LOYAL Ulster is united in its disgust at the Irps and the dissies dressing up for Easter. Again. As the Keepers of the 1916 Flame stomped up and down the place in their eBay camouflage gear and Poundland sunglasses, the DUP, the UUP, the Belfast Telegraph and the News Letter made it clear that this was such an egregious declaration of violent intent that a latter-day Tet Offensive couldn be far off.
‘Anger as masked colour party leads dissident republican Easter parade in Derry,’ fumed the BelTel.
‘Police launch investigation into dissident republican parade in Londonderry,’ reported the News Letter with fiercely-knit brow.
UUP leader Jon Burrows urged his former comrades in the PSNI to get tough with the Easter cosplayers: ‘Images of a masked colour party parading through the streets of Belfast are an affront to the rule of law and order and an insult to the victims of terrorism.’
DUP deputy First Minister Emma Little Pengelly let the Lego Legions have it with both barrels: ‘You disgust all right-thinking people of all backgrounds and traditions in Northern Ireland – disband and disappear. Now.’
Much as Squinter hates to point it out to those unionists currently hoarding canned goods and water in their safe rooms and bunkers, there were more loyal politicians giving off about the INLA and the 32-County Sovereignty Oglaigh na Continuity than there were people watching them. And the three men, one woman and a dog who did turn out did so because they are family or mates.
Best all round to allow the lads to let out another couple of holes on the Sam Browne belt, squeeze into those fatigues and pretend to be marching to the GPO. And that’ll be them until next year.
Not every Easter outing by paramilitary enthusiasts drew a small crowd this Easter. The annual Apprentice Boys Easter Monday parade in Ballymoney drew what many described as the biggest attendance ever. The North Antrim town was packed to the gills with tens of thousands of unionists for what was variously described as a “fun day out for the family”; “an inspirational exhibition of loyalist culture”; and “an example to republicans of what a holiday parade should look like.”
The News Letter and the BelTel did joyous picture specials while those UUP and DUP politicians who went along – and there was quite a few – provided an enthusiastic running commentary, waxing by turn emotional and patriotic as the flutes fluted and the drums rattled the windows and stirred the blood.
Strangely, however, the acute powers of journalistic observation that were at play during the parades in Belfast and Derry were left at home by the papers and the politicians. Not one of the battery of crack field reporters working the band beat for the BelTel and the News Letter noticed the bands marching through High Street that are quite literally named after UVF men. And not one of the UUP and DUP reps who wailed and gnashed their teeth about the republican parades seemed unduly bothered by the fact that a large percentage of the bands providing the family music in Ballymoney are regulars at UVF commemoration parades, notably the biggest of them all. Squinter refers, of course, to the September Brian Robinson parade on the Shankill when the band scene snaps to attention and salutes the guy who shot Catholic Paddy McKenna dead at Ardoyne shops in 1989.
One of Loyal Ulster’s main gripes with the dissident republican parades on Easter Monday and Sunday was that the Trevors stood around and watched as men in masks and military-style clothing passed by. And they have a point. For it is indeed illegal to march as the INLA or any of the alphabetti spaghetti of IRA would-bes and never-weres who traipsed the streets of Belfast and Derry at the weekend. Just as it is illegal to batter a bass drum with the name of a UVF killer on it. Or to carry a banner adorned with the face of a UDA bomber.
So answer this question slowly. Like Squinter’s five years old. What’s worse: Three men and a wee dog watching a clatter of blokes re-enacting the 80s?
Or tens of thousands of people bringing their kids along to eat ice-cream while watching UVF and UDA bands?
Of course your answer will almost certainly correspond directly to the scarf you happen to wear, but there will undoubtedly be a goodly few people out there who think that we should either go all in when it comes to calling out paramilitary pageantry, or just keep quiet.
Unfortunately, the unionist press is not known for its capacity for introspection, and as countless stories from the past in relation to the marching season have shown, the unionist body politic is urgently in need of eye surgery when it comes to the old blood and thunder.
We’ll fight them on the beaches – because we’ve no other choice, frankly
SQUINTER spent a very pleasant evening in Portrush last week, reacquainting himself with the delights of the east strand (or was it the west?). Is there any part of this sea-tossed island where the waves are more dazzlingly white?
Let’s leave that question for another day as Squinter tells you about his Easter weekend charabanc trip, which took him to Newcastle/Murlough Bay, where a walk will reveal that the waves aren’t as white, but the view is more spectacular.
What these two seaside attractions have in common, apart from being very easy on the eye, is a total surrender to the dog lobby. As an enthusiastic walker of many years, and as a dog-owner up to a few years ago, Squinter is not short of horror stories about dog owners failing in their basic duty to other people. Is there a sight or sound more jarring than a smiling dog owner assuring you that “He won’t bite” as a fat labrador sniffs around your lunchtime towpath sandwich?
OVERCAST: The beach at Newcastle on a grey Easter weekend
But in urban spaces Squinter can report that the majority of dog owners are reasonable and responsible. On the beaches at Portrush and Newcastle/Murlough, though, it’s like the Hunger Games for mutts.
As far as Squinter can work out, the total lack of responsibility is Council-sanctioned in Portrush, as dogs can go off-lead off-season. But at Murlough the National Trust has a total ban on off-leash dogs – a ban which is cheerfully and enthusiastically ignored by every single dog-walker on the sand. Or at least, that was the case on Easter Monday.
Observed four-legged atrocities in Portrush and Murlough:
Dogs running in circles around playing children.
A dog jumping up on a seated surfer.
Dogs shitting.
Dogs pissing.
Dogs in snarling stand-offs with other dogs (no actual fights witnessed).
Dogs barking maniacally at groups of walkers for no particular reason.
Squinter’s not trying to mitigate the crimes of dog-owners in town when he points out that they are at least close to their pets when they start bothering or threatening other people. On the vast, open sands of Portrush and Murlough, the dogs are often a mere blip on the horizon to their owners, which of course means that there is zero possibility of immediate control.
Squinter gets why people love their dogs. He cried when his fella was put to sleep on a vet’s table beside him. But… what’s the best way to put this…? They’re feckin’ dogs. Do they have rights? Squinter admits to never having considered that philosophical poser, but he does know that owners have a duty to keep them fed, healthy and happy. Do they have more of a right to enjoy the outdoor splendour of our best beaches than a family with children? Than a person who’s afraid of dogs? Than a person who has a personal or cultural aversion to dogs? That’s something that Squinter has considered, and his answer is no, they do not.
Bottom line? Squinter wouldn’t take his grandchildren on to those beaches on a busy day. And if he brought them there on a relatively quiet day, he wouldn’t let them leave his side. That’s something that those who let their dogs off the leash on a beach either don’t consider, or they have considered it and decided they don’t care. If you’ve got a toddler by your side and there’s six or eight stone of dog hurtling towards you at 30mph with ears pinned back, you gotta assume it’s headed for the child, and the best-case scenario is that it’s only going to knock your child flying on its way to somewhere else. The worst-case scenario doesn’t bear committing to print, frankly.
