Bonaparte's Retreat

2011-05-14T21:54:00.000+01:00

Vegas

2010-09-30T03:08:00.000+01:00

2010-09-21T01:55:00.000+01:00

The Little Squirrel Who Couldn't.

2010-09-18T17:37:00.002+01:00

Carrick - a - Rede Rope Bridge.

2010-08-03T12:27:00.000+01:00

Latest Painting; Sheep Island.

2010-07-24T19:16:00.002+01:00

Famine Rock.

2010-07-19T03:28:00.000+01:00

Work in progress Belfast cityscape and famine mass grave.

Irish Art Prints

2010-05-16T00:15:00.001+01:00

Irish Art Poster Available.

2010-05-14T15:32:00.001+01:00

Taking Art Onto The Streets. Art On Tees.

2010-04-16T21:58:00.000+01:00

Art On Tees.

2009-12-22T19:36:00.001Z

Painting In The Cold.

2009-12-22T19:29:00.003Z

Living in a two bed room flat has its drawbacks as well as advantages and when there is a painter on board the issue of space is controversial because one must live in comfort and with a touch of dignity.

To this end the spare bedroom has been comandeered by myself and is now officially my studio. And a cold studio at this time of year it is, especially with the current little sold spell we are experiencing here in Ireland.

It isn't practical to have a naked flame or any heat source because of the oils and media used while I paint. Heat can multiply vapours and the odour manages to find its way throughout the entire flat, and if it is doing that, no doubt it is finding its way into neighbouring flats via building cavities and ventilation shafts. So far I have received no complaints from my neighbours, because they are good people to reside with.

I wrap up warm - after a hot cup of soup - and take lots of coffee breaks as I rest in the living room. Though having said that, I don't actually rest up but I find myself online updating this site and visiting various networking sources.

And so, bit by bit each painting is created.

Transition In Blue.

2009-12-11T21:58:00.000Z

A study in blue of the realm of transition that exists between

this world and the next.

Graduating With Honours.

2009-09-25T12:01:00.004+01:00

In recent years Ireland became a trendy venue for groups of young English people to visit for the weekend. Flights had become dirt-cheap, the natives were friendly and Dublin had wall-to-wall pubs. Stag partiers could slope through the streets and throw up without a care in the world and not worry about a Bobbie sneaking up behind them yelling “you’re nicked me son”. Soon a weekend in Temple Bar was not the same if you didn’t trip over a comatose limey in the gutter or see one tied naked to a lamppost with his genitals lathered in industrial soap.
The trend then began to spread, and just recently I read about a court case in Cork from a few years back, when two yobs were arrested for public nudity. “He was walking down the middle of Washington Street. He was totally naked as the day he was born,” said Garda Rice as he gave evidence in court. The report continued, “The two Gardai were on midnight patrol in the city centre when they came upon the two nude doctors. The two British doctors - a cardiologist and a psychiatrist, both of whom are due to sit examinations to be consultants - were in Cork on one of their stag weekends, when they walked about naked after midnight in the city centre”. I suppose it gives them something to do when they are not smoking.

To think that after all these years of attending clinics and hospitals, I was being treated by ex-medical students who probably still owe rent from their student days in the 70‘s and have more than likely defaulted on tuition loans by changing identities, and now sleep in their cars.

Also, if this is how British professionals have always carried on, how did the bastards ever build an empire?

2009-09-01T00:50:00.006+01:00

Kinbane Head county Antrim Ireland. 16ins H x 20ins W. Oils on canvas board

2009-08-31T15:30:00.005+01:00

Dunguaire Castle county Galway Ireland. 16ins H x 20ins W. Oils on canvas board.

2009-08-31T15:29:00.002+01:00

Kinbane Head county Antrim Ireland. 16ins H x 20ins W. Oils on canvas board

2009-08-31T15:27:00.002+01:00

Red Causeway by Belfast artist Roy Burns. Oils on chunky canvas

Tall Ships Belfast 2009.

2009-08-15T11:13:00.013+01:00

Odd Man Out. Ships Parked.

Johnny Depp's Boat

Don't Look Back In Anger.

2009-08-13T09:02:00.001+01:00

We have a very long and proud tradition of vigilatism in Belfast. Before peace broke out they went around the streets shooting everybody and everything, even the dogs on the streets weren’t safe. But now we have new vigilantes driving, yes driving around the streets in uniform, they are called the PSNI but they won’t shoot anybody, except maybe the odd joyrider and the occassional dog. The result is, we now are over-run by dogs and are at the mercy of the joyriders. We need the vigilantes again. When they were roaming the alleyways at night everyone felt safe and slept well after comming home from the pubs.

Now we have plenty of law but not much order.

Of Kisses Missed And Potato Sacks.

2009-04-26T00:00:00.002+01:00

Susan Boyle set the world on fire when she stepped onto Simon Cowell’s stage and wobbled off it to thunderous applause, and with over one million hits on Utube she could become the next singing sensation to come out of Britain. The forty something woman claimed, with a twinkle in her eye, that she had never been kissed and to prove the point she dressed appropriately by wearing a dress the colour of a potato sack - and with as many lumps as she warbled “I Dreamed A Dream” in front of a stunned panel of judges. In a lifestyle of self-denial, she claims to have never been kissed nor had a makeover and has given the fashion world a wide berth all her life. But all that is changing. She has been spotted leaving the hairdressers sporting a new look complete with a shiny coat, slacks and a new dye job. Her forehead may have been given a once over with a grass strimmer and she already looks as though she has lost weight and is indeed looking younger than she did a week ago.
Susan, here’s to you and may you flourish as a singer and performer and may God bless you with a business astuteness as you set off in a new direction and know that millions of us wish you well and will buy your records and line up for your concerts.

2009-04-25T01:38:00.005+01:00

When he stops taking bets, stupid. And this is what Irish Bookie Paddy Power has done after he closed the book on the outcome of this year's Irish League title. Even so close to the season's end, he is taking no chances with a loose cannon dribbling home at super hyper odds as he drives his luxury yacht from Howth to Timbuktu and back. Looks like a supergrass in Gambler's Anonymous has dropped a raspberry on the highroller grapevine by spreading the ugly rumour that things are not all it seems at Fort Windsor, Belfast and as a result of information received, there has been a flurry of bets on teams that if any one of them win would make a come-back by Shergar seem a more than a realistic possibilty. Shovels aside, he is sticking to his guns and is refusing bets on all Irish League teams except the favoured pair, Linfield @ 5/4 and Glentoran @ 5/7. Say wha'? Is he scared of a monumental operation by ne'er-do-wells as in the spirit of the Sting?. And, anyway, what is wrong with bellowing out in a Ballymena accent "'At's my money in 'ere"?

Say What You Mean.

2009-04-21T00:01:00.001+01:00

A few days ago I overheard a heated discussion between two men in a food hall at the Abbey Centre, Belfast. They were arguing about the pros and cons of computers and the internet and one guy was coming of the worse in the friendly banter, so in frustration he blurted out “Away ‘n’ Google yerself ”. Instantly it brought to mind a wealth of put downs and downright insults I have overheard down the years. I was walking down a street one day when a door opened and swung on its hinge against a wall and a man stormed out the doorway yelling over his shoulder “You’re nathin’ but a hoor.” and he slammed the door behind him. The knocker had scarcely stopped shuddering when the door opened again and once more bounced off the wall, “aye, ‘n’ you’re nathin’ but a hoor master” was screeched after him. The door was firmly put back in its place. But on second thoughts it was swung open again “And you’re only a monkey's miscarriage” echoed down the Sunday street after him, but he held his head up high as he crossed the road and into the pub.

When I was a schoolboy I had a little puppy and I thought it was the best thing I had ever owned and needless to say, it was my pride and joy. I loved taking it for walks and I was gradually acquiring a big head as I listened to all the compliments people were liberally sprinkling me with.

One day “Banana” O’Reilly, an old docker/longshoreman was staggering home from the pub when he spotted me from across the road. As he walked over to me he was eyeing up the dog as a country man eyes up a lazy donkey, “Is that your dog?“ he inquired with his hands in his pockets and his cap askew, “Yes.” I replied beaming with pride, “Aye, I thought so” said Banana, “it looks like ye”.

Why Do We Hate The Rich So Much?

2009-04-12T20:19:00.002+01:00

The current worldwide money crisis has thrown the spotlight on the wheelers and dealers of Wall Street and stock exhanges around the world. Captains of industry and other finance sectors are being vilified by the people and the press of nation earth, some of them apparently have received death threats and none of these folk have been murdered yet. Meanwhile there has been a dramatic rise of nationwide mass murders in the USA after someone loses his job or home or his marriage.
Why do we become so irrational when it comes to paper money? Stress becomes a burden and minds turn black.
And guys who receive big buck bonuses have been forced to hand their hard earned dough back - well some of them. Personally, the responsibilites of selling high risk capital products would leave me sleepless and tight lipped with my tounge firmly pressed to the roof of my mouth, a sure sign I am petrified. Personally, I hate the bastards...but I do have a grudging admiration for them...if not a little jealously.
If any of their actions impacted upon my personal circumstances I am not sure how I would handle it.

Bono Bombs In Washington.

2009-01-20T10:46:00.010Z

I was watching the Obama Inaugural Concert Sunday night and was enjoying it thoroughly. It had a star studded line up but I wasn't expecting Bono and his crew to make an appearance and get political but with more money than common sense Mr. Bono couldn't resist dragging world conflicts into the celebration especially one so inflammatory as the Middle East. That aside, from the moment the ageing Dubliner began warbling then prancing around the stage I felt a strange cringe worthy aura emanate from the TV and envelop Mrs Iggy and me in our own living room. There is something unwholesome when a grown man props himself up by locking his knees together and peers at the ground. His song was "In The Name Of Love" a tribute to Martin Luther King. The HBO director didn't cut away to Obama and his entourage as they had done quite frequently when other celebrities performed or spoke earlier in the concert. As the stunt continued he was in full voice and pointed his mike at the crowds expecting to hear his lyrics echo back at him but he was greeted by a cold embarrassing silence.
As he began to wind down he again pirouetted around the stage before sitting down on a plinth almost off stage and sang the final words to yet another song and U2's performance was met with polite applause. Then the ageing Bono complete with grey stubble on his chin chirped “What a thrill for four Irish boys from the north side of Dublin to honour you, sir“. Boys eh? He could easily bring a smile to the Irish Finance Minister by going home to Dublin and paying his taxes. Now can anyone say Inaugural Manipulation or greedy Bastard?

The Night Obama Won.

2008-11-07T01:19:00.004Z

While worried looking Democrats in Chicago were holding their breath as they awaited John McCain’s concession speech, the entire population of Moneygall, county Offaly, Ireland were in full party mode and celebrating Barack Obama’s victory. Moneygall has a population of 299 souls with only two pubs to its name - a scandalously unheard of pub to villager ratio in Ireland. Space was at a premium at both venues as revellers laid siege to the bars. In one establishment even Canon Stephen Neill (39) from the Church Of Ireland the man who uncovered Obama’s local Irish roots was hard put to cross the floor without having his pint spilled by the jubilant crowds as the floor heaved up and down to the exertion's of the Obama Set Dancers, a group of eight women who practice in a nearby hall every week and renamed themselves after their village’s newly adopted son. Barack’s third great grandfather, the grandiloquently named Fulmuth Kearney grew up there.

American Kathleen Collins (46), a registered Republican Party member now living in Ireland made the trip to Moneygall to join in the hooley. She changed her allegiance to the Obama camp because “I believe it is time for a change”.

Henry Healy (24), who keeps the accounts for a local plumber - no relation to Joe though - says he has traced his own family tree to the Kearney-Obama dynasty, is the acknowledged driving force of a campaign promoting the famous connection. I’ll be going down next week to pitch my own connections with America’s new president.

The Peeler And The Gun

2008-07-10T02:08:00.009+01:00

After finishing his shift on Friday night June 27th a policeman headed to his Templepatrick home in county Antrim and did whatever it is that off duty policemen do in the privacy of their own homes. I have visions of him swinging around to face a full length mirror with his gun in hand and asking menacingly “You talking to me?”
When he went to bed and drifted off to sleep he no doubt had dreams of flashing lights, annoying criminals, and chase scenes from "Cops".
Apparently the peeler (as cops here in Ireland are called) was a heavy sleeper because as he snored up a storm a couple of entrepenurial crooks let themselves into his house and tip toed up the stairs into his bedroom and helped themselves to a police radio, the keys to his Mini Cooper and oh yes, his gun.
To be fair to the cop he didn’t hear his car starting up because it seems the desperados free wheeled it down his driveway and onto the main road before driving off. The radio was found fifteen miles away in a garden in West Belfast. The car was abandoned nearby but astonishingly there was no sign of the gun. A Sinn Fein spokesperson Jennifer McCann with tears in her voice called for the weapon to be returned. Meanwhile the Chief Constable upon hearing the news assembled his best team of investigators and prepared to hit the streets.

I will be royally pissed off if they find the gun and the creeper burglars, when ten years ago they couldn’t find the bastard who broke into my flat while I was at work and stole my duvet.

18th Century House Lost In 1850

2008-06-28T20:16:00.013+01:00

Judge Michael Ward moved from Cheshire England to county Down not far from Belfast, Ireland in 1714 and built himself a big house to impress the natives and to give himself a big ego boost. Probably didn’t cost much, materials may have been imported or found locally but labour was cheap and manageable. First sign of strike action and a good old fashioned flogging would end all negotiations. But after the judge went clogs up it was decided to build a new Georgian Mansion and the old Queen Anne house was demolished in 1850 and you know what's said about the rich; "More brians than common sense". But now the National Trust who own the property want to excavate the grounds to “establish its depth and condition”.

I’m no expert but I would a bet pound to a penny that it's in awful condition, the rubble was probably carted off to a nineteenth Century landfill where supervisors stood with quill and parchment ticking off item by item. “Dry cement over there, red
brick over there, slates and shingles on that pile there…..hey you, were ye going with that wood?”
Archaeologists are a keen, dedicated breed and are commited to saving tangible artefacts for posterity and the crew at Castleward have been been making startling finds. Though in trenches two and three nothing of interest has been discovered, trench one hit pay dirt: Two bricks.

Three or four years ago Belfast was in the throes of “interface incidents” which once upon a time were nostalgically known as riots or “roits” as my Ma called them with a glint of rebellion in her eye. Then along came a spoil sport in the guise of a newspaper columnist, Breidge Gadd of The Irish News. She was indignant at the “ordinary people” from both sides and scolded them all for wasting their lives and hanging around street corners lobbing rocks and petrol bombs at each other. There were other things they could be doing. For instance "they" could go take in an opera on the manicured lawns of Castleward as she had just done the Saturday evening before “And for no more than the price of a pop concert at the Odyssey or a hard nights drinking in the pub”.

This was more than I could bear. I shot off a letter to the paper’s editor and it was published the following week. Basically I told her that paying a king’s ransom to sit in a mucky field in county Down during a wet Irish summer and listening to a big sweaty Latino warbling in Italian or worse, a big sweaty local grunting in Italian was more than I could tolerate. The "ordinary" people were suffering enough. Personally I would prefer a “hard night’s drinking in the pub”. At least I would get to sing.

www.royburnsirishart.com

Updated on 28 June 2008 17:06

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Northern Ireland. A Legend In Its Own Mind.

