch phrase

I was rereading El Mat’s blog "The SDLP: a republican party?" when something occurred to me: what is social democracy? Consider this: if you say the word republican, people think violence, United Ireland, tricolour. Say the words Labour Party and “working class” springs to mind; Communism and “Soviet Russia”; Conservatism and “elite”. Readers will have their own word association but the point is that these political philosophies are instantly understandable – though party members and party critics might dispute those understandings.

However, when you say “social democracy” what springs to mind? You might point to politicians who are social democrats and show what they have done but that is not a pithy summation of the political philosophy. Visit the SDLP website and you see what social democrats do. There is concern for housing and jobs for people, for the environment, the Irish language there is an international aspect to the party’s work and outlook. The policy documents and press releases are all there. If you were a student of politics you might be able to offer a learned description of the achievements of social democracy in a continental context and point to the achievements of social democracy in France and Germany.

All good and worthy. But how do you sum up social democracy? Is there a handful of words which distil all of the above into a catch phrase that voters can remember; a simple, evocative, passionate saying which reminds them why they are voting, a line which reminds them about jobs, justice, fairness, community and all the other traits of social democracy. I am not talking about an election slogan or a marketing tool but a sub-title, if you will, to the SDLP’s name, something that was true 30 years ago, that is true now and that will be true in another 30 years.

I am offering “Social Democracy: thinking for ourselves and of others” as a starting point. You have your ecker for the weekend. (Wait a minute. Do the Web generation know what ecker is?)

West Belfast Blues

Heading home on a visit to west Belfast, the place changes physically but the deeper changes are psychological. The army forts are gone but people feel themselves under siege more than ever. It is frightening to listen to family and friends as they recount stories of run-ins with hoods; of pensioners spending their days in St Peter’s Cathedral because it is safer than staying at home; of people rushing home from early evening Mass in Andersonstown because they do not feel safe in the dark.

I was born in west Belfast in 1965. I went to primary school at Holy Child and St John the Baptist and then to St Mary’s Christian Brothers Grammar on the Glen Road. I won the award for best A-level Irish student, my first and only academic award. I was in the Cubs and Scouts – St Agnes’ 21st since you ask – and went to weekly patrol meetings, walked home with a pastie supper from the Red Barn (alas gone!) if the patrol leaders forgot to collect the subs and we forgot to remind them. I learned Irish in Cumann Chluain Ard, Hawthorn Street, where you knew there would always be someone to talk some Irish – even if it was just to say that there was no one around tonight: “Tá sé iontach ciúin anocht.” If needed, I walked from the Royal down the Falls, through Andersonstown and home if there were no black taxis around after a night’s learning. Thought nothing of it even during the 1980s.

I did amateur Irish-language dramatics in the Conway Mill on the Falls. Two plays – once as a British soldier in Brendan Behan’s The Hostage and once as a policeman in Max Frisch’s Biedermann und die Brandstifer. (There is an Irish-language translation of that play!) I played football, minor and South Antrim (odds and sods) for Saint Theresa’s at right-half forward and some handball. I never made the grade at senior level in football but loved playing, loved being picked. I eventually gave up on the football while at university and carried on with the handball. I played for Queen’s and Rossa. Won little but loved – and still love – the game.

I wrote for the Andersonstown News for three years on the arts while at uni. That was fun. Covered every event I could manage, wrote book reviews, rang up theatres for free tickets in the days before the ceasefires: “What paper did you say you were from?” And I’d answer in my best voice: “Andytown News!” with an undercurrent of “want to make anything of it?” It gave me a start. Wrote too for Fortnight magazine, did a wee bit for the Irish News and, finally, made myself into a journalist and became the Irish-language Editor of the Irish Times, the first person from West Belfast to hold the position. Not a bad accomplishment, you’d think.

I got a BA (Hons) and PhD along the way, wrote radio plays, short stories, poetry, reviews. Hell, I’m even blogging. See me – I can do anything I put my mind to. That was how I – and some many others of my generation in west Belfast – were raised. We had teachers who educated us as well as any private tutor would. The Brothers just wanted us to go to university. It did not matter which university or subject. We were as good as anyone; we were as intelligent as anyone. Just go to university. And we went.

