22 October 1998 Edition
Impressed but not overawed
By Jim Gibney
London is an impressive city. It's hard for me to admit that. Until Monday I associated London only with the armed conflict and all the attendant heartache. Although it is now Tony Blair's Britain to shape in his image, when I thought of London I thought of Thatcher and all the pain she brought to Ireland.
But what I saw was appealing to the eye. Many times the layout of streets and the design of houses reminded me of Dublin, making it easier to understand why Irish people make London their second home.
There was also the grandeur of the London elite and aristocracy in evidence, in mile after mile of Regency-style mansions since vacated and now in the hands of hoteliers and landladies serving breakfast to visitors. The wealth and power which produced an empire and such splendour is elsewhere. These homes now echo to sounds from the Caribbean, Africa and Asia, the descendants of those once lorded over in the colonies.
In recent times I've noticed how the television cameras play tricks on your mind. Trafalgar Square, the House of Commons, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace all appear much smaller passing by in a car than they are on television.
I might have judged London a lot earlier but I was banned from Britain for nearly twenty years until last year. The London I knew was mainly from the game Monopoly - or ``Monotony'' as Jamesy from Derry called it (he provides the much needed ``craic'' on ``serious missions'', according to Martin McGuinness and he was in great form on our trip to Downing Street). Many a boring hour was spent in prison playing ``monotony''. But here were the street names; Victoria, Marlborough, Picadilly, Leicester Square. I noticed a signpost for Hyde Park and thought of Speaker's Corner and free speech, something British governments find difficult when it comes to Ireland. On the roadside opposite the Turkish embassy, I presume, there was an all night vigil proclaiming ``Turkey - Hands Off Cyprus'', a tragic reminder of yet another legacy of the British empire.
Downing Street isn't a street as I know streets. It has three houses, 10, 11, and 12 (12 is added on very much as an afterthought like you would a ``granny house''). Narrow at both ends, it's a wind tunnel. ``The coldest street in Europe,'' said one Irish journalist meaning the weather. I thought of other Irish republicans who visited here and interpreted it politically.
Number 10 itself, which is impossible to look at without recalling the television images of the door trembling from the shock waves of an IRA mortar attack, is plain. One's expectations, raised by the ornate buildings surrounding it, are not met. It could be home to any average member of the British establishment instead of the British Prime Minister. But perhaps that is how Tony Blair prefers it.
On assuming office, Mr Blair removed the bullish portrait of Churchill from the wall beside hiss office and replaced it with Clement Atlee, an altogether more appealing portrait and political figure for Blair's Britain. But Churchill is not too far away, a few feet in fact, seperating pictures of Prime Ministers spanning three centuries on the much photographed stairway inside the house. I accompanied one of the guides on a journey of the stairwell and we exchanged stories about Ireland and Walpole, Palmerston, Pitt the Elder and Younger, Disraeli, Gladstone, Lloyd George, Churchill, Wilson, Heath, Callaghan, Thatcher, Major and Blair.
I joined Martin and Tony Blair for a few minutes with some of Blair's close aides. In person Blair is younger and lighter looking. He is also personable. He is surrounded by men and women his own age and younger. His house and administration staff reflect the Britain he says he wants to see; young, energetic and multi-racial.
On the way out I glanced into the Cabinet room with its long polished table, shaped, if my perception is accurate, like a coffin. It was here successive British governments took decisions about Ireland. I reflected on some of the more recent ones: Bloody Sunday, Michael Gaughan, Frank Stagg, Bobby Sands and his comrades, the Gibraltar killings. Such momentous decisions taken in such inauspicious surrounds.
There were three news items competing for the public's attention on Monday. Ireland was number one, the arrest of General Pinochet in a London hospital was number two and number three was the announcement that the British Police Commissioner intended to ensure the police reflected the multi-racial nature of British society.
Three seperate but linked items. All of them a far cry from Thatcher's Britain when she was at war in Ireland, had the active assistance of the Chilean dictator Pinochet in her war in the Falklands and further divided British society along class and ethnic lines.
On a lighter note: on the way home at Heathrow airport we met Danny Morrison and Tim O'Grady, a great friend of Ireland's and author of a number of books about Ireland including the brilliant ``Curious Journey'', a story told by the participants in the Tan War. The previous night in Paddington they had attended a successful concert organised by Tim celebrating Irish emigrants in Britain.
Our two day trip, otherwise arduous, was lightened by the seamless presence of Steve, Phil and friends. We are much indebted.
On the plane home I remembered Martin's earlier comments: ``It's OK to be impressed but not overawed.''