2008-06-22T01:13:00.014+01:00

We Irish are an imaginative lot. It's in our genetic memory and it goes back a long way and rightly so. In prehistory we created sagas of epic proportions and sweeping panoramas and when the alphabet arrived in Ireland these oral gems were recorded on parchment and saved forever. In the dark ages we were credited with saving Christianity when Irish monks and scribes in Europe rescued or copied holy manuscripts and carried them on the run just ahead of the invading hoards of barbarians and huns who apparently loved books, not to read but to light fires with.

But holiness wasn't our only trait. We also liked to fight as well as read holy books. We had Clan fights when kinsmen fought kinsmen, fought the Vikings and the few Irish allies they had around Dublin, kicked their ass and they either settled here or rowed home to Denmark. The biggest surviving Viking Long ship is in Scandinavia somewhere, Denmark or Sweden and when archaeologists studied the wood they discovered it was made from wood indigenous to Ireland.

Then came the Normans. And the next eight hundred years or so was a series of mutual head bashing right up until peace broke out and our "world renowned" peace process has been touted as an example to the world. Says who? We do, well to be more precise those of us from both communities who kid ourselves about the unique history of the past forty years. The blueprint for peace in Norn Iron boiled down to local government reform which had been fully addressed by 1972. In the following twenty odd years that followed while we were bombing each other's pubs and murdering each other in State sanctioned or paramilitary ordered actions, Europe degenerated into pockets of civil war. Portugal and Spain were at the mercy of Fascist governments, Turkey invaded Cyprus, Eastern Europe was convulsed by violent revolution, East and West Germany became one again and Yugoslavia disintegrated into a horrible, bloody series of genocidal blood lusts. Oh, and Poland declared martial law. People here in Belfast have a long tradition of claiming a morbid tradition to be home to the "most bombed hotel in Europe" and some to this day actually are strangely addicted to this myth. Have none of these romantics of death ever heard of the Belevedere Hotel In Sarajevo that was bombed into a shell by the Serbs in the 90's?

Brazenly Belfast spent £1Million in a bid to have our poor excuse for a city designated as European City of Culture "Imagine Belfast 2008" but the UK's European capital of culture advisory panel politely flicked the finger at the Belfast quango group. And these eejits were genuinely offended when they learned that Belfast didn't even make the shortlist! I wish I could have been there on October 30th 2002 when they received the news. What did they expect? The sympathy vote for all our troubles? Or that the quango's polished begging pitch would charm the Europeans? There aren't even any decent galleries, museums or theatres or even plans to build them. So what did they expect to hear.......other than "take a hike"?.

The message here was "Ok, you suffered but get over yourselves".

Recycle Me Arse.

2008-06-19T00:13:00.009+01:00

If I hear one more person on the street preaching about global warming or recycling rubbish I am going to scream, bellow and fart from the nearest and tallest tree. Despite the overwhelming evidence of the non existence of global warming, millions of hippies worldwide are jumping on the goody two shoes bandwagon and will tell anyone who will listen that he/she has just sifted through their garbage/rubbish and had just seperated paper from plastic and bio-thinga-magingy stuff from non bio-thing-magingy stuff and have just dragged it out to the curb for collection only to wave goodbye to it with no idea of where it is going to end up, and for why?.

Does it make them feel smug and superiour than the rest of us non believers? Do they actually think they have fulfilled their part to "save the planet" as one misguided neighbour described his actions to me when I asked him what he was doing shoving a bunch of old newspapers into a blue, red or whatever coloured box he selected.

Does this material return to its point of purchase, only now in a magically transformed and improved condition? No.

If you can't identify recycled products and then purchase them then you are not fully recycling, or saving the planet, thereby wasting your time and energy and putting money into the coffers of charlatans and crooks. (See Below).

Where does one see recycled products for sale? If you buy a recycled product do you recycle it again or does it end up in a landfill, where the original waste should have been transported to in the first place.

Global Warming and recycling are nothing more than swindles making a chosen few or a few chosen million (hippies in suits) lots of money.

PHOTO GALLERY

2008-03-30T22:03:00.002+01:00

2008-02-20T15:01:00.000Z

Musical Chairs

2007-12-04T14:18:00.000Z

A visit to the doctors can be anything but routine these days what with offices and their money spinning revloving door meat markets called open surgery where you show up, wait interminably to be summoned to a doctor and he/she will only listen to one ailment and you better tell them quickly as at the three minute mark you are buzzed out the door and sent on your way with a take two pills and call me in the morning attitude eating away inside of you.

I accompanied Mrs. Ironbed to one such surgery a week or two ago. She had been suffering from a debilitating headache for three days. Her symptons had migraine written on her face as she lay in a daze with her head on my shoulder when in breezed an elderly man who announced to the waiting room that he was going to check his own blood pressure. There is a do it yourself hypertension machine where you stick your arm in and it automatically gives you a read out. "Where's the chair" he laughed, "never mind I'll stand here and do it" then he shoved his arm into the constrictor and promptly broke out into song. It was 9.30 in the a.m. "Low lie the fields of Athenryyyyyyy where once we watched 'th' free birds fly....." Upon closer inspection I could see that he was not under the influence, just an attention seeker and he was getting plenty of stares. Some bemused faces, some noncommittal but mostly smiling! Even the reception staff were beaming. Meanwhile Mrs. Ironbed began to moan and a man next to her with seriously inflamed eyes that were oozing puss pleaded "Somebody fuck him out".
Midway through The Fields Of Athenry he stopped and started marching up and down the room as he bellowed out It's A Long Way To Tipperary. As the type of guy who has a short fuse I was about to take matters into my own hands and take the advice from the red eyed patient and fuck this lunatic out of the building by the scruff of the neck when a doctor came storming through a door and told him to shut up and ushered him out of the the building much to the relief of Colette and a few of the other genuinely suffering patients.

A few days later as I was driving in the neighbourhood when I saw him again, no not at the doctors but our anonymous entertainer was standing on a corner strumming a guitar and mouthing the words to a song. Someone should see to it that he gets his medication every morning.

The Racist Irish

2007-12-02T19:47:00.000Z

As new countries are admitted to join the European Union hundreds of thousands of emigrants fan out across Europe. They choose a destination to call home, apply for residence status, up sticks and fly, sail or drive to their newly adopted homeland. Their welcome varies from country to country. Those who choose Ireland, north or south do so because of the booming economy and generous welfare benefits as is the case in the Republic of Ireland and some settle in the north and compete for the few available jobs, usually subsidised jobs financed by the British Government or the EU and American investers enticed by massive tax breaks.

But as the newly arrived settle in they have been exposed to experiences of racial hatred. Hatred in the form of verbal abuse, physical abuse and attempted murder. In years gone by I remember how the Irish would dig deep into their pockets when for example a major natural catastrophe occured in a poor country thousands of miles away and this was a source of pride for the Irish (we'll send aid but stay where you are) Banks would set up donation accounts and phone hot lines and the media followed suit. But in the case of 9/11 in New York, Philadelphia and the Pentagon the Irish weren't in the giving mood the. Yes some business's closed for the day as a mark of respect but no monetary charity drive was forthcoming. Selective charity givers we Irish. Bereaved Americans apparently didn't qualify in the eyes of the Irish.

A few years after our new arrivals settled in racial attacks increased all over Ireland. Quite contradictory to the supposed hospitality of the Irish and our generous nature, a legend generated soley by the Irish and the Irish Tourist Boards north and south. We are now showing our true colours. Irealnd has a racist element that cannot be denied. Granted some emmigrants cause trouble and break the law and are jailed for their crimes but they are all under the microscope of the demented hate mongers.

The myth that Ireland and the Irish are a welcoming and tolerant lot is being put to the test and we as a Nation are failing miserably.

Pain And Snotty Doctors And Pharmacists.

2007-10-30T22:57:00.000Z

Mrs Ironbed aka Colette developed a toothache over the past weekend and took monday off work and visited the dentist who told her she had an infection and prescribed her Ibuprofen and antibiotics to ease the pain and reduce the inflamation. Of course antbiotics take a few days at least to be effective and the Ibuprofen as a drug for dental pain and inflamation is totally useless.
Late monday night Colette was in tears as the pain became intolerable. We called Beldoc the after hours medical service. Mr night doctor basically told her to grin and bear it and go see her dentist first thing in the morning but to try some paracetamol in the meantime - her dentist warned her not to take paracetamol. A few hours later she called the emergency doctor again who very reluctantly told her to come to his office for a few capsules of procodomol. We arrived at his office and a grumpy looking and obviously pissed off doctor stuck his head out the door and grunted out Colette's name and thrust an envelope of six pills at her chest, turned on his fat heels and disappeared into the hole he briefly emerged from. His name is "doctor" Cusack. A first class asshole.
Next day Colette goes to the dentist and has the nerve removed from her tooth and some infected tissue discharged itself. It had an almost immediate effect on the dreadful pain but the dentist gave Colette a prescription for stronger pain killers and antibiotics and something for the inevitable stomach pains that would follow.
Next, to the pharmacy. Little miss college grad pharmacy refused to give the stomach remedy to Colette because it was issued by a dentist. "Only doctors can prescribe that type of medicine" she declared. Fucking pimply faced bitch. The dentist obviously had her patient's health and welfare at heart but this scrawny missy know it all probably went in the back and looked up her schooly notes and wee Dick and Dora chemist books and her attitude was the same as the fucktard of a "doctor" from the night before. Her stern matron body language said "Fuck off, you're getting no stomach medicine from me".
I impassionately told her I would take Colette to Belfast City Hospital where they have a pain clinic that stays open a few hours each night to which miss bitchy cold hearted hoor stomped her foot and took the huff.
There obviously is a pecking order in the health system here in Norn Iron. Consultants look down their noses at clinical doctors who in turn look down their noses at interns who in turn look down their noses at family doctors who look down their noses at dentists, who look down their noses pharmacists and all of the above look down their noses at their patients and would probably piss on all of us if they could pull up their zippers up in time and blame it on the cleaners.

In a proper world we, the people who pay national health insurance and therefore technically pay these scumbags their wages, stopped such payments and put them all out of work maybe they would learn the meaning of compassion and humility. Because let's face it when we visit a doctor or dentist if our ailment isn't bleedin, broken or both the bastards haven't a baldy notion as to what is wrong and can only guess at what is wrong and issue prescriptions accordingly.

The mysterious top secret pill was probably the tablet called Valoid which the pharmacist was vigorously and gleefully guarding with her life as no doubt she intended to keep them for herself to treat her evil monthly cramps and yelps. Colette has some of these tablets at home which were prescribed to her when the latest bout of stomach bug was doing its yearly rounds.

Beat This Clock

2007-10-06T23:03:00.000+01:00

So you are the manager of a new franchise store and you need an opening day pitch to attract customers and you decide on a 5am opening on a saturday and promote a beat the clock type shopping spree. Fine and dandy you would think and all the better on opening morning when 2,000 customers show up except this is Ireland and people begin lining up earlier than expected and many of the big spenders made their way to your store as soon as they were kicked out of the pubs and clubs.

A recipe for mayhem.

At the new Clock Work Orange clothes store at Junction One close to Belfast International Airport today, 6 October 2007 fists were thrown and heads butted as things got out of control when drunks clashed with bona fide shoppers and security men as they tried to make their way to the head of the line uninvited.

One man was arrested and a good time was had by some.

Spot The Difference

2007-10-02T00:13:00.001+01:00

Out On A Limb

2007-09-11T21:52:00.000+01:00

What should we do about people who wait until winter before deciding to go climb mountains and promptly get lost, stuck and/or fall? What should we do with other folk who wait until it rains before they climb into a hole in the ground and crawl along tunnels and promptly get lost, stuck and/or fall into a bigger hole they didn’t know was there? What should we do about people who climb into a boat and go sailing across an ocean alone and promptly get lost, stuck in doldrums and/or fall out of their boats?

Leave them there.

I recall one lunatic who climbed up a mountain in Scotland and immediately got lost and stuck on a ledge. A few days later he was paid for his story which was published in a trashy tabloid which told of how he survived his ordeal by eating Mars bars. And to think that this guy, when rescued was taken to hospital for treatment. I can think of better places - the chocolate factory for one, or Fleet Street in London. Failing that, a mental institution would do.

Yes, leave them there.

Terror On The High Seas

2007-09-09T00:57:00.000+01:00

The ropes were cast off and the ship began to pull away from the quay in Belfast harbour when about a half dozen ardent Celtic supporters ran past the group of startled RUC men and flung themselves in desperation at the ship's side. Grabbing hold of the rails they were manhandled over the side to safety by fellow Celtic fans. Immediately a hail of beer bottles, accompanied by a torrent of verbal abuse rained down on the RUC men on shore. It was 1968 (I think) and I was on my way to Scotland to see Glasgow Celtic Football Team play for the first time in my life.
The overnight sailing was to be an eventful one. Once out of Belfast Lough and into international waters drunken revellers began to mutiny. Lifeboats were uncovered, life preservers thrown overboard and crew members made themselves scarce as gangs of drunks roamed the decks. Then to great cheers and jubilation the Union ensign was lowered and duly dunked in the Irish sea and the tricolour of the Irish Republic was hoisted in its place. Great rejoicing ensued and the bawdy behaviour continued uninterrupted through the night. At dawn we sailed triumphantly into the port of Glasgow only to be met by hundreds of Scottish police and the ringleaders were pointed out by crew members, rounded up and taken into custody. Being a mere fourteen year old or so at the time, I was not considered a risk to the good citizens of Glasgow and was met by my older cousin and taken to his place. After the game which Celtic won 2-1 against Aberdeen in a classic Scottish Cup Final we left Hamden Park along with the rest of the 120,000 plus fans and flowed onto the streets. The remainder of the weekend was uneventful but on our return journey members of the Celtic Supporters Clubs of Belfast had to hold talks with the Captain and crew of the boat and promised that everybody would behave themselves and we were given the nod to board.
There were no cabins on this boat, well none that I knew of and my berth was in steerage. Literally. I followed everyone else below decks to the cargo hold which held a small herd of cattle destined for Irish slaughter houses and the only barrier
between them and us was a smelly, greasy rope. I bedded down on the floor for the night with a cherished photograph of the 1967 Glasgow Celtic European Cup winner’s side. I rolled it up, shoved it under my coat and went to sleep wondering if I would be trampled to death by curious cows.
Early next morning my newly acquired souvenir was gone and in it’s place was a rolled up newspaper. I was sure the cows didn’t steal it.

Cave Hill, North Belfast.

2007-08-21T00:43:00.000+01:00

A Big Thank You.

2007-08-19T17:57:00.000+01:00

To the folks who voted for my Super Bowl Ad post. I have thrown in the towel and Hollywood is as far away as ever. Special thanx to Manuel at http://welldonefillet.blogspot.com/. And McCafferty Himself over on http://mccaffertyspub.blogspot.com/
Cheers.

My Super Bowl Ad.....

2007-08-12T15:48:00.000+01:00

.....Or Why I would Like To Go To Hollywood. If you like this post vote for me by clicking above.

