Over the Water and Far, Far Away

It’s well known that Alfred Hitchcock like to feature in his own films; the late Colin Dexter played the occasional walk-on part in some of the Inspector Morse programmes.  But it seems bizarre for a cartoonist to portray himself in one of his works ... even more so for the whole to be wrapped up in a dream!  This was my experience one night this week.

In my dream cartoon was an artist, working on a large mural depicting an international summit meeting.  As he laboured away atop a step ladder, the cartoonist – featuring myself in a role I’m never likely to fill in real life – looked up at him with the pithy punch line emblazoned in a speech bubble.  The picture was incomplete, with only one diminutive but very important world leader recognisable; the speech bubble was incomplete, too, as were its contents, which read, “Hi Tom, I see you’ve managed to ...”.  I’m sure that’s not the way a real cartoonist works.

The point at which I awoke came when that particular universally recognised leader had just entered my studio, looked at my depiction of him and asked, menacingly, “Well, what had he managed to do?”  I’m not sure what the intended completion would have been, other than a general sense that it would be far from complimentary.  On the spur of the moment I blurted out, “I see you’ve managed to catch the big guy at least.”  It was far from top-class humour, but I didn’t get to see how this big guy reacted, owing to the fast-encroaching real world entering my consciousness.

As I’ve thought about this since, I realise that this idea of an incompetent observer making a serious comment about the world of politics matched the idea I had earlier in the week about this blog.  Realising that my gentle reader will be more tolerant than that fearsome ‘big guy’, I’ll proceed.

It’s some while since I wrote about affairs in Ireland.  I do recall – however long ago it is – making the comment that, while the majority of the people of Northern Ireland are adamant that they are, and want to remain, a loyal part of this ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’, there seems to be a dearth of complementary feeling going the other way.  I can’t comment about Scottish or Welsh media but, in England at least, there seems to be little or no coverage of affairs in the six counties, until something really big occurs.  For the rest of the time we appear to be quite content for them to potter along beyond the bounds of our interest. 

We have been moaning – perhaps with justification, depending on your point of view  – about the plight of our health service, the threats to our car industry and our financial hub following Brexit, and all the daft things our government has been doing and saying.  Meanwhile, beyond the North Channel, there has been no effective government at all for several months.  How many people on this island knew that they had had a general election?!  It wasn’t until the announcement that the newly-elected legislators had been unable to form a government that English ears were opened.

Another such something to awaken the interest of Great Britain was the death of Martin McGuinness.  Many tributes were paid by people of all loyalties to the way this man from the Bogside (where’s that? I hear you ask) had apparently changed from a militant freedom fighter to a peace broker and eventually the serious political leader and deputy first minister from which he retired through ill health last year.

These two matters, tentatively connected, have opened up sores that we over the water had thought to have been healed long ago.  In point of fact, the loss of a loved one never goes away.  Under normal circumstances, it’s something we learn to live with at best.  When it’s a violent loss without justification, without the prosecution of a perpetrator for political convenience, even when that perpetrator is known, is far from healed.  It’s a running sore for which there is no balm, and that’s true whether you’re protestant or catholic, whether your sympathies are nationalist or loyalist.

With Brexit threatening the re-imposition of a hard border on the island of Ireland – something the absence of which has helped to maintain a semblance of normal life for twenty years or so – the ‘elephant in the room’ has been given a voice.   There is actually talk, however whispered, however much it might be ignored, of a united Ireland, or at least – say the word quietly – a referendum on the matter.

Now, this is something upon which I have no axe to grind.  My view is that it is a consequence of an ill-judged political movement some 400 years ago, followed by centuries of unfair treatment and a succession of equally ill-judged policies that had been implemented ever since, leading eventually to the struggle for  independence during and after the First World War, and the ensuing partition.  Some would even say that it all began with the Anglo-Norman invasion under Henry II in 1169.

At this distance in time, it’s not a result that can be reverse-engineered.  I don’t have any idea how the situation can be resolved; I can only repeat prayers for its peaceful resolution that began before I was married nearly 45 years ago.  My reason for writing about it today is not to agitate for action, or to support a cause.  I merely think that, if we are a ‘United Kingdom’, we should be as aware of, and concerned about, affairs in Coleraine and Portadown as we are about Carlisle and Peebles, Carmarthen and Plymouth