There were dark periods. The killings are still fresh in the memory. I still remember names without reference to Lost Lives; I remember others only as ghosts as I pass certain street corners. There are other memories – my father leaving for work at the height of the demonstrations against the Anglo-Irish Agreement. He and his friends worked in east Belfast. They could have stayed home, packed in the job, grew bitter at the intimidation they faced in the factory. They didn’t. They went to work, fed their families, faced threats with courage. My mother and her friends working the night shift in the Royal for decades to earn extra money. Heroes! Heroes all!

The politicians have changed too. There was Gerry Fitt, Joe Hendron and now Gerry Adams. Adams was supposed to herald the republican revolution; he was supposed to make the place 'better' - though it was never a bad place. This is the paradox of the republican movement; they have never had so much political power; their supporters have never enjoyed such wealth and, yet, they have done so little to improve the lives of people in west Belfast. It is not reflected at the ballot box – not yet anyway. So many just vote for Sinn Féin without thinking. Worse, they even vote in the order they are told. Yet they see the wealth of the republican officer class, watch as they take themselves off to their country dachas, watch as they buy new homes on the Malone Road – “Little Andytown, mar dhea”.

Visiting west Belfast now is like returning to some eastern European country that has missed out on perestroika and glasnost. The murals and monuments tell one story and one story only, the party line, the glorious victory of the movement over the British. But people are not cheering; they are full of angst. There is no more political violence but there is the constant threat of a different kind of violence, more personal violence, every bit as deadly as that from a gun. The worst of this brutality makes the front page. We see the raw grief of the bereaved and pray for them.

The Andytown News used to carry little features on the Pound Loney and west Belfast before the Troubles. (It may still do. I don’t read it anymore.) Those pieces were affectionate little acts of remembrance, as much about the people who lived in streets long ago as the streets themselves. No one will remember this republican decade with that same affection. (Though the heroes are still there – still teaching, praying, raising families, teaching Irish, fighting for the good fight. But they are doing it because they are good people, not because they are party people.)

The casual, friendly nods with which old people used greet me on the street in my youth – “Hello, son” – have been replaced by fearful stares. Heads are bent away in suspicion: “Is he trouble?” People have become estranged from their own streets. The Provos blame the Brits, the police, everyone else - but they should blame themselves. They have destroyed all authority in the area – that of parent, teacher and cleric – to achieve their political goals. They now control everything and have ruined everything.

Basil McCrea To Make Leadership Move Against Reg Empey?

I attended an interesting debate in Queen's Students' Union last night which pitched political representatives against each other under the chairmanship of Jim Fitzpatrick. The event was part of the union's 'Political Activism Week.'

South Belfast DUP MLA Jimmy Spratt was booked as one of the speakers, but we were informed upon arrival that he had pulled out as MEP Jim Allister had been added to the bill. Spratt was replaced by his unsuccessful fellow Stormont candidate Christopher Stalford. Making up the rest of the line-up was John Barry from the Greens, Carmel Hanna from the SDLP, Basil McCrea from the UUP, David Ford from Alliance, and Sinn Féin's Alex Maskey (who arrived 25 minutes late- no jokes please about Sinn Féin always being behind everyone else).

Issues discussed included the sustainability of mandatory coalition- Jim Allister was clearly against it, but offered no alternative. However, it was interesting to hear Basil McCrea repeating comments he had made previously about the idea of the UUP going into opposition. McCrea made the point that if the two Ulster Unionist ministers couldn't get their hands on the cash they needed to run their departments then they should pull out of the Executive. This is clearly at odds with the position of his party's leadership, which appears to be to stay in there and make the most of what they've got.

When pressed about whether this was an announcement by McCrea that he was going to challenge Reg Empey for the leadership of the party, far from denying it, he simply said that he would confirm nothing, adding "if I was, I wouldn't announce it here."

That doesn't exactly sound like a vote of confidence in old Reg.

