When Irish eyes are smiling

In a concerted effort to avoid examining my navel quite so much - delightful though it is, and no doubt filled with the most delicious remnants of fluff (no, I haven’t tasted it, I promise) - I am going to endeavour, just occasionally, to cast my eyes beyond the four walls of my fifth floor flat and look at what’s happening in the world. Affairs of a current nature, if you will. News. Politics. Society. Oh, you know - all that important stuff. Think of me as a bargain basement Andrew Marr, but without the protruding ears. Furthermore, please note that since is my personal corner of the evil internet empire, I shall report on such matters in my own unique way - with a hefty dose of cynicism and a fair amount of bad taste. In other words, this is blogging like wot I sometimes used to do back in them olden days, when I had far less hair than I do now.

It won’t last, of course. But at least I’m trying. Very trying.

So, it’s been an historic day in Northern Ireland. Oh, you remember Northern Ireland - it’s the bit that juts out from the top right-hand corner of what is sometimes clumsily referred to as the ‘island of Ireland’, which for longer than anyone cares to think about has been unable to decide whether it wants to join its neighbours on one side to drink Guinness and listen to fiddle-de-dee music whilst dancing a jig on the spot, or nestle into the welcoming but slightly inebriated arms that await it over the Irish Sea, docking in the port of Liverpool to drink cheap and gassy bottled beer, eat Scouse and listen to bands of young men churning out endless rehashes of Merseybeat. Calm down, calm down, la!

Yes, you recall it now, don’t you? For years during my childhood, your childhood, your parents’ childhood and possibly even your grandparents’ childhood too (though I may be exaggerating for cheap effect with that last one), Northern Ireland would regularly feature as the second story on every news programme. It took up almost permanent ownership of that position because the throwing of petrol bombs at army vehicles and those seemingly endless marching seasons featuring rampaging men in sashes and bowler hats were too much of a regular occurrence to be considered the top headline, yet were regarded as being rather too close to home to safely allow such events to be demoted to their rightful place somewhere below the latest civilian uprising in a far-flung foreign outpost ruled over by a power-crazed tinpot dictator.

(Please note that if I haven’t yet managed to offend your particular corner of the United Kingdom - or indeed your chosen corner of the globe - with a cheap regionalist stereotype, don’t worry. I’ll get round to you eventually, I promise.)

Today, however, has brought momentous news of such momentousness that is quite, quite momentous. The true romance tale that we thought would never come to pass has been revealed in all its glory. ‘Whispering’ Ian Paisley (Unionist, Protestant, shouty, a Reverend) and Gerry Adams (Republican, Catholic, beardy, who for some years couldn’t use his own voice on television, being impersonated instead by a squeaky glove puppet) have come out of the closet and declared that they are ‘an item’. It’s love, folks. It’s lurve.

Take a look at the photograph above and tell me that it doesn’t soften your stony heart. Tell me that you can’t spot the twinkle in Ian’s and Gerry’s moist eyes as they enjoy a romantic dinner for two at Stormont. Tell me that you don’t secretly wish that they were actually holding hands. Bless. This picture fills me with a definite warm and fuzzy feeling, so it does, to be sure, to be sure. (Please insert other typically irish phrases here which communicate similar levels of vigorously nodding agreement.)

From 8 May, Ian and Gerry will be ‘power-sharing’ in Northern Ireland. Power. Mmhmm. Growl. Grr. Naughty boys. To explain, ‘power-sharing’ is a little like a sexual relationship based on principles of domination and submission. Sometimes Gerry will be on top, sometimes Ian. Sometimes Ian will give and Gerry will receive, other times vice versa. But in the true spirit of political co-operation and intermingling of bodily fluids, they will both clean up the mess afterwards.

Without wishing to express any doubts about this arrangement, I can imagine that some occasions in the future will undoubtedly find Ian - he of the powerful voice that pings the pointer into the red on the decibel monitor, even when he’s whispering sweet nothings into Gerry’s ear - hollering “I’m in charge! I’m in charge! May God have mercy upon your soul!” Fortunately, however, I’m sure that Gerry will know how to respond. He will merely stroke his fulsomely beardy chin in a thoughtful manner, give his power-sharing other half his foxiest narrow-eyed stare through his steamed-up spectacles, and remind the good Reverend that he had better behave himself or else ‘Mad’ Martin McGuinness will be unleashed from his hiding-place in the wardrobe to administer a sound spanking. Or a ‘punishment beating’, as I believe they’re called. Or maybe I don’t mean that at all. Maybe I just mean a thorough talking-to. Yes, a thorough talking-to, that’s right.

(In truth, I am getting a little scared now, so I would just like to reiterate that this entry is in humour. Allegedly. It’s in jest. It is not to be taken seriously. Got that? Good. I like Irish people. All Irish people. Indeed, some of my best friends are Irish. Oh dear, this is still all going horribly wrong, isn’t it? Er, what about if I tell you that I own three Pogues albums, most of the U2 back catalogue and a greatest hits collection by the Undertones? Will that do? What further proof do you want of my innate oneness with the Irish people? Well? Maybe I shouldn’t mention that I can’t stand Guinness.)

To conclude, such a balance of power can only be a Good Thing. A Good Thing rather than a Bad Idea. It paves the way for the future - a future where the governance of Northern Ireland always runs smoothly. Where peace and political co-operation reigns forevermore. Until the next time it doesn’t, of course.

Or to put it another way, and to flagrantly appropriate then misquote the favourite catchphrase of that sports commentator whose name I can never remember: mark my words, they’ll be dancing in the terraced streets of the Falls and Shankill Roads tonight.