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Allelujiah

The cool atheists – as distinct from those of us for whom this is a phoney argument – are in a flap over the prospect that some people will think Leonard Cohen’s Allelujiah is a religious song.

This follows the news that X Factor winner Alexandra Burke will record it for Christmas, singing it like a spiritual.

Cohen has a way of mixing sexual and religious imagery that would scare the faithful but bewilder the determinedly unspiritual too.  The ‘real’ message of Allelujiah is despair at the prospect of love which is nothing more than a ‘broken Allelujiah’. I’m not sure who’s supposed to be cheered by it, if anybody. And KD Lang’s rendition is the one I love most.

It seems that he has heard this discussion himself before and doesn’t like his words being appropriated for causes.

This version of Allelujiah posted on Youtube and sung by Malvasio, replaces some of the verses with this message:

There’s a blaze of light in every word,
It doesn’t matter what you’ve heard,
The Holy or the broken Allelujiah.

And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the lord of song
with nothing on my tongue but
Allelujiah

Or does anyone know if these are Malvasio’s words?

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We are getting mixed messages about pork; we are being told not to eat it but also that what  has been eaten so far has done no one any harm. Apparently it is a confidence issue, not a health issue.

One commentator on RTE said yesterday that eating pork now would present as great a risk of cancer as smoking one cigarette.

And besides, only one tenth of the pork in the country is contaminated.

OK: there is a one in ten chance that a cigarette has been pureed into your dinner. Do you still want to eat it?

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Wave is a support group for the bereaved of the Troubles and they are holding a carol service in Belfast on December 9, before a Christmas tree with 3,700 lights, to represent the dead. They invited me to their rehearsal last week.

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Can Violence Come Back?

This is a slightly edited version of a talk I gave on November 5 from a panel discussion at the Institute of Irish Studies in Liverpool, on Ten Years After the Agreement.

Last week, a seminar I was invited to participate in with police officers was cancelled because the security risk was too great. The police are waiting for an attack. The chief constable says that dissident groups are competing to be the first to kill a police officer. Of course the optimism of the peace process predicts that such groups can gain no traction within Northern Ireland society now. That is a presumption that many are eager to test. The popular understanding is that such groups cannot function because they cannot achieve popular support of the kind that the Provisional IRA had. But the IRA had means of contriving popular support and had an enemy which, at the beginning, wasn’t alert to the need to prevent that.
The Provisionals were never able to rally popular support around an armed struggle for a united Ireland.
But they were able to mobilise popular support and sympathy around other issues, most notably, of course, the hunger strikes.

Has Northern Irish society the resources to withstand growing paramilitarism?
To do that it must have assimilated lessons from the past.
Never to give the propaganda advantage to the insurgent group through your own ill considered military action.
Not to allow horrific deadlocks like the Hunger strikes or the Drumcree stand off to develop.
Always to make the case for a fair and balanced society. The voice of the state in the early Troubles was smug and derisive.

So how well are we doing?

We often hear people saying, if you had told me 10 years ago that one day the IRA and the Democratic Unionist party would be sharing power in Belfast, I would have laughed at you. Well there is just so long that a cliche like that can continue to pertain.
Actually what they expected 10 years ago was that, within a year, the four major parties in Northern Ireland would be governing a peaceful demilitarised society. That was the promise of that day in 1998 when the agreement was made. If there was a miracle it was then; there have been precious few miracles since. There has, instead, been conflict by other means, a protracted peace process in which parties sought to undermine and wrongfoot each other, in which the peace process itself was played to sectarian advantage until the minority, that is more extreme, parties in each community took the ascendant, having thrived on deadlock.
Well, now they are in power, and they continue to needle each other. Sinn Fein boycotts the executive in protest against the Democratic Unionist Party’s refusal to allow the devolution of policing and justice. Neither side, however, wants to crash the devolved assembly so, having created a deadlock they work to resolve it. And this becomes evidence of their ultimate good intentions towards each other.
We are still in a phase in which faith is retained only through benign readings of the manner in which problems are resolved, when those problems are created for each other by the parties themselves.

The most recent example is the management of a homecoming parade from the Royal Irish Regiment and the Sinn Fein protest against it on Sunday last.
The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Mr Shaun Woodward, and much of the media, invites us to read that parade as evidence of enormous progress, yet peace was maintained only with difficulty and only with the co-operation of the leaders of three and possibly four paramilitary factions.

