10 April 1997 Edition
Television: The day the IRA made poor Jenny cry
BY LIAM O COILEAIN
Well folks, this is it. The crops are all in, I'm needed no longer. Or as a frostbitten upper lip once remarked, I'm leaving and I may be gone some time.
To mark this momentous event, I paid a visit to the warzone last weekend, courageously confronting the Brits and the RUC on their very dooorsteps. Barely an hour after the Dublin train rolled into Belfast's Central Station on Friday afternoon I was sauntering back and forth outside Andytown Barracks, greatly impressing my overseas companion, silently taunting them to come out and have a go. But they didn't have the bottle. The An Phoblacht offices were shuttered, everybody obviously off recording incidences of crown forces' brutality and general not niceness throughout the Occupied Six Counties.
We checked out the Felons Club but no-one recognised me. At least my cover was intact, even after eight years on the job. So I went back to the plush suite in the Europa Hotel and watched telly for a bit, pausing en route just long enough to call into the Crown Bookies to place a wager on the National. This is the kind of research work I have always relished. Lying on my Queensize bed in one of the most bombed hotels in the world, risking life and limb for my readers. Yes, I was going out in a blaze of glory I thought to myself, as I plumped the pillows and called room service for more coffee. On the televisual front, we can't get Channel Five in Dublin yet but from what I saw as I sipped my brew after tipping the boy, it is no loss, all crappy repeats, soaps and dross.
That night we hit the city centre pubs to track down some republicans, drinking pints after a hard day's canvassing, or so they claimed. We were in luck. It was North Belfast night, so atrocity stories were plentiful and the black humour was particularly pitch. A one-pub crawl and several pints later, we departed with big hugs and comradely promises that we would spend the rest of the night standing outside the Europa in our pyjamas - just for the craic and the price of a local call! In the event our nightmoves were uninterrupted but it was a nice thought.
Saturday marked another day of prowling West Belfast, soaking in the atmosphere of occupation as my companion photographed the murals. She wanted me to take a few snaps too but I declined. Tourists come to Belfast to take photographs - me, I was a revolutionary. Revolutionaries hold the camera case, stand to one side and look cool, hard and vaguely disinterested.
Twenty snaps and a couple of pit stops in various Falls Road hostelries later (to admire the architecture) and we had finally reached the famous Sinn Féin Shop, Siopa na hEalaíne. And this, dear readers, was where my careful plans started to go awry. We tarried too long browsing through books, posters and postcards, and purchasing yet another copy of Ten Men Dead. I looked at my watch as we left and it was 3.25pm. The Grand National was on in just twenty minutes. Time to panic. Sonia O'Sullivan, even without the trots, would have had trouble keeping up with us as we powerwalked back to the Europa, just daring anyone to cross our path. She went to grab a couple of sandwiches, while I, mindful of my duties to yourselves, lashed straight up to the room to soak in what little was left of the pre-race atmosphere. I already knew I had no hope of winning. The last time I backed a winner was when Jenny Pitman's Corbiere won the National, and that was in the mid `80s, as I recall. So you can only imagine how upset I was when I turned on the BBC to see that there had been the Aintree equivalent of a pitch invasion, with what appeared to be thuggish so-called supporters dancing on the famous fences. And then my poor Jenny came on. The woman was tearfully distraught because `they' had no thought for the horses. I shared her anguish as it became clear that the evil men of violence had decreed this race was not for running. I would have to ask the people in the Crown for my money back.
On the other hand, I couldn't believe my luck. This was a real scoop. What are the odds on An Phoblacht's premier columnist just happening to be visiting the most bombed hotel in Europe's most famous hotspot as the IRA call off the most famous horse race in the world? I gripped my pen tightly, soaking up the atmosphere in order to record the moment for posterity. ``Filthy Irish,'' a heckler roared from behind a fence, as the man from the BBC tried to put a brave face on the shambles, before even he was finally ejected from the course.