London is an impressive city. It's hard for me to admit that. Until Monday I associated London only with the armed conflict and all the attendant heartache. Although it is now Tony Blair's Britain to shape in his image, when I thought of London I thought of Thatcher and all the pain she brought to Ireland.
But what I saw was appealing to the eye. Many times the layout of streets and the design of houses reminded me of Dublin, making it easier to understand why Irish people make London their second home.
There was also the grandeur of the London elite and aristocracy in evidence, in mile after mile of Regency-style mansions since vacated and now in the hands of hoteliers and landladies serving breakfast to visitors. The wealth and power which produced an empire and such splendour is elsewhere. These homes now echo to sounds from the Caribbean, Africa and Asia, the descendants of those once lorded over in the colonies.
In recent times I've noticed how the television cameras play tricks on your mind. Trafalgar Square, the House of Commons, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace all appear much smaller passing by in a car than they are on television.
I might have judged London a lot earlier but I was banned from Britain for nearly twenty years until last year. The London I knew was mainly from the game Monopoly - or ``Monotony'' as Jamesy from Derry called it (he provides the much needed ``craic'' on ``serious missions'', according to Martin McGuinness and he was in great form on our trip to Downing Street). Many a boring hour was spent in prison playing ``monotony''. But here were the street names; Victoria, Marlborough, Picadilly, Leicester Square. I noticed a signpost for Hyde Park and thought of Speaker's Corner and free speech, something British governments find difficult when it comes to Ireland. On the roadside opposite the Turkish embassy, I presume, there was an all night vigil proclaiming ``Turkey - Hands Off Cyprus'', a tragic reminder of yet another legacy of the British empire.
Downing Street isn't a street as I know streets. It has three houses, 10, 11, and 12 (12 is added on very much as an afterthought like you would a ``granny house''). Narrow at both ends, it's a wind tunnel. ``The coldest street in Europe,'' said one Irish journalist meaning the weather. I thought of other Irish republicans who visited here and interpreted it politically.
Number 10 itself, which is impossible to look at without recalling the television images of the door trembling from the shock waves of an IRA mortar attack, is plain. One's expectations, raised by the ornate buildings surrounding it, are not met. It could be home to any average member of the British establishment instead of the British Prime Minister. But perhaps that is how Tony Blair prefers it.
On assuming office, Mr Blair removed the bullish portrait of Churchill from the wall beside hiss office and replaced it with Clement Atlee, an altogether more appealing portrait and political figure for Blair's Britain. But Churchill is not too far away, a few feet in fact, seperating pictures of Prime Ministers spanning three centuries on the much photographed stairway inside the house. I accompanied one of the guides on a journey of the stairwell and we exchanged stories about Ireland and Walpole, Palmerston, Pitt the Elder and Younger, Disraeli, Gladstone, Lloyd George, Churchill, Wilson, Heath, Callaghan, Thatcher, Major and Blair.
I joined Martin and Tony Blair for a few minutes with some of Blair's close aides. In person Blair is younger and lighter looking. He is also personable. He is surrounded by men and women his own age and younger. His house and administration staff reflect the Britain he says he wants to see; young, energetic and multi-racial.
On the way out I glanced into the Cabinet room with its long polished table, shaped, if my perception is accurate, like a coffin. It was here successive British governments took decisions about Ireland. I reflected on some of the more recent ones: Bloody Sunday, Michael Gaughan, Frank Stagg, Bobby Sands and his comrades, the Gibraltar killings. Such momentous decisions taken in such inauspicious surrounds.
There were three news items competing for the public's attention on Monday. Ireland was number one, the arrest of General Pinochet in a London hospital was number two and number three was the announcement that the British Police Commissioner intended to ensure the police reflected the multi-racial nature of British society.
Three seperate but linked items. All of them a far cry from Thatcher's Britain when she was at war in Ireland, had the active assistance of the Chilean dictator Pinochet in her war in the Falklands and further divided British society along class and ethnic lines.
On a lighter note: on the way home at Heathrow airport we met Danny Morrison and Tim O'Grady, a great friend of Ireland's and author of a number of books about Ireland including the brilliant ``Curious Journey'', a story told by the participants in the Tan War. The previous night in Paddington they had attended a successful concert organised by Tim celebrating Irish emigrants in Britain.
Our two day trip, otherwise arduous, was lightened by the seamless presence of Steve, Phil and friends. We are much indebted.
On the plane home I remembered Martin's earlier comments: ``It's OK to be impressed but not overawed.''