Sinn Fein had first organised a protest march against the RIR homecoming, along a route which would have brought them perilously close to loyalist protesters from the Shankill Road and dissident republican groups bussed in from across Northern Ireland. Not only had they played a tired old sectarian card, they had planned their own parade in a manner which put them in grave danger. When Gerry Kelly announced last Thursday that Sinn Fein was changing its route, he presented it as an act of generosity and reconciliation. That change was essential to the security need that paramilitary organisations be kept separate from each other.
There was no violence on the day because all police leave was cancelled so that enormous manpower could be brought to the task of keeping factions apart. Sinn Fein’s parade was marshalled by senior members of the IRA. Loyalist protesters, including about a thousand members of the UDA, were held in check by the UDA leadership. Dissident republicans marched to a police barrier, made a speech to the effect that they would not fight today but would at another time.
So, you can marvel at the fact that paramilitary leaders can marshal thousands of people and keep them under control, and read that as evidence of a mature and stable post conflict society. Or you can take last Sunday as a reminder that there is still dangerous sectarian anger in the air.
We live still with the politics of sectarian needling and, it seems, the best that we can hope for is that parties will draw limits to how far they will go in needling the other side.
We have a mandatory coalition in government in Northern Ireland but relations between the two larger parties are tetchy.
The first minister Peter Robinson is irascible by nature. He has damaged his own standing by angry threats which he has failed to follow through with. He has a problem similar to that which bedevilled David Trimble. Senior members of his party appear to be signalling that they would oppose compromises with Sinn Fein.
Similarly, there is a worry that the leadership of Sinn Fein is no longer coherent. Gerry Adams has kept himself off the executive yet he has exclusive responsibility for appointing Sinn Fein ministers. One of those ministers, Catriona Ruane the education minister, is conspicuously inept and unpopular, yet the first and deputy first ministers have no power to remove her. The suspicion grows that Adams enjoys the havoc that she reeks.
Another of the cliches about Northern Ireland is that it is proof of progress that old enemies are arguing now about education and health. Well it isn’t. It feels much as the peace process did, like conflict by other means, conducted on a gamble that the party which most annoys the other side will reap the greater number of votes on its own side.
In this context there are two great dangers we have to be alert to. The first is simply that by treating the political settlement as a sectarian contest, Sinn Fein and the DUP risk wrecking it. For now, they may be like boxers pulling their punches. But accidents can happen. The politics of brinkmanship may one day fail, and parties that have been pampered with the illusion that there is always a solution and the compromise and a face saver available, may one day find that there isn’t.
The other danger is that violence will return. The security threat from dissident republicans is currently high. We have to assume that Sinn Fein and the DUP have already agreed on how to cope with the aftermath of a successful attack., that on that day Peter Robinson will confront those to the right of him who would make that grounds for crashing the deal and that Gerry Adams will stand firm beside the PSNI and endorse strong measures against dissident republicans.

We may have to see Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness walk together in a police funeral, preferably carrying the coffin.
On that day, the survival of the agreement may depend on both the DUP and Sinn Fein displaying a consideration for the problems of the other that has so far eluded them.

