In an exclusive descent into the eighth circle of political theatre, your correspondent finds himself ankle-deep in the psychic ash of Belfast, where the air tastes of burning tyres and broken promises. The headline screams like a wounded banshee: ‘I will never get over watching my home burn.’ Neither will I, frankly. Not because I was there, but because the BBC ran a loop of the footage so many times I now flinch when someone lights a barbecue.
Let us pause, dear reader, to assess the absurdity. The UK Government, in its infinite wisdom, has pledged ‘full reconstruction.’ Full reconstruction. As if the problem was merely architectural. As if the shattered windows and blackened bricks are the only wounds. As if the sectarian animosity that has simmered for centuries can be plastered over with a generous helping of taxpayers’ cash. I have seen more nuanced solutions proposed in the brainstorming sessions of a five-year-old’s Lego club.
The unrest, we are told, is ‘escalating.’ Escalating. A word that suggests a gentle increase, like the thermostat dialling up from ‘simmer’ to ‘boil.’ But in Belfast, there is no dial. There is only a switch, and it has been stuck in the ‘rage’ position since before my great-grandmother was a gleam in her father’s gin bottle. The rioters, the police, the politicians: all playing their parts in a pantomime that has run so long the actors have forgotten they are not the characters.
I spoke to a man named Declan, who stood outside his charred terraced house with the thousand-yard stare of a man who has seen too many reruns. ‘They say they’ll rebuild,’ he said, spitting a gob of tobacco juice that landed with a sad little plop. ‘But they can’t rebuild what was inside.’ He meant his photo albums, his grandmother’s china, his sense of safety. But also, I suspect, he meant his faith in the whole bloody enterprise.
The Government’s plan, as leaked to me by a source who shall remain nameless (but who smelled heavily of cheap cologne and desperation), involves ‘community engagement,’ ‘economic investment,’ and a ‘comprehensive review of policing strategies.’ In other words, the same tired incantations that have been muttered over every peace process since the Good Friday Agreement was signed with a quill made from a harp string.
Meanwhile, the real action is in the pubs. Or rather, the pubs that are still standing. In The Rusted Shillelagh, a establishment that has seen more brawls than a WWE championship, the consensus is grim. ‘Sure, they’ll rebuild,’ said a woman named Siobhan, nursing a pint of black stuff. ‘But we’ll just burn it down again. It’s the only language they understand.’ She smiled, but it was the smile of a shark that has just spotted a politician wading too close to the water.
Your correspondent, for his part, is reminded of a quote from the great philosopher W.C. Fields: ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.’ But the British Government, in its infinite foolishness, persists. Full reconstruction. Full denial. Full stupidity.
As I drain the last of my gin (a Gordon’s, warm and medicinal), I reflect that Belfast is not a city that can be rebuilt with bricks and mortar. It is a city that must be rebuilt with something far more elusive: trust. And trust, as any gin-soaked journalist knows, is like a good martini. Once it’s watered down, it never quite recovers its kick.