Now I've no particular interest in the internal workings of the UUP- I've met Reg and Basil before and both seem affable enough chaps, but this kind of infighting in the public domain does nothing for the already battered image of their party. It's not so long ago that public spats and disagreements tore the party apart, ironically over going into government with Sinn Féin just as defectors such as Arlene Foster have gone ahead and done anyway. Alongside somewhat extreme views being expressed by David McNarry, which appear at odds with UUP attempts to move to the centre-ground, it certainly doesn't inspire confidence that they are all singing from the same hymnsheet.

If people like Basil McCrea don't want their party in government, surely they should be discussing the issue behind the closed doors of Cunningham House rather than in the public arena. There may well be disagreement in the UUP over strategy, but they need to either come to a position and get behind it or those who are disgruntled need to put their money where their mouth is and challenge the leadership. Otherwise, the good ship UUP will continue to drift.

Missing the boat

Two different columnists in two different papers but essentially the same conclusion of the DUP/Sinn Féin partnership – they are in trouble. Writing in the Belfast Telegraph, Lindy McDowell, believes that DUP/Sinn Féin are beginning to lose support at grass roots. The rumblings of discontent within the DUP are still muted, she writes, but there is the threat of a breakaway outfit at the next election. Sinn Féin’s troubles are multiplying quickly, crystallised by the resignation of Fermanagh MLA, Gerry McHugh, and anti-SF graffiti in the Lower Ormeau/Markets area. McDowell writes: “The smiling portrait of togetherness that is Ian and Martin may gladden the hearts of onlookers in the US. Back home the DUP/Sinn Féin marriage hasn’t enchanted all their one-time supporters.” (Certainly, I have also noticed an increase in anti-Sinn Féin graffiti in other nationalist areas.)

Meanwhile, over in the Irish News, Brian Feeney is also critical of the two parties and their current US tour. He thinks that: “The sad fact is that the DUP and Sinn Féin have missed the boat. If they had managed to reach an agreement even five years ago there might have been a favourable financial package from Britain and investment from America. It looks instead as if the arrival of a stable administration in the north has come at precisely the wrong point in the economic and financial cycle when neither the British nor American government nor their business class is in a position to give the place the gee-up it needs.”

(And, yes, he does get a dig in against the UUP and the SDLP accusing them of “jeering at the DUP and Sinn Féin because they didn’t get the financial package they promised in their election manifesto.”)

Sinn Féin Hypocrisy On Burma

I was shocked to hear about the failure of the Sinn Féin group on Belfast City Council to back a motion tabled at the monthly council meeting last night which asked councillors to support the suffering people of Burma and their democratic leader Aung San Suu Kyi, who received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991.

The images are fresh in our memories of the brave people of Burma standing up to the brutal regime there. It's only right that the people of the world back their struggle for justice, democracy and freedom. Sinn Féin, however, appears to disagree.

SDLP councillor Carmel Hanna had asked the Belfast councillors to agree that it would be a fitting tribute to Aung San Suu Kyi to consider offering her the Freedom of the City of Belfast. The proposal was supported by UUP, Alliance and DUP councillors (unprecedented on a human rights issue), but not by Sinn Féin, who would not support the motion because it advocated economic sanctions against the ruling Burmese military junta.

What's their problem?! Surely that's a good thing! Why should we prop up such evil tyrants economically?

Given this line of 'thinking' by Sinn Féin, presumably they would have opposed economic sanctions against the sickening South African apartheid regime in the 1980s. The Burmese junta is comparable to, if not worse than, the South African regime in terms of its brutality.

It does strike me as being a little hypocritical when Sinn Féin sings the praises of the SDLP's sister party the ANC, its 'International Department' claims that "Sinn Féin has built up fraternal links with many struggles throughout the world. We actively campaigned against Apartheid in South Africa..." and its public representatives turn out for Burma demonstrations while demanding that the regime's activities "must be tackled by the international community" and then it turns around and fails to put its money where its mouth is in relation to the Burmese dictatorship when it counts. The party also failed to back a similar motion in the Assembly.

Let's not forget, the Burmese regime is guilty of jailing people without trial, engaging in extra-judicial executions and torture.

The call for sanctions against the Burmese regime has been backed by a wide range of leaders such as Gordon Brown and the deputy leader of the European Parliament. It is too much to ask that lil' ol' Belfast City Council do the same? It seems it is.