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Cats: Part 2

But when we got Jackson home, some of my father’s thinking about cats began to make sense.
Cats brings coughing and sneezing into a house and it would have been natural for countryfolk of a couple of generations ago to connect that in their minds with tuberculosis.  Indeed, they probably saw tuberculosis symptoms exacerbated by cat allergies.
I give Jackson the secret nickname Toxin.
We have had three other cats over the years in the house and had never noticed that they weren’t quite as allergenic as this one, but that, ironically, was probably because the others were surly withdrawn and traumatised cats.  Smudge had been put out of Twinbrook by the Provos, at least his family had.  Skitter had been found on a skip in a shoebox with her siblings when she was only a few hours old.  The kittens were distributed among teachers at the school where my wife works, and Maureen hand raised hers.  It was virtually feral.  But cats had been with us for all our time together so we hadn’t noticed how toxic they were.  Maureen’s asthma just seem inevitable and routine.
It had cleared up after Skitter died so we should have seen the cat connection plainly then.
But I wanted to surprise her and knew how much she loved cats and thought that on balance the happiness that she would get from having another one in the house would weigh against the occasional asthmatic coughing and spluttering.  And sure wasn’t the new inhaler working wonders anyway?
And it also seems that after years of the surly Skitter, the arrival of an affectionate cat would be a particular treat.
Toxin was lethal.  I, who had not been aware of any allergic reaction to previous cats, suffered puffy eyes and hard flaky snot.  Maureen hugged and kissed him and doted on him.  What was the point in having an affectionate cat if you couldn’t do that?
So I trawled the net for advice on how to survive little Toxin.
Some said that it might be possible to teach a little kitten to enjoy being washed.  The allergenic chemicals are in the saliva which the cat licks all over its body.
Toxin’s affectionate disposition gave way to raw savagery when he was introduced to water and shampoo.
We seemed to make some small progress with spray-on shampoo that could be brushed off, but Toxin sat blithely licking it off when I’d finished.
And the heaving and the coughing and spluttering went on.
Except for a couple of days when we were away in Scotland, only to resume ferociously when Toxin lept into her lap to welcome her home.
I took on the fathering role, which is to say that I did the nasty jobs, like taking toxin to the vet, first for a checkup and then to have his balls off.  I had fed him antibiotic tablets twice a day, clenching his jaw shut to force him to swallow them.  And I gave him eyedrops.  At first he accepted this interference in his privacy but progressively his resistance increased until I had to wrap him in a thick towel and clench him firmly while he straightened like a rod and shot out his claws. At one point he even barked at me.
Maureen’s worry was that if we sent him to a new home he would be traumatised, but he was acquiring the sense already that the world was against him, or at least that I was against him.
We found friends on Facebook who would take him.
He’ll have children to play with; he’ll be happy, I assured her.
I was now as fastidious as any official cat protector.
For Maureen, it was like watching a child go out into the world.  Her tears were for little Jackson and her hopes that he would be happy.
I admit, that my own sympathy had not risen that high.

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My father hated cats.
He thought that they spread TB. He wouldn’t have a dog in the house either but he wouldn’t even have had a cat in the coal shed.
He was a Donegal peasant who had refined his manners enough for the city back streets and the pub and no more. He was from among people who were plain and harsh, which is what the Donegal rain would do to anyone.
So one thing he would not understand if he was around today is the procedure you go through to get a cat.
If he had wanted one for catching mice – and he didn’t because he didn’t mind mice – but if he had, this is how he would have done it.
He’d have gone to a neighbour.
‘Have you drowned that litter yet? he would have said.
And if the neighbour hadn’t got round to it; ‘well, leave one out of the bag for me, will you.’
He spoke to people as if he was giving orders even when he was asking a favour.
‘Cats and magpies. They kill for pleasure. Only people who don’t know them could love them.’
Well, my wife loves them and our last cat – a beast so grumpy that I fancy my da might have softened to it – crossed over to the other side last month, taking its eight surplus lives with it. And I chose to surprise her with another.
There are plenty of places to get a cat, but it turned out not to be as easy as just turning up at the Cats’ Protection League with a plastic cage to carry one home in.
I went with my niece, who is even further along the family tree from the Donegal roots and therefore a sweeter nicer person. She loves cats and was almost purring herself at the sight of pictures of them in the reception area when a woman greeted us with.
‘Lovely, but have you had your home visit yet?’
I turned into my father in reaction to that.
‘Why do we need a home visit?’
‘No need to be aggressive’, said the woman. I thought I had come to do her a favour and take one of her cats off her hands. She saw herself more as a social worker in an adoption agency.

‘Do you have children?’ I didn’t like this. Play coy with a social worker and she’ll suspect all sorts of reasons for it.
I said I would like to ask questions first, before discussing my personal history and opening my family circumstances for inspection. Hmmmm. She had clearly handled difficult people before. She had a strategy.
She handed me over to a male member of staff who would show me their kittens, and then, if I wanted to proceed, I could arrange a home visit and be inspected too.

That seemed reasonable.
The kittens were mostly scrawny and scarred wee things. One of them liked ham, said the man. They clearly weren’t what I wanted anyway. I was looking for something more – ornamental. So we went on to Assisi, another animal shelter which the Cats’ Protection man said didn’t insist on home visits.
There we picked Jackson, an almost totally black three month old kitten who extended a pleading paw through the bars of his cage. There are very few real black cats left, apparently, since the line was almost expunged in the purge of witches’ familiars.

