You did shit all with this country for the last hundred years said a foreigner at the bar, after endless television programs about the so called uprising of 1916, none of which I saw. I don’t watch crap. Loud arguments followed for about half an hour. Then the foreigner said I’m going to bed. Another man said I’m going to get my machine gun. That’s how we solve problems here, shoot anyone who disagrees with you. Ask the gangsters. Which gangsters? Any ones will do.
Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness were never in the I.R.A., they have that in common, someone said. Everyone laughed. If you believe that you’ll believe anything. The Shankill butchers are different of course. Are they?
The 1916 leaders were a minority within a minority within a minority, not supported by most people. Tanks and armoured cars should not parade down O’Connell street with children watching. How many children were killed in 1916? Ask Joe Duffy.
Most people voted for Sinn Fein in the 1918 election after the 1916 leaders were shot, which should not have happened either. What did Dean Swift say in his obituary poem, about leaving money to found Grangegorman mental hospital?
“He left the little wealth he had to build a house for fools and mad, and showed by this satiric touch no nation needed it so much”.
Who says no one talks sense in Ireland? Not me. Some foreigners do, but not all of them either. Padraig Pearse was half English, which half?
Apologies if these words offend you, you can’t shoot the dead. If Ireland gets its freedom you’ll still be breaking rocks on the side of the road, said Daniel O’Connell to a man who shouted up Ireland as he drove by in his coach. He was right.
The past is best forgotten.
Civil war, anyone? Will we celebrate or commemorate that? What’s the difference?
If you don’t learn from history it happens again.
One man’s collateral damage is another man’s murdered child.
Await the real thing.
It’s coming, whether you like it or not.
I hope you do.
I hope I do too.
This article may be disordered, but I am Irish. See Dean Swift’s poem.
The man in the pub,
31st March, 2016