Over on Sky News the mood was more upbeat. Here was one of those events the station specialises in. Hours of live coverage and comment to look forward to. But the high point of their coverage was the welcome return of our old friend, `terrorism expert' David Capitanchik. The poor man was probably out begging in the streets for the duration of the IRA cessation. ``This could be summed up as the IRA's British General Election Campaign,'' he remarked, mindful of the importance of soundbites if he is to stay ahead of all the pretender `terrorism experts' vying to get on Sky. Dave also felt it would concentrate any incoming Labour government on ``doing something about it [Ireland] as a matter of urgency''. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed his insightful analysis.
Later that evening, also on Sky News, the Reverend Ian Paisley made a determined and ultimately successful attempt to get a mention in my final column. ``I'd like to say to my Roman Catholic fellow countrymen: You'll not breed us out; you'll not burn us out; you'll not break us down. We're here to stay,'' he roared at a right-to-march-wherever-we-damn-like march in Portadown. The burning bit was kind of ironic given the previous news item, which had recorded the gutting by arsonists of two Catholic churches, but then the Big Man was never strong on irony.
Saturday night should have been spent on the town but the lure of another big man, this time American working class hero Michael Moore, proved too strong. A barely adequate meal in Pierre Victoire's ended in time to retire to the big bed for his show, The Big One (BBC2, 9pm). Moore, you will recall, made the excellent Roger And Me, which documented with humour and pathos the decline of his hometown of Flint, Michigan, when General Motors decided to shut all its factories down. His Emmy Award-winning series, Video Nation, returned to that theme of targetting multi-national corporations, particularly those with a penchant for shutting profitable American factories to set up shop in countries where wage levels are ridiculously and attractively low, the economic imperialism of the `90s. At first glance Michael Moore is stereotypically American, overweight, with a decidedly blue collar dress sense and a baseball cap permanently glued to his head. But this is all window dressing. Moore is a master subverter of tabloid television and his show was an absolute joy from beginning to end. He has recently written a book, Downsize This! Random Threats From An Unarmed American, and his publishers, Random House, had sent him on a 47-city tour to promote it. Of course, being Moore, he brought his camera crew along for the ride and managed to put together an all-expenses-paid 90-minute television special. This included visiting the head offices of a surprising number of top US corporations, causing immense discomfort to the hapless security and PR staff unfortunate enough to make his acquaintance. One of these was Johnson Controls in Milwaukee, who, despite profits of £3 billion, were shutting down their US manufacturing operation to relocate in Mexico. Moore turned up bearing gifts, in this case a Downsizer of the Year award and a cheque for 80 cents, to pay the first hour's wage of the first Mexican worker employed. Moore is so big now (no pun intended) among Americans with a social conscience that he even does stand-up. He revealed that he had also sent cheques to the US Presidential candidates. Pat Buchanan cashed his $100 from Abortionists for Buchanan first, while Ross Perot even sent a form letter to Paedophiles for Perot thanking ``you and your fellow paedophiles for your support''. He summed up his personal crusade against corporate greed as follows: ``I like to say, one evil empire down, one to go.''
Way to go, Mick.
Of our well-planned retreat from the warzone there are but two items of interest to record, other than our safe return to base. Firstly, we were enlightened as to the identities of the youngsters with whom we shared the hotel, who were fawned over by staff while we were treated like the cheap railbreakers we were. They were none other than up-and-coming boy band OTT. Wow! If only I had known earlier I'd have made that phone call myself.
Also of interest was Andrew Baker's Sport on TV column in the Independent on Sunday. Obviously written before the IRA decided to give the horsies a couple of days off, he outed ``the young Irishman who gets his kicks every year by joining the procession of jockeys as they leave the weighing-room to saddle up (apparently happy, but he'll be sad when gets arrested this year, having blown his cover)''.
It's poor saps like this phoney jockey that the Prevention of Terrorism Act was designed for, especuially on the day that was in it. Why bother with 15 minutes of fame when you can have seven days of undivided attention with a possibility of 25 to life if you sign on the dotted line.
And finally, Jenny Pitman should have spared her tears for her horse, Smith's Band. The chaser broke its neck and died instantly at the 20th fence in Monday's race - having had a 48-hour reprieve, courtesy of the men of violence.