Wasssuuuup? I remember the first time my senses were assailed by this catchphrase and my first reaction was “Huh?” Then one night while innocently watching TV there they were, a bunch of Americans drooling over bottles of Bud and enquiring in English “What’s up old chap?” which somehow was lost in translation and reverberated around the living room in American as “Wassssuuup?” This wasn’t my first introduction to Super Bowl ads and thankfully it hasn’t been my last. These ads make their debut during America’s annual ritual of manhood both on the field of play and in the bars of the nation from sea to shining sea. And as the game is always played on Sundays I have always wondered how many millions of wannabe athletes call in sick come Monday morning. And also are these calls taken seriously by the boss man?

Not long afterwards these commercials make their way around the globe and in no time at all we here in Ireland are treated to contemporary Americana. We got to see Britney Spears reminiscing about Pepsi, and talking bull frogs and many moons ago when I lived in Toronto I witnessed Joe Namath get creamed by Farrah Fawcett.
For a while we had a short lived love affair with Super Bowl parties here in Belfast but because of the time difference between here and the States,when play ended in Giant’s Stadium, Heinz Field, Soldier Field or points in between, it was 4am or later and grown men were on the streets hut-hut-hutting with a soccer ball tucked under their armpits and belly flapping one and other. Mothers were weeping, babies were wailing and wives were reaching for cast iron frying pans.

The Super Bowl. The enduring American epic combining brute force with finesse is a sight to behold and is the inspiration for classic bursts of advertising creativity and the guys at My Bowl Ad and Fuel My Blog will be leaving their mark at Super Bowl XLII with a unique and clever pitch. To be there at the making of this everlasting gem that only Americans can produce would be a dream come true and an excellent end to a good year.

2 x 4's And Trees. Or Thieves In The Night.

2007-08-09T18:31:00.001+01:00

I worked on a construction site in Belfast as a labourer a long time ago on which there was a lot of pilfering of materials. Tools were safely locked up or taken home each night by their owners but 2 x 4’s, bags of cement, gravel, pvc pipes etc. were left to the elements and to every thief in the neighbourhood. Blackguards and scoundrels would climb over the fence and shop around in the dark with flashlights like they were in Home Depot or B & Q during a black out. My job was to mix mortar for the bricklayers and one Monday morning I reported for duty only to find that the cement mixer had been used and the audacious night thieves had been mixing batches of concrete. They didn’t consider my predicament by NOT washing the machine out when they had finished.

The cost to the company was mounting weekly and in broad daylight on time a few of the local Robin Hoods came onto the site and brazenly asked the foreman if he could spare a few 2 x 4’s and he promptly blew a gasket. He was from out in the country and was a highly excitable man and one of Ireland's champion speed talkers and he let rip at them “Give ye two by fours, do ye think them two by fours grow on trees?”

When A Man Gets Bitchy.

2007-08-04T19:10:00.000+01:00

Working on a building site you need to grow a thick skin especially if all the crew are married, no not to each other, and you are single. Resentments overcome some of the boys probably because you can stay out all night, sleep on the floor, eat over the sink and bring girls home with you and not worry about what the wife may say.
Before Mrs. Ironbed moved in with me I was the target of male bitchyness when guys would ask me enviously “What are you doing on the weekend?” pausing for effect I would lie “I’m going to Dublin” . One married weirdo then enquired “Will ye be going to Temple Bar?” and I lied once more “I’ll be going to every fucking bar” Hehe. The look on his face was one of a spoiled brat, he spat his dummy out and stormed away.

On another occasion It was put to me that I interfered with my self when I went home in the evenings to which I replied “Yip every night in the week and twice on Sunday. That's what it's there for".

Bubs And Willow. A Tale Of Two Cats.

2007-08-01T17:54:00.000+01:00

Me and the Mrs. Ironbed are the proud owners of two cats. One a large moody tabby tomcat called Bubs, the other a gregarious, curious female called Willow. Bubs was our first cat and he was a stray who was rescued from under a bush at Yorkgate Shopping Centre in Belfast by our neighbours. Bubs quickly settled in and was king of the hill until Mrs Ironbed decided we needed another cat. This time a kitten. In no time at all Willow was acquired from Asissi Animal Shelter in Conlig, county Down. I was worried at first for Bubs. I didn’t know if he would take kindly to another cat in his territory but my fears were put to rest a few days after Willow moved in and I caught macho Bubs with his right paw around her neck while he gently licked her face clean.

In no time at all the pair became friends, with Bubs grooming Willow constantly. Then one day after her daily bath courtesy of the big fella she decided to show her gratitude. She sneaked up on him as he slept and bit him on the neck and stepped back, poised for a wrestling match. Bubs being the mature male that he is gave her a baleful look and returned to his slumber. Undeterred Willow stealthily circled around Bubs and sank her teeth into his rear end. He let out a blood curdling screech at which point Willow, knowing she had gone too far bolted out of the living room with Bubs in hot pursuit.
She ended up in the spare bedroom which I use as my art room, taking shelter in an old rusty paint pot. The two now have settled into a live and let live routine with the occasional brawl - all instigated by Willow - she charging around the flat chasing imaginary birds and any unfortunate fly who ventures in through the windows with Bubs looking at her from out the corner of one eye as he pretends to sleep.

Requiem For A Jew.

2007-07-31T15:16:00.000+01:00

My older brother Hugh was charged with representing our family at the funeral of our Glaswegian uncle who was a Polish Jew who had escaped the clutches of the Nazis and ended up in Scotland. He married my father’s sister Eileen in Glasgow. He died in the early nineties. Hugh, my aunt Kathleen and cousin Madeline sailed from Larne to attend the burial. In keeping with the tradition of Irish wakes all three brought Catholic Mass Cards which were promptly plonked on top of the fish tank by the grieving family.
Leaving for the funeral Hugh and the Belfast relatives were following the mourners who sped off ahead of them. In no time he lost track of them and went looking for the nearest synagogue.
He drove up and down and around Glasgow stopping occasionally to ask for directions to Glasgow’s Jewish place of worship. Finally they struck gold and following the offered directions turned into the right street
As they approached the Synagogue the funeral procession was just leaving and came driving up the street toward them, and in spite of frantic waves and beeps on the horn it drove straight past them. Quickly Hugh reversed into a nearby street, did a right turn and was set to follow the mourners again except that the procession had vanished. Now he was driving up and down and around Glasgow asking for directions to the Jewish Cemetery. At last he was set back on track and put the boot down and sped off for the graveyard. As he approached the hallowed
ground he saw the funeral cortège leaving the cemetery and heading up the street toward him and once again it drove straight past him, minus the deceased.
Defeated he drove back to aunt Eileen’s home where the mourners were having a drink and the fish tank was missing the Mass Cards.

The Corner Shop Still In Vogue

2007-07-28T20:18:00.000+01:00

Like most areas of Belfast the New Lodge district has been branded a working class area, a deprived neighbourhood and more recently an area of urban regeneration but throughout all the name changes and demolition of buildings - some by mad bombers - the place has retained its timeless character. We have our share of raving lunatics, chatty neighbours, night owls and hard working residents. But down through the decades and in spite of unpredictable opening hours the ubiquitous corner shop survived and indeed thrives.
Obviously these shops are still operating because of their locality and customer loyalty and show no sign of closing in spite of big name supermarkets opening up nearby . Even the local beer shop has seen its sales boom and was recently refurbished and expanded creating a few more jobs.
I must admit I do very little shopping at the corner locales, mainly because of loud teenyboppers that usually congregate outside the front doors but the craic is good on the odd occasion I do venture in.

I remember one instance when I went into one shop and asked for a bottle of Worcestershire Sauce and the woman had a puzzled look on her face. “Ahhhh we’ve got Wooster tattie crisps?” she said looking relieved. “No thanks” I replied and headed down to Tescos. On another memorable visit to a different shop I went in with a small list of things I needed. Working from memory I started getting my items together and everything was going smoothly until I asked for a jar of Ragu Spaghetti sauce that was on a shelf behind the counter. “Could I get a jar of Ragu as well” I asked. Another puzzled stare. “A what?” she queried. “ A jar of Ragu. The spaghetti sauce behind you”. The woman spun around and looking back over her shoulder she grabbed the sauce and said in triumph “Oh ye mean Rajoo?”

Have You Ever……………….

2007-07-24T19:43:00.000+01:00

…………Turned Up A Day Early For An Appointment?
I did today. I phoned and talked to my contact last week and she said Wednesday 25th at 3.00pm, I heard Tuesday 24th at 4.30pm. So this afternoon after a quick shower I found myself peering underneath the bed for a pair of socks. My t-shirt was exactly where I left it, hanging up on the floor and I was good to go.
As I arrived at my self appointed time my belly was rising and falling and big beads of sweat were rolling down my face. Well it was kinda humid today. “Hello Agnes?”, I asked and I got a puzzled look in return “Yes” said Agnes. “I’m here for my appointment…..four thirty?” Still perplexed she coaxed me “But I don’t see you until tomorrow, let me check my diary”. I followed her into her office and watched as she flicked through the pages, “Yes here we are. Wednesday the 25th “. “Oh, right” says I. “I’ll see you tomorrow”. Before I could escape she called me back and wrote the date, day and time on a piece of paper and handed it to me then said helpfully “I’ll call you tomorrow at two o’clock just to remind you”.

Belfast Taxi Service, What Taxi Service? Part Two

2007-07-19T17:28:00.000+01:00

The recent drive to get Belfast taxi companies to clean up their act by allowing passengers to hail from kerbside, take illegal drivers off the road and to encourage staff to learn the art of customer service is far from being a success story if my recent attempt to use a taxi in Belfast is anything to go by.

My girlfriend Colette and I went grocery shopping at Tesco’s at Yorkgate in the New Lodge, Tiger’s Bay area yesterday 18/07/07 and after finishing we rolled our trolley outside to Yorkgate Taxi Depot next door. Colette went in smiling and came out looking a wee bit chastened. Sheepishly but still smiling she told me that when she asked for a cab she also asked the dispatcher how long we would have to wait. A fair question you would think but Mr. Dispatcher yelled at her “Argggh, don’t you start”.

We were having a laugh at this nonsense when the afore mentioned dispatcher came bounding out the door with his belly wobbling and started yelling at Colette and me. “Do youse two mind sharing?” Immediately and with all the authority I could muster, I said “Yes we do mind”. Mr. Dispatcher goes up a gear and starts pointing his chubby finger at me and another passenger whom he said “Was going to the Oldpark and if yer’re not goin’ to share, you will have to wait so ye will”. I told him not to point his finger at me please at which point the swung his belly around and wobbled back into his stable. Bemused customers, also waiting for his cabs smiled shyly at us.

Not having far to walk we decided to push our trolley of groceries to the nearest exit out of the complex and carry the bags the short distance home. But I wasn’t quite finished with Mr. Dispatcher and I went in to him and got his name and told him I would be reporting him to the DVLNI who issues operating certificates to these screwballs. “Good” he yelled at the top his voice and I walked outside then called back to him “Shove your taxi where the sun don’t shine” at which point he went ballistic, screaming and yelling and his remaining customers were now beginning to look worried. As we walked on we could still hear him ranting and raving. But we got our groceries home and had a nice cold bottle of water from the fridge for the comfort and coolness that was in it.

The Amazing World Of The Belfast Art Scene

2007-07-05T13:44:00.000+01:00

As a painter I remember when I held my first couple of solo exhibitions in Belfast. The first one was at Chichester Avenue Public Library, the second was in the John Hewitt Pub in the Cathedral Quarter. The former was fairly successful, the latter not so good. Actually it was a bummer. I saw some traffic and moved a few pieces at the library while at the pub I saw zillions of traffic, most of them drunk, but I didn’t make one transaction. I had a few tyre kickers - enquiries about individual pieces from folk who took my number but I never heard from them again. The Hewitt which is a traditional Belfast Pub, prefabricated at a factory and assembled insitu, was a total let down. An ego deflating experience which I suppose I needed to endure early in my painting career as It steeled me for future scenarios.
On opening night at the pub I hired two traditional Irish musicians who were excellent and the manager laid on free house wine. The place was busy and quite a few of my friends showed up and people were checking out my work.
In the smoky interior one particular painting caught the eye of a well to do looking woman who was sipping a glass of the cheap house wine. The painting caught her eye from a distance but when she got up close to it she nearly bit into her wine glass and blurted out “Ah green sky…a green sky. Well there is no such thing as a green sky. Goodness”. She then knocked back el cheapo wine and stormed back to her hags at the back of the bar.

I had a verbal agreement with said manager that my exhibition was for a month but on the third Sunday I got a call from him “Your paintings are ready to be picked up and I have a photographic exhibition to set up this afternoon”. I explained to him that I had no transport. The car I used three weeks before to bring down my paintings was a rental and here I was on a Sunday morning in a dilemma. “That’s ok” he said smoothly, “I’ll store them in the kitchen”. Fortunately I have a sister who lives nearby and I was able to borrow her car.

I learned three things from that exhibition. Green skies annoy people; Never trust a bar manager; You can always depend on family.

Black Humour Of Belfast

2007-07-02T13:32:00.000+01:00

Belfast's City Cemetary opened on August 1st 1869 and has a rich history and some black humour. It is the final resting place to Jewish immigrants, a Jewish Lord Mayor, Luftwaffe airmen, three Norwegians and a curious mix of UVF gunrunners and IRA men. It of course has separate Protestant and Catholic sections with the ubiquitous peace wall buried under ground to keep the two communities apart even in death.

But a few of the locals had a sense of humour and prepared their epitaphs which were duly added to their headstones. One, a die hard Star Trek follower implores the almighty to “Beam Me Up Lord”, while another chastises his doubting family and friends by telling them “I Told You I was Sick”.
The cemetery was also a temporary burial ground to American Troops from the First World War who died when their converted troop ship HMS Ortanto collided in rough weather with another troop ship off the north Antrim coast.

They were later exhumed and repatriated to the USA.

The Great Escape

2007-06-30T17:38:00.000+01:00

From the zoo that brought you escapee Kevin the Colobus Monkey comes another tale of monkeys running rings around the staff at Belfast Zoo. This time it was Phoebe the chimpanzee, who in 2005 along with two fellow conspirators made a daring daylight escape using a log to climb over the compound wall and this being Belfast it ended in a shoot-out. Ringleader Phoebe followed in the path of the incorrigible Kevin -the Spider Monkey - who made headlines a few months earlier when he did a runner after a fight with his Da. And in keeping with the spirit of paramilitaries of the times zoo officials ordered Kevin to leave the country. He was exiled to Spain.
Within minutes of the trio’s escape shots rang out and the citizenry of north Belfast were thinking “here we go again” as word of a shooting spread from door to door but police denied firing at the unarmed simians stating instead that they fired warning shots into the air and like a scene from the fly on the wall TV series Cops the chimps put their hands in the air and were taken into custody.
A philosophical but pragmatic police spokesman said "Chimps are clearly smarter than humans - you fire a couple of shots in the air and they surrender. You can fire plastic bullets and water cannon at rioters and they still throw petrol bombs at you”.

