Across the water

Another patch of sky - a little later than advertised. But it is a holiday weekend.

As blue as a shamrock

There’s a definite Irish theme to my patch of sky this week, and a colourful one at that, involving horses and, sadly, a couple of funerals.

Ireland has played an important part in my life. My first visit was on a memorable horse-drawn caravan holiday from Cork when I was sixteen. It was on the second day of the return journey, four days out from Cork on a seven day holiday, that we realised the horse really didn’t want to go back. A few years later I spent a couple of memorable holidays exploring Clare and the Dingle with my best friend from school who had an Irish mother and numerous relatives who provided plentiful Irish teas.

Perhaps most significantly, the love of my life, Rosy, traces her ancestry to Northern Ireland. Her GP father came from Ballymoney and her Irish family connections have always been special to her, with very happy memories of holidays with cousins at Portrush. In these dreary post-Brexit times, she’s also very pleased to have an Irish passport.

In addition, my long time mentor and good friend Brendan Cleary, who lives in Brighton, hails from Whitehead on the coast north of Belfast. And when I was running a literature development agency in Brighton in the early 2000’s, I made contact with Aosdána poet Ciaran O’Driscoll in Limerick, who has also been a most encouraging mentor and friend. Our relationship led to a long poetry partnership between our two cities including regular attendance at our respective poetry festivals.

Tatoes

My first visit to Belfast was during the troubles when I was working on communications projects through consultants A&P Appledore for British Shipbuilders and we made a research trip to Harland & Wolff. The trip involved dinner with the then MD, John Parker at his house in Hillsborough accessed through a dark night via numerous checkpoints manned by men in black with submachine guns. Rather than touching on any business matters, the major topic of discussion over the delicious dinner prepared by Mrs Parker was the quality, the beauty, flavour and consistency of Northern Irish potatoes. Those from Antrim in particular, I seem to remember. I felt a bit like a potato during this conversation, not having a lot to say on the subject.

The next day, on our visit to the famous shipyard where the Titanic had been built, I was surprised to see a Union Jack flying above every work station. I was shocked to discover no member of the Catholic community was employed in that machine shop, or at the yard as a whole, I believe. Major investment has now transformed this area of Belfast into the Titanic Quarter still overseen by the giant yellow cranes with their H&W emblem.

An affectionate farewell

My most recent visit to Belfast was last week to attend the funeral of Rosy’s cousin, Drew McConnell. Drew was a lovely, gentle man with great gifts as a photographer, teacher at the University of Ulster, wit and raconteur, and amateur theatrical impresario, actor-director, producer. The affection for him was evident in the 200 plus people who packed the new Antrim and Newton Abbey Crematorium for his humanist service, shaped by Alan, his partner for forty-five years. Music in this very moving tribute to a great man included E Lucevan Le Stelle from Puccini’s Tosca and the Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band’s arrangement of Elgar’s Nimrod.

Alan, Drew and Rosy, Belfast, October 2022

Alan had chosen He is gone by David Harkins as one of the readings:

He is gone 

You can shed tears that he is gone, 
or you can smile because he has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that he will come back, 
Or you can open your eyes and see all that he has left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see him, 
Or you can be full of the love that you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday, 
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember him and only that he is gone, 
Or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what he'd want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

A Belfast poem

My poem The Dark Room was first published in The Honest Ulsterman a few years ago. I include it here as a tribute to my friend Paul Hoggart who died in March, and whose brother Simon Hoggart’s piece about being a journalist during The Troubles inspired the poem.

