radicalnorthbelfast

All along the Waterfront
'A Belfast Odyssey’
By Rois
It was a wet windy night in April 2008, as we made our way across from north Belfast to the Mangie Dog Bar. The pub, was managed by Fonsie, he was well known drinking circles for his acerbic wit. Especially when evicting his arch enemy Brandon, horizontally from the premises. Indeed it was following Brandon's, nightly, horizontal exit for drinking out of the wrong side of a pint that we slipped in.

The Mangie Dog
There are plenty of disused churches that have been converted into pubs. The Mangie Dog was an abandoned 1980's yuppie wine bar on the outskirts of the university campus in South Belfast. It hadn't as much been converted as adopted, some said fostered by the Church of Free Thought and Feeble embodiment (non-subscribing). Head Bishop and bar manager is Fonsie. It caters for the poor creatures of the night and opens at 7.00pm for confessions, penance and, oh yes, it still sells alcohol (the reason it is non sub-scribing)).

If Fonsie was the head bishop in his own church, then Brandon is his Nemesis, the anti Christ. He looks 50, dresses like he's 29, but is really 39 years old. Divorced with three children, He has at least three distinct personalities and three homes. He lives most of the time with Tessie in the Lower Ormeau. Then sometimes, when he's really pissed he pitches up at his ex wife’s place at 3am just to remind her of what she was missing. When nobody at all loved him he had a room in a shared house somewhere in the Lower Falls. Wherever he was living, he spent most of the time in the MANGY DOG. He has degree in sociology, for a while he was a Sinn Fein groupie, but in his quest for free thought he began to hang with those who he thought were the IT crowd. Free thinkers, Artisans, musicians, mural painters, cartoonists, Authors, Journalists, Community workers, crazy women, drunks and drug aficionados.. He believes firmly that dope has a beneficial affect on communities and should be a part of social policy and a crucial element in the Peace Process.. Brandon also believed in Irish Aliens and his own infallabity, he is in short, a part-time self employed genius with a penchant for mixing it.

He once worked for the civil service for 5 and half weeks, sacked for abusing flexi time, he used to get up around lunch time and go straight to the Mangie Dog where he retrieved his laptop, logged on and he was ready for work.

Since he started he had accumulated a total of 1.5 days in the office, time which he spent persuading everyone else in his office that they should do the same and advising his immediate supervisor that he had the correct working practice that would maximise the output of civil servants, by cutting down on time spent travelling to and from work, child care and travel expenses.
His plans for total rationalisation of the service alienated all grades of employees. He suggested sacking some of the highly overpaid fat cats who he discovered did nothing but have meetings with other people who did nothing, the result of which was usually some bad shit passed down to the people who do things.
Initially this went down well with the lower grades. That was however until his NIPSA shop steward Clive, who whilst sharing a Gin & Tonic with his counterpart in the Senior Grades Association, in latter’s club, learned that more jobs would be lost at the bottom than the top. The senior civil servant pointed out that there would be a trickle down effect of job losses, by the time the cuts reached the lower levels it would be like a deluge. It works like this Clive old chap. The top levels of the civil service do absolutely nothing, not even think for themselves, they rarely even come into the office and when they do its usually to tell the minnows of some efficiency drive or introduce some crazy target. Like a heart surgeon must strive to carry out 3.7 heart operations a day, if you are the .7 tough shit!.
You're wheeled into the hospital, sirens tubes and flashing lights everywhere. Your surgeon after scrubbing up comes to see you, you say how many procedures have carried out today Doc. WHAT THREE! I’m FUCKIN' OUTTA HERE!, I’ll COME BACK IN THE MORNING.
For decisions like this he gets a huge salary, tax breaks and usually gets a mention in the Queens new years honours list. If Brandon’s idea was adopted and the fat cat is sacked as well, he has people to do everything for him, well their jobs would go too, and their support staff, and their support staff..... It would be catastrophic, the civil service would collapse, in hospitals patients would be lying about on trolleys for days on end, schools would stop teaching, and police would stop catching criminals. It s a mad idea, he has to be stopped.
Clive said that he agreed and promised a wildcat strike, his senior thanked Clive and said he was thinking about something similar for his lot, but he would hold off recommending it to his members until he saw how Clive and the NIPSA strike got on. Clive on his return into work, immediately demanded an all out strike in support of the bosses. Thousands of jobs would be put at risk if the bosses were sacked. Not to mention the millions of pounds of redundancy money. ALL THIS AND WHY?
All because of Brandon.