Mr And Mrs Ironbed Go To Vegas

2007-06-28T19:28:00.000+01:00

September last year Mr and Mrs. Ironbed left rainy Belfast for a week long stay in Las Vegas. Not in any particular hurry we booked our trip so we could enjoy the experience of two connecting flights. Our first flight took us to Manchester and the first news we received upon arrival was that the inbound American Airways flight was diverted to Nova Scotia because of technical problems and there would be a delay until a replacement aircraft and flight crew could be found. A six hour delay we were told. Now Manchester airport is small and after half an hour I was pacing up and down muttering to myself. Listening to the sound of Lancashire accents I was begining to think we had been beamed onto the set of Coronation Street. "Ah'm fair worn out"….............. "Th'art nobbut a slip of a lass"…............. “Dust want pint?"
We were issued food vouchers so we wouldn’t starve. The six hour delay turned into eight, then ten until finally thirteen hours later we left for Chicago, the second stage of our trip. We were told that we would make it in time for the last flight to Vegas.
I always thought that car salesmen and politicians were the lowest forms of life but airline customer care reps have been relegated to the bottom of the food chain in my humble opinion. Upon landing at O’Hare International we were herded into the immigration hall. There was only one official on duty who obviously was forced to work overtime on a Friday night because of our late arrival and he was not a happy camper. We found ourselves at the back of the line and could hear a periodical mantra coming from him. “Blah, blah, blah” pause “Blah, blah, blah”. Every now and then passengers were sent red faced to the back of the line clutching new landing cards and their passports. As we snaked our way towards him we could hear his poetic refrain, this time we could hear him properly, “Right index”. He shouted, “Left index”. He was taking electronic fingerprints of everyone’s index or, accusing finger as I call it. We were issued what is called a landing card on the plane and we had to fill them in; names, address while staying in America etc. If a card was filled in wrongly you were yelled at “I don’t believe this” he would ridicule embarrassed passengers as he handed them a fresh card to fill in and pointed them to the back of the class. As we approached him Mrs Ironbed asked meekly, “Which one is the index finger?” she was obviously terrified of the National Rifle Association man in the booth. But we sailed through immigration without a hitch, picked up our bags and were greeted by another American Airline rep who handed us hotel vouchers. We had missed the last flight to Vegas. Smiling with her pearly whites she gave us directions to the terminal exit where, she assured us a shuttle bus would take us to our hotel, the Hyatt Regency. Our flight in the morning left at 8.00am It was now 12.30am. By the time we picked up our bags and cleared customs and made our way to the kerbside it was 1.30am. There, the rest of our fellow passengers waited and shuttle buses from various other hotels picked up groups of people until there was only one group of about a dozen or so left, waiting for the Hyatt shuttle. Finally it appeared. And just as suddenly disappeared as it cruised past us. It was now 2.30am. The taxi ranks didn’t want to know us either as our hotel was only six miles away and the drivers were after the more lucrative crosstown fares. Occasionally a taxi driver would relent and our little group dwindled. Every time I asked for a cab to the hotel all I was told was “Leave it wit me”. Finally a few drivers took pity on the rest of us stragglers and we made it to the hotel. As we checked into the hotel we told de man dat we had an 8.00am flight. He told us that we should catch the first shuttle bus which “Leaves for the terminal at six ”. I looked at my watch and it was 4.30am.
We went to our room, climbed into bed, got out again and had a shit, shower and a shave and Mrs Ironbed did the same but I don’t recall her shaving.
Back at the airport it was bedlam. Jammed with people, it resembled a rowdy meeting of the UN rather than an airport check-in desk, or rather I should say check-in desks. There hundreds of them and they went on as far as the eye could see and every time we saw anyone in a uniform we asked them where we checked-in for our AA flight to Vegas was located. None of them spoke English. “Red, red, red” was all I could understand. Finally we found a lady with a smiling Irish face who was only too pleased to help. Her name tag said Colleen. She talked us through the electronic check-in process at the red machine. So that’s what “Red, red, red” meant. Upon boarding the plane, the first faces we saw were a few of our fellow passengers from England……sitting in first class, sipping champagne and grinning from ear to ear. They told me that when they went to the red machine, it asked them if they were travelling first class or economy. They hit the first class pad. I choose economy. Dipstick. Fuming me and Mrs Ironbed headed for the back of the bus.
The plane got us into Vegas around noon. Straight to our room and some kip. Later that night we did what every Irish tourist does when they first arrive in America, we went looking for an Irish pub.
We found one called “The Nine Fine Irishmen” in the New York, New York hotel/casino on the strip. The hotel was enormous and it was built to resemble the Manhattan skyline, complete with the Statue of Liberty and a roller coaster that weaved its way around the entire complex. The pub is called after nine famous Irish writers. Mrs Ironbed wanted to go shopping. I wanted Guinness. After a few swallys our marathon trip from Belfast to Las Vegas was forgotten and Mrs Ironbed didn’t mention shopping for the rest of the night but she did take offence every time I eyeballed the waitresses who wore short Irish Kilts and displayed their lily white thighs
and I would receive an elbow in the ribs to cure me of my wandering eye ailment.

Next morning I woke up with a hangover and a set of bruised ribs.

A Liquid Lunch In The Morning

2007-06-26T18:23:00.000+01:00

There’s a drinking club in Belfast’s Sailortown which reputedly has a licence to open early to accompadate weary sailors from recently docked ships in the nearby harbour. Not many sailors partake of these flexible drinking hours but tipplers from north Belfast and beyond patronise the premises on a regular basis. When I first heard of these early opening hours I was sceptical. Then one Monday after a busy weekend of, erm, socialising I was in need of a taste of the hair of the dog to set me straight so I headed for said club arriving there by 7.30am.
When I entered the small bar/poolroom, the place was bunged with men in work clothes and there was a competition in process at the pool table. Taking my pint to a table full of guys I met a friend of mine. And there among the pints and shots were packed lunches of various sizes and unusual smells.
Lunches that no doubt were lovingly made up by doting housewives that morning for the man of the house to take to work. Bizarrely none of this seemed abnormal to the boys and after a few more pints I couldn’t see anything wrong with it either as the sandwiches were unpacked and sampled while they were passed around or exchanged for someone else’s lunch.
By 9.00am the pool competition was heating up and people were becoming more animated when a solitary voice broke out into song “Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to beeeeed.......…” he began and was quickly accompanied by fifty or sixty other voices, my own included.

By mid afternoon I was home in bed sleeping it off.

Being Taken To The Fair

2007-06-24T15:21:00.000+01:00

I took the bus to downtown Belfast on Saturday bringing my with me. It is only a ten minute journey so I stood at the window and found myself facing an old lady sitting with her shopping buggy. She looked up at me and pointing at an empty seat said “There’s a sate there fer ye love”. I politely declined. When she spoke the sound of her voice exited through her nose. Without warning our bus was diverted and we were suddenly taking the scenic route. Immediately she swivelled her head “Where’s he going?” she squeaked, referring to the driver. She was obviously taken aback and I wasn’t going to re-assure her. “I think he’s lost” I said. “Wha’?” she yelled. Obviously she was also hard of
hearing. “He’s lost” I shouted back. “Oh mother of God” she panicked. By this time passengers had come down from the seats upstairs of the double decker and we were travelling along Laganside. “We’re on the Newtownards Road” another guy piped in. “Is he not going down the town?” she wailed. On and on she went with questions and observations “The Hilton hotel oh Jeeezus………the Market…….round the world for a near cut”

Finally we arrived at our destination and discovered that the Belfast Carnival And Food Fair was the cause of our detour and her anxiety.
I saw her about a half hour later at the food stalls that had been set up in the grounds of the City Hall and free samples of food were on offer. She was munching on a soada farl and looked a whole lot more contented. “You were on the bus, weren’t ye?” she yelled.

Art And Insensibilities.

2007-06-22T15:54:00.000+01:00

In Saint Patricks Primary School in Belfast we had a teacher who could have come straight out of a Frank McCourt book. He had an apple a day and made a drama out of eating it every morning. He would breath onto it and rub it on the lapel of his jacket before crunching into it while peering down at us from his desk. He was our English/arts/maths teacher and one day he handed out sheets of white paper and coloured crayons and asked us to look around and to draw whatever caught our attention. Meekly we began glancing at one another and around the room trying to figure out what he was playing at. This had never happened before. Seeing our bewildered expressions he suddenly went into raptures and began waving his arms around excitedly “Yi’s can even look out the windys”. There was an avalanche of sound when the metal legs of twenty chairs screeched across the floor and tables rattled as excited boys rushed to both sides of the room to the windows and began squinting through the dirty glass onto the street below. We were one floor up. “There’s buildings and the chapel and you can even draw that there crane there”. The entire class of boys was quickly sketching and pointing at all the subjects available. Imagine. Drawing a crane! Everyone except me that is because I was already halfway through what I saw and was creating a work of art that was lifting me up into the sky.

After all our interpretations were rendered onto paper for posterity, order was restored and the seats filled up again with the exception of a few of the non artistic stragglers who looked longingly out the window waiting on inspiration to give their talent a kick up the arse.
He then began inspecting our artwork. Making his way from the front row of seats he commented on everyone’s effort. “That’s a lovely crane Philip” or “that’s the Co-Op isn’t it Brian?” and so on. Then he came to my masterpiece. He was stunned into silence for a nano second “What in the name of God is this Burns?” he yelled for the benefit of the class. “I told ye to draw what you saw” he continued as he held up my very realistic composition of a World War 2 Spitfire engaged in a dogfight with a German Stuka against a genuine Irish grey sky. In my humiliation I tuned him out.
That World War Two dogfight sketch was my first contribution to the world of art but it wasn’t to be my last. A few years later I painted, in water colours a seascape with a Royal National Lifeboat Institution boat on a wavy sea and I sent it off to London. A week later I received my first endorsement as an emerging artist when a Blue Peter Badge arrived in the post for me.
Looking back on that "paint what you see" incident, I witnessed a similar scene about twenty five years later on the comic but sad BBC series Blackadder Goes Forth, telling the story of a squad of British troops stuck in the trenches of France in World War One as they faced the very real possibility of being blown up or seriously shot dead. In one episode General Melchett, played by Stephen Fry, is informed that one of his Lieutenants, George St. Barleigh is an artist and summons him to his Headquarters for a special commission.
The Lieutenant, played by Hugh Laurie duly arrives only to be told that the Mad General wants him to crawl through no - mans land and spy on the German HQ, draw a detailed sketch of the building and return with the vitally important intelligence. Being a goody two shoes and the naïve type who would volunteer for any mission St. Barleigh tackles his mission with urgency and that night goes crawling through the barbed wire. He returns the next morning with his evidence and proudly places it before his superiors who are definitely not impressed with the results as they peer down on a detailed painting of a pink elephant.

Lieutenant George St. Barleigh I understand you totally and salute you.

You Can’t Get There From Here

2007-06-21T09:41:00.001+01:00

A train bound from Dublin to Belfast broke down just north of Dundalk, county Louth today and passengers were stranded for an hour before the train lurched back into motion. Honky dory you may think accept that the train was travelling backwards towards the station it had just left, and given that this particular train service between Ireland’s two main cities is scandalously promoted as an express service is all the more hilarious and it is brazenly named The Enterprise.
Once in Dundalk passengers were beamed off and in the process of being herded onto a hastily organised bus alternative one passenger observed that the vehicle had only one headlight working and when he brought this health and safety issue to the attention of the driver he was scolded and told 'Well if you are not happy get off the coach’.
A troubleshooting Translink egghead from Belfast declared to the media "The train failed near the border and unfortunately could only be driven from the Dublin end of the train”. Sighs of relief all around.

Many passengers declined the offer of the bus service and took a taxi to Belfast some sixty miles away.

A Stadium Too Far

2007-06-20T13:15:00.000+01:00

The former Long Kesh internment camp or Maze Prison as it came to be known to some members of the northern Irish public is being torn down and is scheduled to re-open as a national sports stadium for the north. Since this idea has been bandied about there have been voices of dissention bordering on the hysterical.
The stadium will play host to all the popular sports in Norn Iron: GAA, Soccer, Rugby and fighting spectators. The dyed in the wool fanatics from both sides of the divide have been crying foul at the notion of so many sports being played under the one roof. Fans of the Northern Ireland soccer team are indignant at the very thought of sharing facilities with the dreaded Gaelic sporting tribes and having to endure the presence of a reconciliation interpretation centre at the stadium. The soccer purists are adamant that the venue should be built somewhere in Belfast, preferably on the north shore of Belfast Lough.
But what really is behind all the fuss is the fact that we Irish don’t like to travel to watch our sporting heroes even if it is only ten miles from town especially with it’s lack of imbibing emporiums. We like our Leisure Centres, Libraries, Universities and Sports Stadiums all within walking distance and surrounded by pubs and within staggering distance home. Imagine the horrified and frightened looks on faces, who for the first time are confronted with concession stands selling watery beer in plastic cups and charging NASA style prices? Then there is all that business of catching the shuttle bus to and from the game although that would be a genuine concern if the shuttle contract was awarded to Belfast’s public transport company Translink who are currently unable to convince their drivers of the importance of keeping to the printed schedule and of its importance to passengers.

Belfast Taxi Service, What Taxi Service?

2007-06-19T23:04:00.000+01:00

So Belfast’s taxi drivers are threatening to withdraw their services from the streets if the department of Driver and Vehicle Licensing Northern Ireland continues to insist on improved services, better customer relations, a clamp down on illegal taxi drivers and requiring the drivers to be hailed from the kerbside which they currently refuse to do. They are also threatening to bring the city to a standstill by blockading the city streets. At the monent they are not required to take a knowledge test to discover whether they can locate an address and take a costumer from point A to point B via the shortest route. One thing I have noticed about taxi drivers is that within the many smaller cab companies drivers refuse to show up for work until the morning rush hour is over, then disappear before the evening rush hour begins and are only interested in short but frequent runs without the headache of facing traffic congestion. Nice work if you can get it. In short they don’t care about their customers. One scam they pull is at Christmas time when they arbitrarily increase their fares by 50%.

Another dodge these wise guys pull is the old “I haven’t got enough change on me” if you offer to pay with a £10 or £20 note. The first couple of times this stunt was pulled on me I actually went and got a tenner changed at a nearby shop to pay these crooks. On one occasion the scabby cabbie kept the meter running until I came back with the change!
The third time it happened occurred as I was getting out of one of their cabs at the Europa Bus Station, I pulled out a tenner and the spiel began “I’ve only just come on and I can’t change a tenner”. I replied “Well that’s all I’ve got” to which he brazenly said “give me the tenner then, that’ll do”.

Without saying a word I climbed out of the cab, grabbed my suitcase from the boot (unassisted of course) and started walking to the bus station. Quicker than lightening he was in my face “Where to fuck do you think you are going”. Smiling at him I said “New York, I’m taking the bus to Dublin Airport from here”.

“Not without paying me you’re fucking not”. To which I said “I did offer to pay you but you didn’t have change and now you want £10 for a £3 fare?”
Fuming with rage he dug his hand into his pocket and magically whipped out money. Notes and coins. He stuck out his hand for my £10 note but I waited until he handed me £7 change first.
Muttering to himself he turned to walk away when I called him back and gathering a large handful of my own change from the back pocket of my jeans I offered him a tip.
Greedily he stuck out his grubby hand again and accepted the gratuity only to become even more outraged when he looked down at the 2 pence piece I had slipped into his sweaty palm.