The Dark Room

‘There were winter evenings drinking pints of porter in the carved booths of the Crown pub (or worse, consuming Ulster's popular tipple 'Mundie's South African wine, bottled by E.D.McLoon Ltd of Londonderry' which, when thrown on a fire, burned in five different colours, none of them found in nature).’ Simon Hoggart

‘I've cried in the darkroom at times. But when you're out there your thoughts are all professional: angles, light, that sort of thing.’ Alan Lewis

The crump that took the window
out and Jimmy MacAlinden's breath
away left the pub dark, (the landlord
slashed his pinkie polishing a glass
that vanished). Outside the air was
full of letters, smoke. The wraithe
of a cameraman appears dodging
images and mail, sick of fixes
spoilt by tears. After flames
of colour like Mundie's splashed
on a fire, Jimmy's eyes
accommodate the dark,
and watch old negatives float by.

Limerick Man in a plastic bag

A trip to a packed Brighton Dome to see and hear Limerick's very own Blindboy Boatclub's Live Podcast - although I'm not sure it actually went out live. Blindboy is a writer, satirist and multi-talented artist, breaking expectations of conventional genres and styles. His latest book is Topographia Hibernica. He has a huge and loyal following and it was really great to see the Dome packed, mostly with 20-40 somethings. His podcast is very popular and you can find it here. His special guest at the Dome was Grayson Perry. I have to admit to being a bit underwhelmed, partly by Blindboy's constant strawberry-flavour vaping, partly by factual errors (Teddy Boys didn't originate during the late nineteenth century) and mostly by the not-that-interesting conversation. Given what's going on in the world the discussion felt strangely passé. Perry has become that typical result of over-exposure, a kind of parody of himself, or perhaps that's his artistic intention? There was a certain predictable schtick to the whole evening. Perhaps wanting something more entertaining, an audience member's shouted request for the brilliant 'Horse Outside' by the Rubberbandits (of whom Blindboy was one half), was rebutted by Blindboy with the comment 'That was in my twenties. I don't do that any more.'

If you have never heard one of the funniest Irish songs ever, click here.

TV – Red Eye, Blue Lights

Based in Belfast, Blue Lights (BBC3), is a second series about a group of tyro response officers in the Police Service of Northern Ireland. It presents a well-crafted, tautly plotted, and a brilliantly acted and directed contrast with the shambles that is Red Eye (ITV). This is so hammy, poorly scripted and directed that I had red eyes from laughing so much at it unintentional comedy.

I can see Cleary now…

My aforementioned friend and mentor, poet Brendan Cleary has had a tough time over the last six months or so, suffering a couple of strokes in November and December and spending months in hospital before being found emergency accommodation in central Brighton. He’s now on the mend although having to take things very gently. He’s given up smoking which is a huge achievement in itself and is keeping his intake of his favourite ‘scoops’; to a minimum. He will be reading from his new collection, ironically entitled Last Poems? on Monday 13th May, 7pm, at The Foundry pub 13-14 Foundry Street, North Laine, Brighton, BN1 4AT and on Tuesday 21st May at The Poetry Café, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX. Follow the link below to buy his new collection and to hear Brendan read his new collection online.

Brendan was talking about contemporary poetry recently saying how so much of it is 'dire, dire' – a word that has to be spoken with Brendan's Northern Irish accent to give it full pungency. ‘The Emperor has no clothes,' he says. 'It's time for the empire to strike back.' He's puzzled by that fashion for poets to leave large gaps between words. Once in a workshop I remember him asking a participant why they were leaving such large gaps of white space in the lines. They shrugged and didn't have an answer except, 'It's what I do.' It seems to me that as the designer of the poem, the poet should know every reason for every design decision even if it's to have the no-design of a prose poem.

…but the rain hasn’t gone…

It’s Bank Holiday Monday so naturally it’s raining again from Brighton’s patch of sky.

I hope the weather’s better under your patch, although perhaps not as ‘scorching hot’ as 44 degrees, as a friend tells me it is in Chennai, India. Hello, Mythili!

Your Christmas cracker joke for today: What was the first Belfast sink called? Titanic.

And a nice mickey-take of Jacob Rees-Mogg on BBC Radio 4’s Dead Ringers ‘In years to come, Brexit and Titanic will be seen as great British achievements.’