The words saoirse, ceart agus síocháin clearly don't feature in the Sinn Féin lexicon. Do the military trappings of the Burmese dictatorship evoke a little bit too much nostalgia for the party to condemn the regime?

Two Sides Of The Same Tarnished Coin

Jim Fitzpatrick has an amusing article which highlights how Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness have more in common than a shared inane propensity to giggle like schoolgirls when they come within a mile of a TV camera- it seems they may both have a rather embarrassing time as they lord it up in first class on their trip to America.

The visa waiver form, which visitors from the UK and Ireland complete to avoid having to apply for a visa, has a number of questions about the applicant's past that most of us could answer 'No' to. That's not the case with the Chuckle Brothers though.

One of the questions asks: "Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage; or in terrorist activities?" Given Martin McGuinness' involvement in the IRA, his conviction in 1973 after being caught with a car containing 250lb of explosives and nearly 5,000 rounds of ammunition, and his declaration at his trial that: "'We have fought against the killing of our people... I am a member of Óglaigh na hÉireann and very, very proud of it," I guess his answer on the form will have to be a big, fat 'Yes'.

But Big Ian doesn't get off the hook either. Another part of the form proffers the poser: "Have you ever been denied a US visa or entry into the US or had a US visa cancelled?" Well, Paisley indeed had a US visa cancelled in 1981 because of what the US State Department called his "divisive" rhetoric. It seems he will have to put a tick in the 'Yes' column too.

Let's just hope Jeeves isn't looking over their shoulder when he's serving up the tea and hot crumpets, lest it may provoke outrage amongst their fellow luxury travellers when they realise the pedigree of their fellow passengers from Stormont...

Kevin Myers speaks in Irish

The December issue of the Irish-language internet magazine, Beo! (http://www.beo.ie/), carries an interview with the journalist, Kevin Myers. Yes, that Kevin Myers, in all his Gaelic glory. Myers, formerly a columnist with the Irish Times and now a columnist with the Irish Independent, is a man of strong opinion. Beo’s editor, Caoimhe Ní Laighin, gets some very good copy from him and goes to all the bother of translating it into Irish. There’s one for the clippings. (I should mention that I know Caoimhe and contribute book reviews to Beo! and spoke to Kevin once or twice when he was with the Irish Times where I am a staff journalist.)

Talking about the North, Myers says that he cannot reconcile in his mind how the families of victims have disappeared from sight: “They have been given no place in history.” He also thinks it improper that those responsible for their pain are celebrated and that it is not right that Sinn Féin/IRA are given power as a prize.

He talks too about his time in the Irish Times and his falling out with the paper’s management and about the myth of 1916. He particularly dislikes James Connolly and he believes that Connolly is west Belfast’s most important icon. (I think he is wrong there. Surely, it is Saint Gerry of Ballymurphy?)

As regards the Irish language, he says he is not against it but that the language project has failed; that it is a waste of resources and energy and that she is on her death bed. He says he does not hate the language. Learning any language is always worth while, especially one that pertains to your heritage. What he is against is that people have no choice in relation to Irish. (This is an interesting point and one which I intend to revisit at a later date.)

In the meantime, the full interview is on-line. Do not be afraid if you Irish is not as fluent as you would like. There is a very substantial list of words and phrases at the end of the interview. There is also a learner’s section to help you brush up.

Bí ag léamh!

Belfast and the Irish language

Cities and the Irish language do not mix; Irish is the language of the soft, lonely west and cities are hard, concrete constructions, places of steel, commerce and English. Wrong. The Irish language seeps through the pores of urban life; it may be a pulse under concrete but you can be sure that Irish – in some shape or form – is to be found behind the façade of any urban environment. The reason is simple; language pertains to people and people are everywhere, quietly carrying their linguistic baggage with them. (In the case of Irish, often very quietly carrying their baggage with them.)

Fionntán de Brún is the editor of Belfast and the Irish Language (Four Courts Press), a wondrous collection of essays which examines Belfast’s (living) Irish heritage and provides an insight into how a city built on linen and ship-building also has a tap-root in the Irish language. The book traces Irish from its earliest days to the foundation of an urban Gaeltacht in the 1960s in west Belfast, to pioneering developments in the field of Irish-medium education and discusses future plans for a ‘Gaeltacht’ Quarter in the city.