A Bus But No Stop

2007-06-18T09:44:00.000+01:00

I remember back in 1978 when my brother Thomas came home from Canada for a few weeks holiday and the family were all glad to see him again. We did the usual visiting of relatives, friends and pubs.
Then Thomas asked me to go to Dublin with him for the weekend and of course I said yes. Come Friday afternoon we packed a few small bags and deciding not to take the taxi to the train station we took the bus instead.
As we were nearing Central Station we found ourselves standing at the rear of the bus and hemmed in by a mob of passengers. I rang the bell and we started making our way to the front of the bus. Peeping over heads I could see the train station to our right and I rang the bell a few more times. Closer and closer the bus came to the station and as I looked in between bodies I noticed that there was no bus stop opposite the station. In panic I rang the bell again.
Finally we reached the front of the bus and told the driver that we needed to get off at the train station. “Was that ye two that was swinging on the bell?” He gasped. “Yes” I said “we need to catch a train at the station”.

Helpfully he pointed out that there was no bus stop at the train station but that he would “Slow down ‘n open the doors and yi’s can jump off”.
Thomas looked at me and rolled his eyes.

Taking his foot of the accelerator and breaking he brought the bus to a crawling pace, opened the door and Thomas and I stepped off the bus and watched and listened as the driver shut the doors and the bus trundled away from us.

Confused but laughing we crossed over the road to the catch the train to Dublin

An Axe To Grind

2007-06-16T08:22:00.000+01:00

A County Carlow couple Michael Farrell and his wife were out walking along a country road in Seskinrea, Old Leighlin when a car swerved towards them without warning in June of last year. Instinct sent them diving into the nearest ditch and the car sped off.
Last week in Carlow District Court Vincent Watchhorn from Clocristic, Milford, County Carlow, faced a charge of dangerous driving when Farrell accused the defendant of deliberatley swerving his car towards them causing them take refuse in the ditch. Watchhorn's solicitor put it to Mr. Farrell that the charge of dangerous driving was fabricated and that Mr. Farrell had a vendetta against Watchhorn because the two men had been feuding ever since Watchorn bought nearby property and that he objected to Watchorn's planning permission because it would block his lovely view.

In summing up the case judge Patrick Clyne observed "It's everyone's right to object to planning permission. I don't want any more nastiness between the two families. Get on with your lives and leave each other alone,' and he suggested that they "Bury the hatchet".......then as an afterthought he added "In the ground not in each other's forehead".

Humourous Quotes From Irish Books: 1

2007-06-15T13:08:00.000+01:00

From the book IT'S A LONG WAY FROM SELLING PENNY APPLES by Bill Cullen: A larger than life Dublin character called Bob Darcy whose brother joined the British army to fight the Germans
in World War Two is expected home in a few days time so Bob feels compelled to explain to his felow drinkers his brother's reasons for fighting for England.
"Sure isn't there plenty of fellas who took the king's shilling," said Bob. "That's not a crime anymore, when the Brits had to face them Germans. Would you like to have them Nazis in here now dragging you out of your own pub off to a slave camp in Siberia?"

Legend Of The Hurricane

2007-06-14T01:40:00.000+01:00

Belfast snooker legend Alex (Hurricane) Higgins got into more hot water last weekend, adding yet another controversial confrontation to his already long and colourful career.
He was playing in an exhibition match with long time friend and opponent Jimmy White in Durham England when an over zealous referee punished Higgins twice for the same offence alleging he touched the blue ball with his shirt as he leaned over the table while taking aim at another ball. White waved the incident off but the referee, Terry Riley was obviously in a “off with his head” mood and again called the imaginary infraction. It was at this point that Higgins got his Irish up then took aim at the referee’s solar plexus with a right jab.

The two quickly became instant dancing partners until the official grabbed Alex, who has throat cancer, by the neck, prompting Jimmy White and a number of spectators to intervene and haul the referee off Higgins.
The stiff upper lipped ref had been getting on Higgins’ goat earlier in the match by staring down the table every time Alex prepared to take a shot. The player asked him to move out of his eye line but Mr. Square head wouldn’t budge.
After a waltz and a quick step up the aisle Riley stormed off in a huff but a spectator stepped up to the plate to respot one of the balls after a shot and the match continued for another five minutes until Jimmy White conceded the frame and the game ended.

Afflicted as he is with Cancer of the Throat and a drinking problem Alex Higgins really does play with a lot of balls.

Habitat For Humanity Belfast 1997

2007-06-13T00:59:00.000+01:00

About ten years or so ago I decided to make a career change from being unemployed to becoming a carpenter as I was getting fed up with my long and varied work history. I was once a docker/longshoreman in Belfast then a construction labourer here and in Toronto. I was also a screen printer in Canada and I shovelled snow once for the Toronto Transit Corporation.
Then I began a carpentry course in Belfast with a work placement with Habitat For Humanity. HFH is a charity that builds homes for people on low income with the help of volunteers and the needy homeowners themselves. An American concept it quickly spread around the world and soon volunteers from the States found themselves working without pay around the globe.

The site I worked/trained on was here in Belfast. It was to be a short but memorable experience. We had a full time crew of around five or six plus the prospective homeowners input and every few months help arrived when a group of willing Americans arrived to lend a hand.
One group I remember arrived in around August 1997 and they came from all walks in life and they always had smiles on their faces. They were soon put to work and thoroughly enjoyed the tasks they were given. Most of them had never held a hammer in their hands before or had the pleasure of digging holes or humping drywall around.
One particular group had a few folk from California and I had great craic with them as I went into full politically incorrect mode and after a tirade about people in general and women in particular I noticed a few raised eyebrows and could hear muffled coughs during a lunch break one day. Eyeing the crew I saw a view perplexed faces but more than a few were grinning as I had my fun. “I hope there are no feminists here” I declared, “We don’t want none of that nonsense here. Women are the cause of the troubles you know”. Then as an afterthought I added “And another thing, you Americans keep yer hands off our women. You’ll fill their heads with ideas of equality and next thing you know us men won’t be allowed out on Friday nights”. I wasn’t married but I just thought I’d thrown in that last barb. Continuing on I bluffed “We like our women the way they are. Barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen”.
I was never one who believed in karma but later that day Gerry our foreman set a couple of females from the group to unearth a water pipe a few feet below the ground and the two people he selected starting digging like a pair of 49er’s hungry for gold. Feeling uneasy and fearing the pipe would be damaged he asked me to take over as it costs a lot of money to have the Water Board called out to patch up water pipes. I was told to look out for a blue rubber hose leading to the house and to be careful. I cautiously began scraping the dirt away and after a few minutes came across a patch of hard ground. I picked up a spade and after raising it six inches or so off the dirt I let it drop, slicing through the hard clay. It also sliced through the blue water pipe and a geyser of pressurised water shot upward like a rocket punching me between the legs. I quickly stepped backwards and the fountain continued its heaven bound journey until it reached its zenith six feet above my head. It then dropped in the form of a shower and descended, soaking me from head to toe.
Looking up I saw Gerry, who up until then trusted me and I remember the look on his face and if he had a gun handy I think he would have waved it at me and ordered me off the project. But being a fair man he let me stay on.

Ever since I have grown to respect American women and I have never tempted fate again by belittling their pretty contributions to the needy of the world.

Irish Heat Waves And A Pound Of Butter

2007-06-12T01:06:00.000+01:00

Renowned for it’s damp climate and lush green fields Ireland and the Irish go through a kind of Jackal and Hyde transformation when the sun breaks through our nomally grey skies. Otherwise drab city streets take on a holiday atmosphere as clothes are shed and lily white shoulder blades and shins are exposed to dangerous ultra violet rays. Young girls flirt around in miniskirts and skimpy tops and the guys suddenly strut around in shorts and many go around in the sun bare-chested. Fine and well you would think, but, around 90% of Irish sun worshippers do so without regard for the dangers of overexposure to the sun.
Few use sun block, mistakenly believing that lotions delay the tanning process and that a good roasting in the heat followed by severe after - burn and peeling skin is the first step towards obtaining a Hollywood tan.
Overexposing us Irish to the sun can lead to hot tempers and steamy but short-lived love affairs.
Last weekend in Buncranna, Donegal a dozen or so youths didn’t have love on their minds when they began picking fights with visitors to their beach on Saturday 9th June. It seems they were just being territorial or crazed by the unusually warm and humid weather and fuelled by alcohol and were determined to defend the beach to the last grain of sand.
Next day the Gardai mounted roadblocks leading into the town and on the streets to crack down on underage drinking and boozing in public.
IT'S ALL THE FAULT OF THE GULF STREAM.
Flowing north east from the Gulf of Mexico the waters of the Stream are still quite temperate when it reaches Ireland and when the prevailing westerly winds bear down on our little island huge low pressure fronts are created and zillions of gallons of water fall on our heads.
Every other year a high pressure front builds up and settles overhead giving us warm or hot sunshine and humid air is sucked up from Spain or Africa. A recipe for disaster on so many fronts. Hospitals run out of after - sun oils and potions and ER's are crowded with folks dizzy with sunstroke and sporting lobster red skin.
In 1995 we had a really prolonged heat wave with temps in the high 90’s and I was told of a guy who was in a hurry for a quick tan. I mean, like he wanted it that day so he asked his buddies what was the best thing to apply to the skin for a fast tan. “Butter” one wise guy said and the poor mug believed him. He went to the store and bought a pound of butter and asked his mates to smear it on his back. Obligingly a few of them did as he asked, then sat back to see the result.
Twenty minutes later the victim yelped and screamed in agony and sprang to his feet clawing at his back. Reportedly his back had already blistered and he was rushed to hospital. Ouch!!!

The present little heat wave we are experiencing has been with us for about a week or so but the hospitals have not as yet been overrun with burn victims. The temperatures are in the low 80’s. A few more weeks of this weather and the water authorities will declare a drought and reduce water pressure and impose hosepipe bans and the washing of cars. Meanwhile there is a huge reservoir in the form of Lough Neagh not twenty miles from Belfast. Why no-one has thought of tapping into this natural water supply is beyond my ken.

But then I’m a starving artist. What would I know?

A Pub A Club And A Donnybrook

2007-06-09T21:03:00.000+01:00

Growing up into your teens is a roller coaster ride, so they say but for myself it was just one long decade which never seemed to end that is until I reached the age of nineteen or so and started going to bars. My teenage years went the way of the dinosaurs. The first pub I frequented was Pat’s Bar in sailortown in Belfast. It had a blazing turf fire as you entered the room and sitting in a semi circle next to it was a group of traditional Irish musicians fiddling and plucking their way through a repertoire of reels and jigs accompanied by a man who’s face was all hair and teeth and he was beating the life out of a bodhran. The notion that the traditional Irish drum was meant to accompany the musicians, not drown them out was lost on this bearded wonder.
My friends and I became regulars there for a few years until the novelty wore off and we sought a change of venue.
And typical of Irishmen we weren’t fond of venturing too far from home so we relocated to St. Mary’s Club less than a mile away and well within staggering distance home. This club was smoky, small and had live bands who specialised in the current pop music of the time, the 70's and rock and roll from the 60’s and 50's but more important it had a regular clientele of tipsy women. Every now and then one of our gang would get lucky and cart a tart away with him.
St. Mary’s also had a reputation for the occasional falling out between customers and what may have began as a gentleman’s discussion about world affairs and the price of eggs sometimes became an emotional but bloody fight and wrestling match with screaming women accompanying the sound of smashing glass.
One memorable night our group were seated in the centre of the hall when a fight broke out in a corner. Fists flew, tables rocked and drink was spilled. One participant fell backwards onto the table behind him upending the board sending drink all over the place. New combatants enraged at such wastage of good booze joined in and it had a domino effect as the table next to them became involved. Within minutes tables along all four walls were upended and heads were coming into contact with fists, bottles and even chairs.
The head barman made an executive decision and decided to shut the bar and began pulling down the shutters working from left to right along the bar. At the very last section of the bar there was a rectangular sign falsely declaring waitress service. It hung from the ceiling by two light chains at each upper corner.
Suddenly a few of the combatants began pointing at the bar in horror
as it was closing, and turned their energy on the devious barman and began throwing bottles at him. Sticking his head out of the remaining open section of bar, preparing to drop the shutter a bottle hit one of the chains holding the sign, breaking it. Gravity then took over and the sign on its remaining chain swung like a pendulum clubbing him on the side of the cranium. Red faced and outraged he jumped over the bar and ploughed into the melee throwing punches left, right and centre.
Meanwhile our little group were the only table not involved and we were in the centre of a real old fashioned Irish donnybrook surrounded by dozens of combatants.

It give me an inkling as to how Custer must have felt when he realised he had been out - generaled by Crazy Horse.

Top Gun Gets The Ticket

2007-06-06T16:32:00.000+01:00

One of the minnows charged with keeping the motorists of Northern Ireland in their place hails from Enniskillen county Fermanagh. This man on a mission has, since mid November last year given the shoppers of the town their comeuppance by handing out 1,000 more parking tickets than any other traffic warden in the town with a personal best of 2,590 in just over nine months. The second busiest ticket tout in the North also struts the beat in Enniskillen ambushing careless or naïve motorists, and, yes even the cocky ones. And all this in the town on the shores of Lough Erne with a mere population of 11,500 souls.
From an official Enniskillen website one sage has written, “One of the key images that a visitor to Enniskillen may take home with them is the proximity of the Lough to the town. Moorings just outside the town centre certainly ease the pressure for parking spaces and add a continental feel to the town’’.

It also sends the visitors home with their wallets and purses £60 lighter for each violation and feeling the need for a good old fashioned continental guillotine to be installed on main street.

Scared Chimps, A Frightened Vulture And Flying Tools

2007-06-03T17:26:00.000+01:00

More now on my career as a path digger on the Cave Hill here in Belfast. One of my first jobs - well it was more of a place for me to attend and pass the time of day - was to help dig a pathway from the north end of Cave Hill to the southern end. Government sponsored relief schemes were set up at the height of the troubles here in the north of Ireland to get the unemployed, underemployed and the unemployable off the streets to keep them from turning to other activities such as high jacking buses and burning them, participating in riots or joining one of the multitude of paramilitary groups which had sprung up overnight. Though after seeing some of the characters when I first became a fully trained path cutter, I don’t think even the paramilitaries would have given them a second thought. But these lads soon departed and we were left with nothing but the best.
This was in 1972 and most of our squad were Catholics and we would assemble in old Bellevue Zoo situated at the north end of the hill. We had two little wooden huts which we used as our HQ. One hut contained our precision tools: sledge hammers, picks, hammers, wheel barrows, 5ft long bars for dislodging stubborn rocks etc. The other hut was our supervisor’s office where he kept his time sheets and newspaper. It was also where Roy the store man, tea maker and champion cross word puzzle solver smoked his pipe.
One winter’s morning I was making my way to the site with the rest of our crew on our regular bus, it was so regular we were always ten or fifteen minutes late reporting in for work. Getting off the bus and entering the zoo we were greeted by the site of our tool hut in splinters and Roy sitting on the step of the other hut with his head in his hands.

