We were very nicely looked after in Belfast. We had a driver called Michael who picked us up from the airport yesterday and took us back today. He commented that Giles and me were very down to earth and told us some stories of celebrities who had been more demanding. I was genuinely quite impressed that we didn't have to make our own way. We had a man with a board. Just like we were as important as
Tam Dalyell.
As he was a bit early this morning Michael offered to take us on a little tour of the Belfast sights, which in any other city might mean taking in some cathedrals or palaces. But we were driven to some estates to see the Nationalist murals and one of the Peace Walls that divides the people who believe that some bread literally becomes Jesus and the people who think it doesn't. They all believe in the same guy, but strongly disagree about the bread and so have to be kept apart. We got to see where different people were gunned down and where bodies were taken to be disposed of and which side of certain streets are Catholic only or Protestant only. And the fortified gates where men dressed in bowler hats will march through to the consternation of people without bowler hats. I think this march is in honour of me because my birthday is July 12th and my favourite colour was orange when I was a kid. It's nice that some people think this deserves a march, but I don't think it's worth doing given that it upsets some of the other people (I guess they prefer Stewart Lee).
The history of this city is surreal, horrifying and sombre and at some points seems like a heavy-handed and unbelievable episode of Star Trek about a planet where essentially similar people are divided by something in the past that none of them can quite remember. But in this case people's memories are long and unforgiving. Some of the folk heroes on both sides seem noble and self-sacrificing, whilst some seem insane and terrifying. Today we were very much getting the nationalist side of the argument and I do have sympathy for it - logic and history might dictate that if you were to take a step back from everything and not get caught up in the complicated intricacies of the situation that Ireland should be one country that belongs to the Irish. And yet is any cause worth the bloodshed and horror and madness that went on and the divisions that may never disappear?
"Do you want to see Bobby Sands' grave?" asked Michael. And it seemed as rude to say no as it was odd to make this a tourist stop. We did have a plane to catch, but it wasn't far away.
We were going to the Millstone Cemetery where loyalist Michael Stone had unleashed an attack on Republican mourners that had killed three and injured dozens. It's hard to make a graveyard a more macabre and haunted place, but this was something else. We drove past row upon row of graves - it seemed strange to have vehicular access, but we parked up near to the graves of the most hallowed members of the IRA and Sinn Fein. I wondered if even ten years ago this would have been something that would have been countenanced and even now it felt a little unsettling to be an Englishman amongst the graves of the men and women who had been at war with my country.
Things became even more surreal when as we headed back to the car a funeral procession arrived in the small car park, blocking us in. The way we were supposed to exit was inaccessible and the entrance road was one way (the other way) and filling up with cars. Suddenly it seemed like we might not make our plane after all. Who could have predicted a funeral in a cemetery.
Michael attempted to drive out the wrong way, but our way was blocked by a maintenance lorry, with more mourners in cars behind it. It seemed a bit disrespectful to suggest that everyone back up and let us out because there were a couple of English lads who might miss a flight home. But Michael was not the kind of man to let a funeral get in his way. With great charm he somehow persuaded everyone to make way for him and after a difficult game of car Tetris on a very narrow road we finally escaped without it developing into another incident. As it happened our plane was delayed by an hour anyway.
I don't suppose it's right to say that I enjoyed the trip to the graveyard and I felt a bit nervous and embarrassed about causing inconvenience to any funeral, let alone one taking part in the heart of the Republican heroes, but it was good to be reminded of how fucked up humans being can get and to get a history lesson about stuff that I only knew a small amount about. And I had not realised that there was still a literal wall running down this city, with gates that get shut at night. Michael had some graphic first hand accounts of the troubles and had lost people close to him and I suspect there's a lot more to this man than meets the eye. But words convey a point of view much better than bombs and guns (even if the words are about bombs and guns). It was a privilege to get this guided tour and to be reminded of how far this city has already come and how far there is still to go.
I got home at about 6.30pm, but my wife was out doing a gig so I decided to make the most of my time and recorded both
a Talking Cock podcast and a
a snooker one too. In fact catching up on my
Warming Up podcasts meant that I had done 7 podcasts tonight. But it's quality but not quantity that counts. Which is why I am fucked.