Jackson, once we had changed his name, would fit in well. First we had to make a ‘donation’ and fill in a form.
He whimpered in the plastic cage on the office counter while I detailed all my past cats and their deaths: Smudge, Misery and Skitter – two roadkills one diabetes and euthanasia – not a good record. I then had to agree to a future home visit – which hasn’t happened yet – and sign a commitment not to let Jackson go outside the house.
I had got off lightly.
A young couple beside us had chosen kittens to bring home. ‘The manager wants you to bring your children here so that we can observe how they interact with the kittens before we let you take them.’
These people were entirely agreeable. They read this perhaps as confirmation that Assisi was just the sort of outfit they wanted to receive cats from, run by cat lovers like themselves.
My da would have told them to get stuffed.

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The Catholic Church and the Orange Order

They haven’t exactly settled their differences but they are trying to be friends.

When Cardinal Brady thanked the Orangement for their efforts at conciliation, the Orangemen – some of them – were positively chuffed.

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‘Anybody here that is any good goes to London.’
That was the line that got the best laugh at a discussion on BBC arts programming last week. The BBC Trust had organised an “engagement” between members of the arts community in Northern Ireland and senior BBC staff, including the controller.
I was invited as a guest speaker on my own appraisal of BBC arts coverage. And, since I was being paid by the BBC Trust to say plainly what I thought about arts programming, I said that I thought it was hampered by a bad ethos which devalued local work, devalued the audience (because really, much of the BBC would prefer that it was catering for a younger cooler crowd than those who tune in) and devalued the arts, by concentrating more on artists lives than on their work.
You can read the whole thing on my blog: www.malachiodoherty.com.
So what was so funny, after this, about a man in the audience saying, ‘anybody here that is any good goes to London’?
Well, it sounded like such a naive thing to say.
He was speaking in a room full of Northern Ireland artists and writers who mostly work here. Effectively he was telling them that they – we – were second rate.
But a good joke has many layers, and I suspect that another layer to this one, in people’s minds, was that it disclosed the secret thinking of many in the BBC who make arts programmes.
Traditionally the BBC regards the centre, London, as the top of its pyramid. Programmes made there have bigger budgets, broadcasters pull higher fees. But isn’t there something intrinsically odd about allowing a city hundreds of miles away to be the arbiter of the work we do in and about our own place? London will never have it the other way round.
Of course, we cannot blame those artists and producers who want to address the bigger UK audience, of course. But the temptation then will be to measure success in programme-making by its appeal to London rather than by its grasp of Northern Ireland.
And work that is understood and appreciated across the whole UK is not necessarily better work for that. It may, in fact, be more shallow work. That certainly has been my experience in television. When I worked on documentaries for Channel 4 I felt that I had to shed my intimate understanding of Northern Ireland and start thinking like an English person looking at it from a distance.
True, outside journalists did fantastic investigative work here that was not done locally, but the credibility and sincerity of the best writing and broadcasting on Northern Ireland can only ever be tested by a local audience.
If the people I meet on the street think what I write is crud then no good review in London is going to make it any more plausible.
And if London is the judge of what is good, it can also stifle good work that it doesn’t want, which is why we get no Northern Ireland Troubles drama on the BBC, for instance. It is nothing to do with whether the experience of the Troubles produces good stories; of course it does.
It has much to do with a sense that we are mad an unintelligible and that when outsiders try to promnounce on us they cause offence where they don’t expect to. better then just to leave it alone.
There is a feeling after the troubles that what is native to Northern Ireland is tawdry and part of a past that is best forgotten. So we get dramas filmed in Belfast in which Belfast plays the part of an unnamed British city. And locally, many think that is wonderful because it is creating work for artists and winning us acceptance on the network. But I wonder if Bristol and Glasgow have to pay such a high price and disguise themselves.
We should not be in awe of London. It is not better than here; there is just more of it.
And if it hasn’t the confidence to engage Northern Ireland, that should just be its own problem; not ours.

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Great news. Alan Murray, the blogger charged with harassment for discussing public figures on his blog – the way any journalist would – has had his day in court and been acquitted!

What were the police thinking of, pursuing such a ridiculous case?

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Clonard

This is my report on the visit of Church of Ireland Bishop Harold Miller to the Clonard Novena in Belfast in June.

http://www.malachi.podcastpeople.com/posts/24955

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