He stood up as we approached him and he told us that as he opened the door to the office a bomb exploded in the tool hut next door sending splinters of wood and the afore mentioned tools soaring up the sloping hill of the zoo. The tools became instant shrapnel.
As I looked around the place there were pick heads, twisted spade and shovel heads and various other projectiles imbedded in grassy knolls, on the cages of the animals and in the mesh of an aviary which housed some class of a vulture. It was standing on a tree branch and quivering and shaking from shock and I could hear the screeches of the apes and monkeys.
Undeterred Enterprise Ulster our employers where commited to complete that path come hell our high water because if the project was called off they would be out of work and back on the dole along with us. But they got to keep their little desk jobs because we were relocated from the zoo up into the woods of the sloping Cave Hill. We found a little thicket, gathered wood, built a fire to boil tea and to keep us warm. And that was our location for the next few months. Working and resting outdoors much like our ancestors did during the Famine when they worked on relief schemes digging roads to nowhere.

Apart from the quivering vulture, no other animals were injured during the recalling of this event.

Here, Blow Into This

2007-06-01T00:54:00.000+01:00

Taking part in a TV commercial to promote your company or its products sounds exciting and ego inflating. Who wouldn’t take advantage of this kind of opportunity? Sure, you would be the envy of all your friends and the talk of the district. People in your local pub would come up to you, slap you on the back and shove a drink into your hand. Then what?

Do you get blottered and stagger to your car and swerve and manoeuvre your way home? Well you and I probably wouldn’t but that is exactly what thirty year old policewoman Geraldine Donnolly of the PSNI was doing when she was involved in a collision with another car and breathalysed. She had 140mg of alcohol in 100ml of blood. The legal limit is 80mg.
To add insult to injury it has since emerged that she had taken part in a TV commercial called “You’ll Get Smashed If You Drive on Drugs” highlighting the dangers of driving while under the influence. The advertisement campaign is due to air in the weeks leading up to Christmas and she also did the voice over for the piece.
Now she and her voice have been edited out of the commercial at a cost of £9,000.
Last year, 2006 was the worst ever for the PSNI with no fewer than twenty two officers being convicted of the same offence. And this is in a time of relative peace. I shudder to think of the number of RUC officers at the height of the troubles who found themselves in similar circumstances and I also think on the numbers who may have shown up for duty with the whiff of whiskey on their breath and a hip flask in their pockets.

The Irish Wake

2007-05-30T16:29:00.001+01:00

The traditional Irish wake is still alive and kicking -pun intended- but I must state here and now that it has been dramatically watered down. The three night home vigil is still in vogue but gone are the times when a wake was an occasion of seeing off a loved one in the form of a three day party with wine -sorry - Guinness and song.
As I was growing up in Belfast I was obliged to attend many a wake of dead relatives and my most vivid memory is of seeing the deceased laid out in a sombre brown shroud, hands folded and secured with a pair of rosary beads for the trip to the Afterlife. My second most vivid memory is that of copious amounts of drink in the form of alcohol readily available for all and sundry, but mostly it was the men who took advantage of these offerings. The women sat in or stood around the kitchen while the poor misunderstood men folk commandeered the living room where the deceased rested and would proceed to drink Guinness or beer and whiskey and tell one and other stories of the newly departed. Alcohol and Irish wakes went hand in hand and woe be the family who didn’t provide the refreshments on such sad occasions. They would be the talk of the district as disappointed mourners made hasty exits and headed straight home for an early night or sauntered into the nearest pub. In fact I got my first taste of alcohol at my grandfather’s wake when, at the age of five or six I was offered a sip of the black stuff from a tipsy uncle. The room erupted into laughter at the expression on my face.
At my own father’s farewell there were crates of the black stuff in our hallway and one of his workmates planted himself on a stool beside the stuff for all three nights of the wake. There were dark mutterings about his selfishness from my family and myself but no-one chastised him, meanwhile visitors were getting merrier in the living room and more than one mourner left in the wee hours of the morning with a song on his lips.
But those days are gone.
The three day home vigil is now a more dignified affair in that the drinking has to wait until after the funeral when mourners are invited, at the graveside to attend a function at a local pub or club. These arrangements are much more suitable for all involved as women are no longer confined to the kitchen drinking tea and eating sandwiches while gossiping and everyone can let their hair down and singing is not discouraged.

And no-one gets to annex a three day supply of Guinness by sitting on top of the crates.

Pirates Of The Mundane

2007-05-29T19:59:00.000+01:00

Police in Belfast have rescued a six foot high fibreglass pirate that went missing from a business somewhere in the city. The wayward seafarer was spotted in the middle of a roundabout in Andersonstown, west Belfast yesterday . The Johnny Depp look-alike (almost) was taken into custody and is suffering the indignity of spending time in the cells of a nearby police station until the owner can be located.

Pirate: “Ye ever been to sea Billy?
Billy “ No cap’n but I been blown ashore!”

Butt It's An Airport

2007-05-28T00:35:00.000+01:00

The Civil Aviation Authority has closed City of Derry Airport over safety concerns. As well as poor drainage on the runway and in the apron areas of the tarmac the CAA are worried about the lack of bird control at the airport and are concerned about bird/engine collisions. They have recommended that someone be given a land rover to drive around the airport omitting signals to repel them. Stating the obvious a CAA spokesman said “Birds can get stuck in the engines”. No kidding Sherlock. Other worries are trees and lamposts.
Ryanair has cancelled all its flights at the airport but British Airways have scheduled their flights to operate from Belfast International Airport and have told passengers to book into Derry Airport as usual and they will then be bussed the seventy or eighty miles to Belfast.
Meanwhile at Belfast International there is a crisis of a different sort. Since the No Smoking Ban came into effect passengers are having a last desperate puff outside the terminal and discarding their cigarette butts on the ground despite the fact that there are four designated smoking areas inside the airport. Which reminds of one time before the smoking ban was introduced and I was in the departure area seeing someone off. A female member of the cleaning staff was smoking as she walked along and the cigarette fell out her mouth. She casually picked the fag up off the floor, popped it back in her mouth and continued smoking!

Looking Down On You.

2007-05-27T00:46:00.001+01:00

A Dye Job.

2007-05-26T16:55:00.000+01:00

A man with a cash deposit box was approached by two glue sniffing Belfast men at a Larne retail park and after threatening the victim with an iron bar they made off with the box, hopped into their car and made a speedy getaway in the Ballymena direction. Within minutes they were leaving a trail of red smoke as they speed up the road. Other motorists could see the pair engulfed in a chemical haze. No they hadn’t come up with a new class of glue to snort but instead one of the desperadoes had busted open the cash box and the car was immediately swamped with red dye.

The undoubting duo pulled into the nearest filling station to buy a pack of wipes to spruce up before their anticipated spending spree. Meanwhile they were being captured forever on the station’s security camera. By the time they reached Broughshane the fugitives realised the money was ruined by this red stuff and the box with it’s contents was dumped into the Braid river.

At Antirm Court sentencing was adjourned until next week.

High Drama At Stormont

2007-05-25T17:48:00.001+01:00

Stormont has only opened for business and a mysterious occurrence has put the fear of God into at least one junior minister at the newly formed assembly. Speaker of the house William Hay was thoroughly interrogated by Ian Paisley junior about an alleged incident which seemingly happened on “March 12th at 10am when apparently there was an effort to set fire to the boiler room of this house”?
But before Mr. Speaker could clear his throat to respond Ian junior in a state of high drama continued “Could he also bring forward any other reports of incidents that have appeared to have breached security including an attempt to destroy one of the washrooms in this house?” At last, Mr. Speaker finally spoke but did so cryptically, only adding to the drama “As members will appreciate there is an ongoing police investigation and it limits me from saying more than I need to”.

Switch to sound track from a who-done-it movie ……….who tried to broil the boiler…….who carried out the experiment to burn down the washroom............will the services of Belfast Firefighters be needed in the coming days?

Stay tuned for further developments.

Hidden Treasure.

2007-05-24T16:03:00.000+01:00

So you are about to go out for a drive with your girlfriend in her flashy car one evening and, well, you decide to take along your stash of cocaine for the trip. So where do you secrete this precious cache: in the glove compartment, in the boot/trunk or shove it under your seat?
The answer to all of the above is no. You shove it down the front of your jeans.
That's what a guy did recently in Belfast a High Court judge was told. Police stopped the car and noticed a "large package" between his thighs. Knowing the end was nigh our Belfast rouge retrieved the treasure and flung it at the feet of the cops, had a go at them then made a run for it. Needless to say he was arrested and the judge, refusing him compassionate leave to attend a family occassion said "I hope the child has a very happy day on Saturday but her mum's partner will not be attending".
Some judges' just don't have a sense of humour or an ounce of charity in them.

He Is Here, There And Everywhere.

2007-05-21T23:59:00.000+01:00

A discussion overheard by myself as I entered my flat/apartment building in the Newlodge area of Belfast a few days ago. Three young boys were passing by and talking, actually it was a one sided conversation. The kids were aged around eight or nine. One of the boys was animated and excited as he related to his friends what could only have been a Damascus Moment for him after apparently being involved in a road traffic accident. "See God.... God is everywhere, he's here right nigh beside me and you" and pointing to his other friend reassured him also, "he's beside you too".
And to add authority to his sudden devotion to God he declared, "He even knew when I going to get knocked down"!

Russian Ice And Banana Boats.

2007-05-18T19:44:00.004+01:00

The very first job I had after leaving school was working at Belfast docks unloading cargo from the holds of ships. I was known as a casual docker because I could only be given work if the port was really busy and all the union men were allocated jobs first then we temps were allowed to work alongside the union dockers - that would be a Longshoreman to you Americans.
Ships of course came in from all over the world. We worked on ships from Russia brining in timber, rubber and tea chests from India, trinkets from China, booze from Dublin (believe it or not), more timber from Sweden, engine parts from parts unknown because some ships entered port without flying their national flag or even a flag of convenience.

Before the work began unloading a newly arrived ship, the union men and us casuals had to congregate in a giant shed. Along the length of one wall was a raised concrete walkway, along which stood the foremen who were called Gangers. Each ganger was allocated a ship to unload and it was here in this shed that they each picked their crew. They would space themselves along the length of the walkway looking down on the men hungry for work and they would call out “Russian Timber”, "China Boat", "Rubber Boat” and the men would decide which cargo they preferred to work on and lined up at the feet of the ship’s Ganger. As each man walked forward he was handed a little plastic disk, chits they were called and off he went to his assigned ship.
One really busy week at the port there was a lot of work available and word got around Belfast and hundreds of casuals showed up and the Gangers were inundated with pleas for a chit and men were straining and reaching over one and other trying to grab a chit. Luckily I was given one by a Ganger who took a liking to me, probably because I was so young and scrawny. Getting fed up and probably feeling guilty about deciding which men were going to get work that day, he flung his last handful of chits into the air and men went scrambling after the flying discs. Once the plastic circlets hit the floor pandemonium broke out with men degrading themselves by scrambling after them individually or forming what resembled a rugby scrum. This was 1970 when the rest of the western world were receiving their cargo in containers. Disgraceful.

One day I was given a docker’s hook and put to work on a timber boat from Russia. It was January and the exposed lumber was caked in Russian ice and a few men were sent to work to pry the ice off the wood using crow bars and levers. One of them was a friend of mine called Billy Flynn and as he made his way across the slippery top surface he was told to be careful by the Ganger. Getting to the side of the secured lumber Billy found himself standing high above the side of the ship with dark, cold water beneath him. He was a big guy and he promptly dug the flat end of his crow bar into the ice, put his weight into it and levered the ice away and just as promptly went flying backwards head over heels. It seemed like forever before I heard the splash of Billy smacking into the water. There were yells straight out of a Pirate Movie, “Man over board”. He was quickly thrown a line and hauled to the dockside and was manhandled up onto dry land. He was taken into the ship’s interior and from there sent home for the day. I can’t remember if he was payed for the day or not.
There were quite a few characters working on the docks and it seemed that everybody had a nickname. If you weren’t given a nickname, you felt that you were not one of the boys. Some guys earned their moniker by chance, a mistake while working, or preferring to accept work on certain cargo ships, like Rubber Head for example.
One old hand earned his permanent title one day as he was driving out of the docks. A customs inspector or bunky as they were known to us was doing spot checks on vehicles in order to recover goods that were mysteriously disappearing once ships hit port. “What’s your name sir?” asked the bunky. “Reilly” replied the docker . “Can I see in your boot?”.
Getting out of the car Reilly opened the trunk of his car and there in the boot compartment was a box of bananas.
Forever more he was known as Banana Reilly and the title was handed down to his son when he joined the ranks of the Dockers.
Years before this, I encountered Banana senior while I was was walking my little black mongrel of a dog and he asked me “Is that your dog”? Proudly I answered "Yes,Banana" quickly he quipped back “Aye…it looks like you”.

Time In A Cage.

2007-05-17T01:04:00.000+01:00

I wrote in an earlier post about the time I worked for Enterprise Ulster, a work scheme designed to keep young fellas like me off the streets at the height of the troubles here in Belfast in the early 70's. One location I worked on was Cave Hill, a sloping mount overlooking north Belfast. Our project was to dig a path across the hill from the old Bellevue Zoo location to Belfast Castle.
Being a relief scheme, this working environment had a casual feel to it. Well that’s how we labourers looked upon the work. We had two little wooden huts: one to use as a lunch room, and the other to store tools in. For some reason our small HQ was moved into the grounds of the zoo itself. Looking back on it now I can see this was done for security reasons, to give us an enhanced feeling of protection from marauding terrorists: This didn’t prove to be the case but that is a story for another day.
Being inside the zoo proper gave us ample opportunities to gape at the animals during our lunch and tea breaks and all times in between. I must point out this was before I developed my opposition to the entire concept of imprisoning animals for voyeuristic humans to stare at. (blah, Blah, Blah).
But anyway, if I remember correctly the monkeys and apes were located at the top of the zoo’s sloping grounds. One particular ape was imprisoned in a tiny cage, far too small for this wild but seemingly benign primate and one could easily reach over a small concrete barrier and hand it food which it would gently take from your hand and eat while looking at you with what resembled a look of gratitude in his eyes.

One of my co-workers, Paddy was particularly fond of animals in general and in this creature in particular and he would feed it with his leftover lunch and maybe the odd piece of fruit.
Paddy carried around with him an old antique watch and chain which he would swing enticingly before the ape’s eyes and the poor captive seemed mesmerised by the shiny object. One morning Paddy, Roy our store man/tea maker, and myself were at the cage and Paddy, against our advice decided he would give the primate his cherished watch, chain and all, convinced that after a close up inspection of the heirloom it would be handed back to him in one piece and still shiny.
After perfunctory inspections which included a few attempts to eat the watch the ape began tossing the time piece by the chain like a priest swinging a censer of incense at his congregation at Mass. Then he proceeded to dismantle the watch by prising the watch open and taking out the delicate Swiss workings and dropping them on the floor.