Anyway, that's all he wrote. Keep the faith in `98!
Well folks, this is it. The crops are all in, I'm needed no longer. Or as a frostbitten upper lip once remarked, I'm leaving and I may be gone some time.
To mark this momentous event, I paid a visit to the warzone last weekend, courageously confronting the Brits and the RUC on their very dooorsteps. Barely an hour after the Dublin train rolled into Belfast's Central Station on Friday afternoon I was sauntering back and forth outside Andytown Barracks, greatly impressing my overseas companion, silently taunting them to come out and have a go. But they didn't have the bottle. The An Phoblacht offices were shuttered, everybody obviously off recording incidences of crown forces' brutality and general not niceness throughout the Occupied Six Counties.
We checked out the Felons Club but no-one recognised me. At least my cover was intact, even after eight years on the job. So I went back to the plush suite in the Europa Hotel and watched telly for a bit, pausing en route just long enough to call into the Crown Bookies to place a wager on the National. This is the kind of research work I have always relished. Lying on my Queensize bed in one of the most bombed hotels in the world, risking life and limb for my readers. Yes, I was going out in a blaze of glory I thought to myself, as I plumped the pillows and called room service for more coffee. On the televisual front, we can't get Channel Five in Dublin yet but from what I saw as I sipped my brew after tipping the boy, it is no loss, all crappy repeats, soaps and dross.
That night we hit the city centre pubs to track down some republicans, drinking pints after a hard day's canvassing, or so they claimed. We were in luck. It was North Belfast night, so atrocity stories were plentiful and the black humour was particularly pitch. A one-pub crawl and several pints later, we departed with big hugs and comradely promises that we would spend the rest of the night standing outside the Europa in our pyjamas - just for the craic and the price of a local call! In the event our nightmoves were uninterrupted but it was a nice thought.
Saturday marked another day of prowling West Belfast, soaking in the atmosphere of occupation as my companion photographed the murals. She wanted me to take a few snaps too but I declined. Tourists come to Belfast to take photographs - me, I was a revolutionary. Revolutionaries hold the camera case, stand to one side and look cool, hard and vaguely disinterested.
Twenty snaps and a couple of pit stops in various Falls Road hostelries later (to admire the architecture) and we had finally reached the famous Sinn Féin Shop, Siopa na hEalaíne. And this, dear readers, was where my careful plans started to go awry. We tarried too long browsing through books, posters and postcards, and purchasing yet another copy of Ten Men Dead. I looked at my watch as we left and it was 3.25pm. The Grand National was on in just twenty minutes. Time to panic. Sonia O'Sullivan, even without the trots, would have had trouble keeping up with us as we powerwalked back to the Europa, just daring anyone to cross our path. She went to grab a couple of sandwiches, while I, mindful of my duties to yourselves, lashed straight up to the room to soak in what little was left of the pre-race atmosphere. I already knew I had no hope of winning. The last time I backed a winner was when Jenny Pitman's Corbiere won the National, and that was in the mid `80s, as I recall. So you can only imagine how upset I was when I turned on the BBC to see that there had been the Aintree equivalent of a pitch invasion, with what appeared to be thuggish so-called supporters dancing on the famous fences. And then my poor Jenny came on. The woman was tearfully distraught because `they' had no thought for the horses. I shared her anguish as it became clear that the evil men of violence had decreed this race was not for running. I would have to ask the people in the Crown for my money back.
On the other hand, I couldn't believe my luck. This was a real scoop. What are the odds on An Phoblacht's premier columnist just happening to be visiting the most bombed hotel in Europe's most famous hotspot as the IRA call off the most famous horse race in the world? I gripped my pen tightly, soaking up the atmosphere in order to record the moment for posterity. ``Filthy Irish,'' a heckler roared from behind a fence, as the man from the BBC tried to put a brave face on the shambles, before even he was finally ejected from the course.