De Brún, a lecturer in Irish in the University of Ulster and a Belfastman, provides an essay, “The Fadgies: an Irish-speaking colony in 19th century Belfast” that is a fascinating conversation with the last of the native Irish speakers from Omeath, Co Louth, many of whom worked in Belfast as fish merchants. (There were still native Irish speakers in Louth in the 1920s and, indeed, a summer college that catered for adults.) Nicknamed “The Fadgies” by Belfast people from addressing each other in the vocative, “A Phaidí”, these Irish speakers provide a living link between the east Ulster and the still – thankfully breathing – Gaeltacht of Rann na Feirste and Gaoth Dobhair in west Ulster.

There is no escaping the language in the city’s townland names and Pat McKay, an expert on the subject, gives the reader a well-grounded introduction to their number and their meaning which this reviewer, a native of the city, found informative. It is fascinating to watch McKay unpick the language lock and draw out a living landscape from anonymous concrete. I do not wish to romanticise but there is something astounding in the way in which dull Ballyaghagan becomes Baile Uí Eachagáin. The English of itself is meaningless. Not only does the Irish explain the topography but the topography gives way to lore of place – dinnseanchas – and reminds us of the people and events connected with it.

A.J. Hughes introduces some of the city’s most famous sons in his essay, “Robert MacAdam and the 19th century Irish-language revival.” Hughes has written much on MacAdam and his contribution provides a worthy summary of much of that fascinating material, providing us with a glimpse at Belfast’s middle-class, their politics and their deep interest in the Irish language. The names of Dr James McDonnell, Edward Bunting, the Brysons, The Rev William Neilson and MacAdam have – happily – become more familiar over the last number of years in the city as having played a vital part in the language’s cause. That many of those who promoted Irish were Presbyterians is a welcome reminder of another era in Belfast were an interest in Irish did not signify belonging to ‘one’ side or the other.

That theme of who ‘owns’ the language and its perception amongst modern Protestants is one that is taken up by Gordon McCoy, a fluent Irish speaker who is himself a Northern Protestant and who works for the ULTACH Trust, a language group that has done much to promote the language on a cross-community basis. McCoy offers a quiet assessment of “Protestants and the Irish language in Belfast”, a subject on which he has carried out much research. He notes that “Irish is simultaneously the language of the Catholic ghetto and the government application form. It is regrettable, however, given the rapid physical transformation of peace-time Belfast, that cultural and community divisions remain entrenched.”

The more reactionary green elements in Belfast’s language community will not thank McCoy for his efforts but he does provide a vital insight into how people from a Protestant or unionist background view the language. Nationalists may not agree with their opinions but they are of interest and will have to be addressed at some stage if the language is to appeal to all the city’s inhabitants. He writes almost apologetically that he has “been the object of republican suspicion and Protestant hostility” because of his work. That McCoy continues to undertake his work speaks volumes of his commitment to the language.

McCoy’s colleague and director of the ULTACH Trust, Aodán Mac Póilin, could also have noted that he too has “been the object of republican suspicion” because of his work on behalf of the language – even though he is a Belfast Catholic by birth and still lives in the west of the city. Mac Póilin provides two essays on the language’s development from the beginning of the Belfast as a settlement until the 18th century and on the language between the foundation of the Gaelic League until 1960.

It is no exaggeration to say that he has mapped the language’s DNA in both articles, articles, it must be said, of formidable scholarship. It does not always make for comfortable reading as Mac Póilin soberly interrogates the sectarian elements within the language question: “This period begins and ends with two attempts to maintain the Irish language without the endemic sectarianism and reductive politics that blight Belfast. Both failed. Against the odds, however, the language has survived and sometimes thrived. Against the odds it may still be possible in the future to grow and sustain a language community that genuinely embraces the entire population.”

“Against the odds” might well have provided a fitting subtitle for this collection. What is clear from reading de Brún and his contributors is that there are many people of intellect, integrity and energy who have always been prepared to take up the language cause against the odds. Belfast is the better for their efforts.

This review has been published previously in Studies magazine.