By this stage Paddy was animated and bordering on the furious and began yelling at the bewildered beast which began mimicking him and quickly became hopping mad and started flinging the watch pieces out of the cage at us. Almost in tears Paddy began picking up the pieces, looked at them and tossed them back into the cage then began laughing at the antics of the ape and probably at his own misguided judgement to entertain a primate with his family’s heritage.

But Paddy continued to feed the animal with his leftover lunches and fruit.

I Used To Be Indecisive............

2007-05-14T17:46:00.000+01:00

........................but now I'm not so sure.

Don't Have a Stroke Belfast.

2007-05-12T15:47:00.000+01:00

Over fifties having sex? Huh? In the north of Ireland of all places? The British Heart Foundation (BHF) is currently running an advertising campaign with a series of “light hearted” billboard posters that urge the over fifties to “get active and stay healthy”. Among the usual, gardening and washing the car activities is a plea for people in this age group to have more sex. The billboard shows a naked man giving his wife a cuddle on a beach.
Now, folk in Belfast and beyond have never been known to jump the gun but a few have been firing off prematurely and their target is the local Chest Heart and Stroke charity (CHS) who have been inundated with complaints about the “explicit nature” of the sex related ad. People are assuming the CHS are responsible for this “in your face pornography” as one complainant described it.
Now Andrew Dougal director of Chest Heart and Stroke has asked the BHF to remove the posters saying “the nudity image belongs to a shock school of health promotion”.
Betty McBride, director of BHF policy and communications, said the charity decided to take a “novel approach” to target the over-50 age group.
I wonder if she will be handing out some free novelties like viagra for example? I wouldn’t volunteer to get naked and cuddle/shiver on an Irish beach but the viagra would come in useful. It would stop me from rolling out of bed for one thing.

Barack Obama's Irish Roots.

2007-05-10T19:12:00.000+01:00

While much has been written about Barack Obama’s Kenyan origins, his European ancestry has been largely ignored by the American media and by both the professional genealogists and the recent converts to the world of online sources and dusty annals. Now records have been unearthed at the home of an elderly parishioner who died recently in Ireland.
The files have been sourced by a Church of Ireland rector and confirms that Mr. Obama descends from Moneygall, Co. Offaly. The tiny village holds a few shops, a Catholic church, a GAA pitch and no doubt all of the above are out numbered by the obligatory bundle of pubs. The only other source of entertainment in Moneygall is watching the traffic on the N7 national road between Dublin and Limerick that has bisected the settlement.

Canon Stephen Neill from the nearby town of Cloughjordan delved into the senior Democrat’s past after a Salt Lake City, Utah genealogist told him about the possible connection. It is believed Obama’s third great grandfather, Fulmuth Kearney sailed from Ireland to New York, aged 19 in 1850. Newly discovered sources show that other members of the family emigrated in the 1790’s. Canon Neill said “There were summary documents going back to the early 1800’s and late 1700’s. The legwork wasn’t huge to be honest. I found a lot of these Kearney entries”.

Belfast Festival Of Fools And Other Folk.

2007-05-06T17:35:00.000+01:00

The international Festival of Fools, an amalgamation of street performers from around the world arrived in Belfast last Thursday 3rd of May and runs until tomorrow Monday 7th. I had never heard of this motley crew before but they put on a good show in downtown Belfast on Saturday. I managed to take in a few of the performers. There was Nakupelle Presents: Monkey Bizness and he performed
outside Castle Court drawing large crowds many of whom hunkered down onto the sidewalk to watch the act in comfort. And it was nice to see people smiling and happy and relaxed. Even the weather was nice. Still unaware that this was only one part of the festival I found myself scratching my head as a troupe of eccentrics came walking along Donegall Place in single file.
A tall figure bringing up the rear and taking giant steps carried a placard which read “Misguided Tours” on a long stick held high above his lanky frame. Leading this group was a shorter man with a bullhorn who would stop randomly and point with his brolly at a building and proceed to give an impromptu and humorous rant about the insignfigance of the building and architecture and continue to suggest why it should never have been built in the first. Then he crossed the road with his disciples dutifully following in single file. A manhole cover caught his attention and he got his crew to form a circle around it and quickly shoppers and the curious joined in. According to this guy, there was a definite aura arising from the sewer beneath his feet and he walked over to the crowd and taking a young lady by the elbow marched her to the covered sewer to experience this phenomenon. Needless to say she was totally embarrassed and speechless. Then off they trotted down the nearest street.

Not a part of Festival of Fools I came across these two merry men and I got a snapshot of them as they discussed tactics for the rest of the day.
They staggered across the road, and cars and buses swerved to avoid a calamity and the sound horns where reaching for the heavens. While I was waiting for my girlfriend outside Primark one of these guys came running out of McDonalds at a stagger with his arms filled with Big Macs and French fries. Dozens of the fries came bouncing out of their little containers and spilled onto the road. I was distracted by this turn of events and didn’t get a pic of this guy’s epic escape as a road sweeper with an English accent stopped to tell me that the Linfield v Dungannon soccer came had gone into a penalty shoot out and he was listening to the game on a small radio which he clutched to his ear. Staring at the French fries lying in the middle of the road he declared “I’m not picking them up”. Then he went on to tell me about the time one of his workmates had stolen his brush and shovel. But he said he had plans to get even with the bastard. “he won’t know what hit him when I’m finished with him”. I turned back towards McDonalds and the second of the two guys came out of the fast food outlet looking a bit chastened as he was no doubt left
to pay for the meals his pal had absconded with. Then he stopped , probably trying to remember who he was with. The road sweeper didn’t need to worry about picking the McDonalds fries from the ground because within seconds a flock of seagulls swooped from nowhere and gobbled up the mess in no time.

A great Saturday afternoon was had by one and all.

Belfast Can’t Keep Pace With Dublin.

2007-05-04T15:57:00.000+01:00

Ten years ago US psychologist Robert Levine, from California State University, suggested that walking speed provides a reliable measure of the pace of life in a city.
And now research commissioned by the British Council found the speed at which people walk had increased by 10 per cent in the last decade and that Belfast lags behind Dublin in the frenzied street races.
Dublin is the fifth fastest in the world - higher than London and New York and they have the evidence to prove it because teams with stopwatches timed 35 men and women as they walked or, would that be sprinted a 60foot stretch of pavement? Dublin romped home in the British Isles event with a whopping 11.03 seconds and Belfast volunteers took an embarrassing 12.98 seconds to finish the walk. Singapore topped the world table with an incredible 10.55 seconds.
But the good news is that Belfast outclassed Edinburgh who could only clock up 13.29 seconds and Cardiff were soundly defeated with a miserable 16.81 seconds, leaving one to wonder why the British Council even considered the Welsh capital for this specialist event.
But how were the walkers/runners handicapped? I have a sneaky suspicion that the Belfast male contestants were motivated by the lure of the pub at the end of the end of the 60ft finish line while female members were burdened with Primark bags and Argos catalogue books while trying to light up a cigarette at the same time and finding a moment for a wee bit of gossip.

Come on Belfast we can do better than that. We have to train up and get into shape for the next stopwatch event in ten years time. Guys come on, switch to light beers and you gals let's see more coordination while balancing all those heavy shopping bags and for goodness sake take off all that hideous orange stuff you cake your faces with, it only adds to the pounds and keep the talking to a minimum.

Source: Irish News.

Belfast Titles And Television.

2007-05-03T14:17:00.000+01:00

Belfast in the 1950’s had what was apparently an epidemic of street fights, not riots or civil unrest but fights between individuals going toe to toe and what started off as isolated incidents soon began to draw enthralled passers by who quickly grew into a cheering audience. What was at stake was the unofficial title of the hardest man in Belfast
and contenders weren’t hard to come by but the two most popular and enthusiastic pugilists were Stormy Weather and Silver McKee. Sometimes one would show up at the other’s home and challenge him to a brawl and such challenges never went unanswered and the combat would begin in the street with neighbours spilling out onto the pavements surrounding the boxers in a ring and urging them on until a winner emerged. The wounded would retire to lick his wounds and live to fight another day. Stormy was a Protestant from the Shankhill Road area and Silver a Catholic from the Market area but they never fought over religion or politics. Stormy was a trade unionist activist and worked at Isaac Agnew Flour Mill in west Belfast and one day witnessed a Catholic being picked on and bullied by a stocky Protestant and Stormy intervened, slapping his co-religionist about the head and was heard to say “Keep that crap out of here, we’re all brothers here”. But when the two brawlers went toe to toe anywhere in the town the crowds definitely were split into religious camps either offering up prayers or singing in praise of their favoured combatant.
One story about Stormy involved a domestic dispute. Television suddenly became affordable to the working classes of Belfast and soon TV sets were being delivered to some lucky households leaving many unsettled and envious neighbours. One woman unhappy at not having a television in her living room was Stormy’s wife who could hear the sound of the neighbour’s TV every night. It was too much for her and she started haranguing and nagging him about not being able to watch television. This went on for some time then one evening she interrupted her doting husband as he read his evening newspaper after a hard days work. Now the walls in the houses of the old areas of Belfast were thin, poorly constructed and weakened by at least a hundred years of damp. Stormy put down his paper and after retrieving a of length 2 x 4 lumber soon battered a hole into their neighbour's home so his wife could watch television from the comfort of her own sofa. After dusting himself down Stormy returned to his chair, picked up his paper and began reading again.

Source: Belfast Born Bred And Buttered By Joe Graham

Sadly bare knuckle fights have made a come back in some areas of Ireland and an savoury few have produced DVD's of such events with titles such as "Gypsy Bare Knuckle Fights". This is wrong on so many levels I don't know where to begin.

Source: Internet Search.

THE BOY AND THE HILL.

2007-05-01T17:38:00.000+01:00

When the troubles broke out in the late sixties/early seventies in Belfast thousands of youths in dead end jobs or more than likely with no job at all and with no prospect of getting any kind of gainful employment the government of the day set up many publicly sponsored schemes to get the young off the streets and thereby keeping them from the temptations of riots or worse.
I was one of those youths and soon found myself employed by Enterprise Ulster, one of the above mentioned schemes. My first assignment was to the Shaws Bridge area of south Belfast. It was a mixed work squad of both protestants and Catholics but there was never any hard feelings nor even sectarian tensions. Our job was to maintain National Trust property, tidying up pathways and building fences and things of that nature. That was in 1971. In January 1972 I emmigrated to Canada but returned to Belfast six months later when my father died and it was back to Enterprise Ulster for me.
My new job location was on Belfast’s Cavehill, near to the present day zoo where we had two little wooden huts that we used to store tools and to have our lunch breaks in. There were about twenty five or so working there and it was also a mixed crew, though Catholics were in the majority but still there wasn’t any trouble. Our boss was a protestant from the Shankhill Road who was also a boxing trainer who later discovered and trained Wayne McCullough the pocket rocket. Our challenge at this site was to dig a pathway from the zoo area to Belfast Castle, a proposal that brought ire and nasty letters to local newspapers detailing the damage we would cause the Cavehill environment with tarred pathways which wasn’t our intent. The paths were to be finished with a layer of natural gravel. .
However for me, the very idea of digging a path from one side of a hill to another reminded me of the Famine relief schemes from the 19th Century when men were put to work digging roads to nowhere over bogs and barren land.
Through the two or three years I worked there -Enterprise Ulster would add more tasks to keep us in employment that little bit longer - many characters came and went. Some would show up for a day or even half a day never to be seen again. One young lad whose name I can’t recall was, well a little bit eccentric and gave Harry our boss cause for concern. His behaviour to most of us was that he was just being a tearaway or at least a rascal. One day he went missing from the squad and when Harry was told the news he became really concerned and organised a search party, split us up into groups and off we went looking for him. We searched high and low for this young fella. We scoured the Cavehill all the way over to Belfast Castle but without success. Finally we all regrouped at our little headquarters and Harry then sent a few of us down the steps onto the Antrim Road but again no luck.
On our return journey up the steps I happened to glance up and there was the subject of our search twenty feet up a tree and lying along a thick branch with his head propped up with his left arm and grinning down at us

Harry was quickly informed and he came rushing down from his hut and with concern in his voice enticed the young lad down from the tree. “How long have you been up there?” He asked. “Since this morning.” Came the reply. He was brought up to the warmth of the hut and given a hot cup of tea and something to eat by Harry. A phone call was made by our boss and soon a car arrived and the occupant approached the lad with a smile, said a few kind words to him and took him away in the car.

That was the last any of us saw of him.

The path is still in use today.

BELFAST MAN AND BEAST.

2007-04-28T16:18:00.000+01:00

Born into poverty in Belfast’s dockland area Buck Alec Robinson could neither read nor write and by 29th January 1913 at the age of eleven he made what was to be the first of many appearances before Belfast’s courtrooms. Before long he was implicated in murder and jailed many times. Robinson owned greyhounds and raced them at a local stadium but his fondness for animals didn’t end there. He owned vacant ground behind his home and let it out to travelling fairs every year. After one particular show the travelling fair left the show grounds minus one lion. How Buck Alec came to acquire the lion isn’t clear but it became his pride and joy and it wasn’t long before he was seen taking the king of the beasts for walks through the streets of Belfast.

An old uncle of mine who lived in Sailortown near to Buck Alec’s place told me that cats and dogs, but especially cats
began to mysteriously disappear not long after the lion moved in. It was widely assumed that Buck was supplementing his pet’s meals. He went on to tell me that on these walks with his lion, Buck would be seen bent over backward as the lion dragged him up the street on the end of a long rope. To some it resembled a tug-of- war event. Men would cross to the other side of the street or did an abrupt about turn. Screeching women and children sought out the nearest refuse, be it a complete stranger’s house, a shop doorway or the nearest Pub. People would peer out windows as he and his beast passed by and they would cautiously step back onto the street and watch as the lion plodded on with Buck alternatively straining or stumbling behind. Weary judges ordered Buck to have the lion de-clawed and its teeth removed. With all the fun taken out of his feline interests he was soon back to causing mayhem and was implicated in sectarian murders and before long was given £5 and told to leave
the country by authorities and he went to England then to Canada. But the lure of Belfast was too much and he returned to his native town and was promptly arrested. He lived out his days in street brawls, shootings and controversy.

The Rain And The Dead.

2007-04-25T16:11:00.000+01:00

There were a couple of young pals from the Newlodge area of Belfast who seemed quite inseparable. Find one and the other wouldn’t be far behind. They would hit the clubs and bar scene, well for what there was of a club and bar scene in Belfast in the ‘70s and they were both well known for their wit, humour and one liners. At times it would appear that they rehearsed their act but nothing could be further from the truth.

At parties they were the life and soul and centre of attention while all the time being sober or would be seen sipping the occasional can of beer. Party goers were always sad to hear them announce that they were having an early night and leaving for their respective homes. Both boys knew how worried all parents in Belfast were during the troubles, who fretted if their sons or daughters were out late or worse didn’t come home until dawn.

One day they were walking out of the Newlodge area using a side street which was home to old Clifton Street Cemetery. It was a cold wet and windy day and to their misfortune they were stopped by a British Army Paratroop foot patrol that promptly ordered them up against the graveyard wall and forced them into the spread eagle position and frisked them and searched their pockets. As the rain continued to pelt down Mick was pulled around by the shoulder and a Brit asked him where he was going, his name, date of birth and address. Unable to restrain his natural humour Mick duly answered the questions but when it came time to reveal his address he grinned and said “No fixed abode”. Infuriated the Para punched Mick in the face and turning to Pat he yelled “And where do YOU fucking live?” To which Pat grinned and snapped back “Up his stairs”. The crazed Brit crashed a couple of quick punches onto Pat’s head then ordered them both to take off their shoes and socks then using the barrel of his rifle contemptuously flicked them over the high wall of the cemetery which was locked and barred.