Over on Sky News the mood was more upbeat. Here was one of those events the station specialises in. Hours of live coverage and comment to look forward to. But the high point of their coverage was the welcome return of our old friend, `terrorism expert' David Capitanchik. The poor man was probably out begging in the streets for the duration of the IRA cessation. ``This could be summed up as the IRA's British General Election Campaign,'' he remarked, mindful of the importance of soundbites if he is to stay ahead of all the pretender `terrorism experts' vying to get on Sky. Dave also felt it would concentrate any incoming Labour government on ``doing something about it [Ireland] as a matter of urgency''. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed his insightful analysis.
Later that evening, also on Sky News, the Reverend Ian Paisley made a determined and ultimately successful attempt to get a mention in my final column. ``I'd like to say to my Roman Catholic fellow countrymen: You'll not breed us out; you'll not burn us out; you'll not break us down. We're here to stay,'' he roared at a right-to-march-wherever-we-damn-like march in Portadown. The burning bit was kind of ironic given the previous news item, which had recorded the gutting by arsonists of two Catholic churches, but then the Big Man was never strong on irony.
Saturday night should have been spent on the town but the lure of another big man, this time American working class hero Michael Moore, proved too strong. A barely adequate meal in Pierre Victoire's ended in time to retire to the big bed for his show, The Big One (BBC2, 9pm). Moore, you will recall, made the excellent Roger And Me, which documented with humour and pathos the decline of his hometown of Flint, Michigan, when General Motors decided to shut all its factories down. His Emmy Award-winning series, Video Nation, returned to that theme of targetting multi-national corporations, particularly those with a penchant for shutting profitable American factories to set up shop in countries where wage levels are ridiculously and attractively low, the economic imperialism of the `90s. At first glance Michael Moore is stereotypically American, overweight, with a decidedly blue collar dress sense and a baseball cap permanently glued to his head. But this is all window dressing. Moore is a master subverter of tabloid television and his show was an absolute joy from beginning to end. He has recently written a book, Downsize This! Random Threats From An Unarmed American, and his publishers, Random House, had sent him on a 47-city tour to promote it. Of course, being Moore, he brought his camera crew along for the ride and managed to put together an all-expenses-paid 90-minute television special. This included visiting the head offices of a surprising number of top US corporations, causing immense discomfort to the hapless security and PR staff unfortunate enough to make his acquaintance. One of these was Johnson Controls in Milwaukee, who, despite profits of £3 billion, were shutting down their US manufacturing operation to relocate in Mexico. Moore turned up bearing gifts, in this case a Downsizer of the Year award and a cheque for 80 cents, to pay the first hour's wage of the first Mexican worker employed. Moore is so big now (no pun intended) among Americans with a social conscience that he even does stand-up. He revealed that he had also sent cheques to the US Presidential candidates. Pat Buchanan cashed his $100 from Abortionists for Buchanan first, while Ross Perot even sent a form letter to Paedophiles for Perot thanking ``you and your fellow paedophiles for your support''. He summed up his personal crusade against corporate greed as follows: ``I like to say, one evil empire down, one to go.''
Way to go, Mick.
Of our well-planned retreat from the warzone there are but two items of interest to record, other than our safe return to base. Firstly, we were enlightened as to the identities of the youngsters with whom we shared the hotel, who were fawned over by staff while we were treated like the cheap railbreakers we were. They were none other than up-and-coming boy band OTT. Wow! If only I had known earlier I'd have made that phone call myself.
Also of interest was Andrew Baker's Sport on TV column in the Independent on Sunday. Obviously written before the IRA decided to give the horsies a couple of days off, he outed ``the young Irishman who gets his kicks every year by joining the procession of jockeys as they leave the weighing-room to saddle up (apparently happy, but he'll be sad when gets arrested this year, having blown his cover)''.
It's poor saps like this phoney jockey that the Prevention of Terrorism Act was designed for, especuially on the day that was in it. Why bother with 15 minutes of fame when you can have seven days of undivided attention with a possibility of 25 to life if you sign on the dotted line.
And finally, Jenny Pitman should have spared her tears for her horse, Smith's Band. The chaser broke its neck and died instantly at the 20th fence in Monday's race - having had a 48-hour reprieve, courtesy of the men of violence.
Anyway, that's all he wrote. Keep the faith in `98!