The Brits then walked away snickering and laughing like an 18th century drunken press gang.

Mick and Pat walked home barefoot in the Irish rain knowing that their shoes and socks lay scattered among the headstones of the dead which included that of Henry Joy McCracken hanged by the British and a mass grave from the nineteenth century of those who died from cholera and starvation in the potato Famine.

And the rain got heavier.

Do As I Say.

2007-04-22T14:19:00.000+01:00

Here is a diatribe from a few years back aimed at the great unwashed of Belfast by Breidge Gadd of the Irish News, ordering ordinary people off the streets telling us to stop drinking and to go to the Opera as this would put a stop to the nightly riots of east and north Belfast at that time.

A week or so later the Irish News published my response.

"A Roar 'n Ahoy".

2007-04-19T20:20:00.000+01:00

Down through the years in Belfast there has been a tradition of local and usually very vocal characters well known for their odd behaviour and their ability to amuse, bemuse and otherwise entertain the public and all for free.
One such character who lived in the Newlodge area of North Belfast was Tucker who occasionally could be spotted on the streets in broad daylight suspiciously sober. On these privileged occasions one could engage Tucker in an intelligent conversation and he could predict the winner of the 3.30 race at Kempton race track and forecast the weather for the coming week. Usually after one of these encounters your pockets would be a wee bit lighter as you couldn’t resist the pleading look on his face and you would slip him some money in order for you to get to work on time or make your doctors appointment.
At other times he could be heard howling at the moon.

When he was three sheets to the wind you could hear his rallying cry echoing around the streets “A roar n’ ahoy” he would bellow, usually with a bottle of Mundies under his oxter and another sticking out of his coat pocket.
He had a peculiar effect on the dogs in the streets. They would either skulk away, snarl and snap at his heels or howl along in harmony and he would swagger along grinning from ear to ear.
Tucker's reign was at the height of the troubles in Belfast and rumours of his untimely death went around the doors on more than one occasion. He was shot dead once and crushed to death by a British Army Personnel Carrier in another rumour. The reasoning behind these unfounded yarns was that he hadn’t been seen on the streets for a day or three.
He reached his zenith on a cold and rainy day when he was peddling his charms to earn the price for a bottle to settle his shakes.
He was standing in an alleyway at the junction of a main road on the look out for a customer or two when along came a British Army foot patrol. The patrol halted and one of the soldiers hopped into the alleyway to avoid the horizontal rain then crouched down to make himself a smaller target for potential snipers. Opposite him stood Tucker.

“Give’s 10p” pleaded Tucker. “Fuck off” replied the Brit. Outraged at this unseemly language Tucker got his gander up. “Aye well then fuck you, ya Limey bastard ye. Fuck you and fuck the Queen”. The Brit smugly retorted "I’m not English, I’m Welsh”.
To which Tucker in his sobriety triumphed “Aye well then, fuck you and fuck Harry Secombe!”.

Ned The Framer

2007-04-17T23:44:00.000+01:00

NED THE FRAMER.

As a working artist I occasionally get the opportunity to mount an exhibition of my work. This doesn’t happen very often but when it does and I need a good picture framer I go to my good friend Ned. He loves his work and he is very experienced and produces the goods on time or even before the due date.A few years back I needed quite a few pieces of work framed and Ned duly obliged and I went to his workshop on Good Friday to clear up a few minor details. With that done we agreed to meet for a drink to celebrate a job well done and talk tactics concerning my upcoming show. We agreed to meet at a pub in Belfast’s Cathedral Quarter, Belfast’s latest up and coming trendy neighbourhood, though it will be a while before it rivals Rodeo Drive in Hollywood as Belfast City Planners are going to spend a measly £20million over an eleven year period.Anyway I was to catch up with Ned at five pm and I sauntered down to the pub only to find it locked and barred. Completely in silence with curtains closed. I looked at my watch and it was four thirty and then it dawned on me “Good Friday” when pubs are not permitted to open for business until five pm on this holy day.Just as I was about to take myself for a walk to kill time until the doors opened at five, two men came out of an alleyway that led to the back door of the bar. Grinning from ear to ear and walking with a swaying gait and reeking of booze the pair passed me and staggered up the street.I decided to investigate.I entered the alleyway and quickly found the pub’s sturdy back door but it was locked also. Again there wasn’t a sound emanating from the establishment. Working up the courage, because one never knows if you’ll be accosted or hugged on occassions like this in Belfast but I banged on the thick door. Not a sound. I pounded again. This time I heard what could only have been the clang of beer kegs being moved and bolts and locks being pulled and turned. A red face appeared at the door and without saying a word it peeped around the door frame, looked up and down the alleyway and motioned me inside with a backward tilt of his head.I was greeted by the stifling damp air of humanity and animated voices. I walked up a hallway toward the action and was greeted by the sight of dozens of people, all with drinks in their hands or motioning to an overworked barman for another round.Making my way through the throng I spotted Ned The Framer propped up at the bar with a pint in his fist.“What kept ye?” he said.

The future bodes well for the Cathedral Quarter.

Belfast Zoo To Close?

2007-04-16T17:24:00.000+01:00

Slopes of Cave Hill north Belfast, home to Belfast Zoo/Prison owned and operated by Belfast City Council.

Belfast zoo manager Mark Challis was delirious last week as he revelled in the number of visitors to his herd of wild and imprisoned animals. Unable to contain himself he was in gushing form as he quoted numbers and increases in visitors. He and his prison staff saw 18,000 visitors over the Easter weekend - an increase of 8,000 more gawkers than expected.
"A particularly interesting thing I noticed when I was walking around the zoo was the number of accents from outside Ulster you heard, such as Scottish and English voices" he gushed, then continued "That shows clearly that there are more people coming into Northern Ireland for the Easter holiday period". It also show there a lot more practitioners of voyeurism as they dragged their kids around the compounds to gape at helpless animals
Mark was being economical with the truth here. His high turn out was Easter Sunday where no where else in Belfast was opened.
The capturing and transportation of innocent animals to locations worldwide “For conservation reasons” is nothing but vile cruelty and hypocrisy . To take a wild animal from its environment and lock it up in a cage or, enclosure, a nicer word for a cage is barbaric and inhumane. As more and more animals are added to the endangered list we are witnessing increasing numbers of innocent animals being stalked, tranquillised and subject to all kinds of indignities and abuse. Shoved into crates only to arrive at temporary internment camps before transportation to their final prison destination.
Zoos are animal prisons where the captives are destined to live out their lives in confined spaces. And no matter how well their cages and enclosures are adorned with memories of home these animals suffer until the day they die.
CLOSE ALL ZOOS WORLDWIDE. LET'S START WITH BELFAST ZOO.

Spring And Hope.

2007-04-14T23:51:00.001+01:00

In celebration of the fine Spring weather here in Belfast and at the prospect of Prince Paisley being inaugurated monarch of Ulster at Stormont in the coming weeks I went out onto the streets of our once red bricked city to take some pics of our changing times, especially now that big Ian has toned down his rhetoric and no longer engages in fantasies such as singeing the King of Spain's Beard nor Gerry Adams' whiskers for that matter.

The usual frantic pace of Belfast shoppers and workers was up to its breakneck speed and women with strollers plunged into the crowds that would have brought a lump to the throat a pathfinder from the Screaming Eagles of the American 101st airborne.

Belfast's centre piece is Castle Court mall and it was filled to the rafters,though that could change when the new Victoria Centre now under construction opens next year.

The traffic and pedestrian increases in years to come makes me shudder at the thought of even more frenzied females on shopping crusades on the streets of Belfast.
An American friend of mine from West Virgina once asked me "Why is everybody so hyper here?" Lost for an answer all I could reply with was "We're all mad".
northern ireland, optimism, politics, shoppers, springtime, west virginia, women
I digress: even though the streets were buzzing and teeming there was an unmistakable air of optimism and hope abroad the city as I took my snapshots. See photo album.

An Open And Shut Case.

2007-04-12T16:07:00.001+01:00

My girlfriend Colette and I were touring around the North Antrim Coast of Ireland a few weeks back. Early one morning we set out, stopping off at all the usual vantage points overlooking the Sea of Moyle with spectacular views to the north east of the Mull of Kintyre in Scotland and westward along the Atlantic Ocean to Donegal. After much siteseeing which included Dunluce Castle, Ballintoy, Portbraddon etc we drove down the narrow lane that leads to the clifftop overlooking Kinbane Castle. Rather, this little piece of ancient Irish ruin was probably a defensive redoubt and built by the McDonnell Clan. It lies at the bottom of the cliff some two hundred feet below and is only accessible by sea or by traversing a narrow path that hugs the cliff face. Not having a boat with us I decided we would hike down to get some pics of the little Castle. Needless to say my girlfriend was having none of it so I clambered down alone and got my snapshots. The going down was hard as in the old days step installers didn't take into account health and safety issues such as tread height and width. Each step seemed to be of different dimensions and went falling either down to the right and the cliff face or upward to the left and took a toll on my knees and lower back. My belly was rising and falling and giant beads of sweat had congregated on my forehead as I began the climb back up. Partway up the path someone at one time or another during the centuries had dug a recess into the face of the cliff and installed a little wooden bench. Gratefully I flopped onto the seat to catch my breath. After the climb I staggered back into my car much to the amusement of Colette who was doubled up with a case of the giggles. Feeling thirsty, the need for refreshments overcame me and we drove to the nearest pub and banged on the door. After a few minutes of waiting and listening to the sound of shuffling feet and whispered voices the door was opened by an elderly lady who, before I could ask if we could gain entry declared "We're not open yet". "Why what time is it?" I wheezed . She replied "Ten o'clock and we don't open until eleven". After a moment or two of reflection she continued "but would ye like to come in for a wee drink while ye're waiting?".

BBC/Northern Ireland And Your Money.

2007-04-12T16:06:00.000+01:00

Let's hope Michael Lyons the new head gaffer of the BBC is up to scratch and sees to it that the BBC spends licence payers money on better quality programming rather than wasting it on yearly refurbishment of it's Belfast's Newsroom. Every new year blue prints for refurbishmet projects mysteriously appear and work begins to spend the public money before the end of the financial year, otherwise the BBC budget for the following year gets dramatically cut. One of the biggest wastages of licence payers money was a few years back when BBC Northern Ireland had a roof garden built for its overworked employees who had to stand on stairwells smoking and blowing their cigarette smoke out the windows or worse, endure the indignity of standing in the street to have a puff. So the roof garden was built.
But now tha Northern Ireland's Non Smoking ban has been introduced the poor overworked BBC employees don't have to stand on the street for a smoke or gather on stairwells blowing smoke out the windows.

In essence the BBC have wasted money by building a £1/4 million ashtray. Disgraceful.

Belfast Translink Mental Institution Run By Unhinged Drivers

2007-04-12T16:02:00.000+01:00

A few years back I was a daily paying passenger on Belfast's bus service. Then I became a motorist and left the unreliability behind....until my little Daewoo Lanos died a death and I found myself a hostage of Belfast Translink. Yes I did say hostage.Upon finding myself using this service again I was at once was reminded why I was so grateful not to be at their whim and mercy. My initial reminder occurred on my first day using said Translink when I duly waited for the promised scheduled bus at North Queen Street and Henry Street junction. The scheduled 8.20am service didn't arrive. 8.45am and it still hadn't arrived. Giving up I used a taxi to get to work.I phoned Translink and complained. I was assured my complaint would be looked into. Next morning it was more or less on time. Next day it just failed to show up on time. More complaints and nothing happened.I changed venue. I went to a bus stop at Carlisle Circus and waited....and waited.....then a bus showed up but I got to work on time despite the late arrival. Two days later at the scheduled time the bus materialised...and materialised was all it did, because as I waved my hand at the vehicle (which we are required to do in order to get the driver to stop), the driver looked at me as he passed and lifted his hands off his steering wheel and mouthed something akin to "Tough Luck" and drove right by me.Complaints went unheeded.This also reminds me of a time when I was using Translink Bus Service to University Of Ulster Jordonstown schedule which was more or less adhered to, but getting a bus out of the University was atrocious. The drivers went AWOL. I remember one afternoon when the 3.00pm bus didn't show up. Neither did the 4.00pm bus. By 5.45 the number of students at the University bus stop had grown to at least one hundred and fifty people. As the next bus arrived the students surged forward and jostled and people were pushed into the path of the bus. The driver stopped without injuring anyone but then the frenzy ensued as people pushed and shoved to get in out of the cold and into safety. I managed to get aboard.As the journey progressed I requested to get off at Belfast Art College, close to my home but the angry driver snarled that the next stop is Primark (Downtown Belfast). I reminded the him that Belfast Art College was an annex of UUJ. He growled back "Walk it next time".So I was taken into Downtown Belfast against my will and as I exited the bus I told the driver I would be reporting him to his superiors he growled "Fuck off".
Once again I complained by email with all appropriate details: The Particular Bus Serial Number (which is on public view inside all public transport vehicles), the Route and Time of Boarding.Translink replied asking me again for the Bus Serial Number!!!At this point I gave up.My conclusion is that:Translink is not run or organised by Translink management.In short the Belfast Translink Mental Instituation is run by the drivers NOT the MANAGEMENT.

Bombs To Belfast

2007-04-12T15:54:00.001+01:00

A LETTER TO THE LOCAL BELFAST MORNING DAILY THE IRISH NEWS FROM MYSELF A FEW YEARS BACK........Sir,Last Sunday morning while relaxing and innocently reading my newspaper at my apartment in the Newlodge area of Belfast I was shocked and momentarily terrified by a series of explosions in quick succession, leading me to spill my cappuccino upon my copy of the Sunday Times. Lurching into my carpet slippers I ventured onto my piazza and was greeted by the sight of scared pigeons flying hither and thither after being so rudely aroused from their Sunday morning repose as I myself was. Some of them sought refuge on my balcony but I shooed them away with the business section of my paper.
Gazing through these near mid - air collisions and looking city bound I saw a black column of dampened smoke drifting lazily eastward threatening to obscure the vista of my fellow condominium dwellers at Laganside. After consulting with my concierge I was told that what had transpired was a controlled explosion and demolition of an old office block – by a company imported from England! I was aghast at such news. When one thinks of the high unemployment in Belfast it beggars belief that the Social Development Ministry would commission outsiders for this task when there is a wealth of underemployed practitioners of this trade right here in our own fair city just crying out for work.
Think also how this could so easily have forwarded the peace process as former combatants could have come together, uncomissioned and retrieved their arsenals from defunct coal holes and other clandestine locations. Together they could have demolished that building with one faction performing the technical, explosive end and the other putting to good use their years of crowd control and at a fraction of the cost to the tax payer. I feel the powers that be have missed a golden opportunity to address many issues on this occasion. Yours faithfully, ROY BURNS.