What Brandon didn't understand was the structure and purpose of the Civil service. For him the civil service was actually service based, and actually bore some relationship to the task they had to do for the public. Brandon’s theory was that the right number of civil servants were employed to provide a first rate service to the general public. In which the minimum amount of workers required produced the maximum amount of work for the public good. Of course the civil service worked in reverse in employment and public service terms. Everyone has heard of Pyramid schemes, where resources produced by the many people at the bottom are quickly sucked up through the system until it reaches the few at the top where it stays. You can go to prison for it, many fraudsters have.
That is, except of course when it involves democratic governments, it then suddenly becomes entrenapurmanship. Commercial expertise and business acumen.. Capitalism, to you and me.
Its funny isn't, get up in the morning, go to the bookies spend all day gambling, you would quite rightly be categorised in the waster profile of mankind. Stick a suit on, head off for the City, spend all day playing the stock Market and you will be thought off in the productive section of society. What’s the difference? There is none! Oh there is , I forgot, the man in the Bookies usually uses his own money!
No the Civil Service operated the Reverse Diamond Scheme of work ethics. which is essentially this, the bulk of the workers are in the middle of the diamond and instead of the upward, one way system used in the Pyramid Scheme, the Reverse Diamond scheme is a twin speed (super fast and efficient or dead slow and dribble, dual, single bypass system, up and down, the profit, money and resources on the super fast highway, bypass the middle, up to the top whilst all the services, benefits and treatments are dribbled down filtering decrementally through the middle. Until there is nothing left for those at the bottom. The affect of this is that , when your kid comes home from school saying that he is learning Quantum Physics, Human Resoursing and 3rd level jargonise in business studies that you don't notice he's being taught along with 36 other pupils by a 17 yr old probationary classroom assistant with a broken pencil and four photo copies of the text book.

It didn't last long his career as a public servant. Brandon, for a genius hadn't deduced, that his electronic swipe photo I.D. card did more than just let people know who he was. It came in handy in the in the wee small hours when he used to look at it to remind himself of who he was.
And, Yes, and it definitely made life easier for him when, he periodically went to Donegal to a mates holiday home to 'find himself'.
The last time Brandon had been in Donegal he left the ID card behind him in his mate Seans, a teacher in the Bunscoil. He taught Gaelic PE and gave out the milk, he got the job in the early eighties when nobody really knew what they were doing in the Irish School business.
Sean had been released from the H Blocks, and was looking for a career change and Irish teacher seemed right up his street. The fact that the only Irish he had, was learned on the Easter commemoration in the cages. CLAY, CLAY, CLAY MAR SE(left, left, left, right left). He still didn't have anymore Irish and his pupils, whilst, they were not very fit, everyone said they could march beautifully in a straight line.
Anyway, Brandon didn't only leave his ID card behind in Seans, he also stashed an Acid trip in the sugar bowl in the kitchen. (Brandon thought it was a new super strong type called a Macro Dot that he had scored off an Ulster/Scots exchange student from Ballymoney).
Sean fond of his tea, had a huge mug and took five heaped spoonfuls of sugar in tea. It was July and Sean was heading to the Fleadh in Clonmel where he was to meet Brandon and give him his ID card, he brought his mug and a huge flask of sweetened hot tea.
To cut a long story short, he drank his tea on the train down and by the time he reached Clonmel the Knights of Malta had to resuscitate him after he tried to kill himself by self strangulation. When the CIE guard had asked to see his ticket and the ID card came out of his pocket along with his ticket, He took one look at the card, thought he was Brandon and decided there and then to do himself in

Eventually Brandon got his card back, though he didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

Sean on the other hand never returned to Gaelic PE, instead he joined the missions and ended up doing mission work in a leprosy colony in the Philippines. The last Irish visitor to the Island had been in the 1890's. A convict called Murphy, escaped off a convict ship bound for Australia, Murphy was washed up on an isolated Island, and the only other inhabitants were three aboriginal women with leprosy. Today the Island is populated entirely by five foot tall, Flakey, Red headed aboriginals, all called Murphy.

Back in Belfast, Brandon or 'genius’ as he preferred to be known was called into work and explain his time keeping. The ID card also doubled as a clocking in card, it let his employers know when he was in and when he was out it also calculated his wages. Chaos ensued.

Brandon went ballistic when he got his months wages £67.50 , and immediately demanded his full salary. He produced what amounted to five and a half weeks work most of it done in the middle of the night in the pub. This sent alarm bells through the civil services right to the top, Somebody who could produce five and a half weeks work whilst actually only being in work for one and a half days, who wanted the entire civil services to adopt the same working practices, had to be silenced before a politician heard and tried to implement this mad policy. There could only be one outcome if it went ahead thousands of jobs lost not to mention the rise in alcoholism. Brandon landed back in the Mangie Dog with a cheque for 10 grand, his redundancy package from the civil service.

Brandon had worked for the DHSS, in the department that dealt with Charities and Voluntary Help lines and Pet registration. Before he departed he wreaked his revenge by hacking into the main computer and swapped the charity help lines telephone numbers around.

Nobody noticed at first, suspicions were first raised that something was amiss when an 11 year old P7 pupil from Carnlough with an English Grammar query rang the 11+ helpline was put through to the APATHETIC DYSLEXIA SCOYITE, and was told to put the commas and apostrophes where ever he liked, cause nobody knows what the difference is or what they were supposed to do anyway. That was put down to a computer glitch.

However, when people phoning what they thought was the North and West Belfast Health Trust's, Cardio-vascular Emergency Support Unit were put through to the SCYTZOPHRENIC ALTZEIMERS charity - WHO? FORGOT. Three near fatalities in that one. They thought they were victims of a computer virus, but before Brandon’s little subterfuge was discovered. A major security situation was developing in the Lower Falls.
A 38 year old suicidal man from Ballnafeigh, was atop Divis Tower,had sparked a major security alert by gaining access to the roof with a view to launching himself off and out of this life was having second thoughts
He had just lost his job, had his house re-possessed, his oldest son had just 'come out' as a transgendered, cross dressing, asexual nun. To cap it all his wife had just left him for another....woman! Backing away from the precipice, crying out his errant wife’s name CEIRA......OH, CEIRA.....WHY DID YOU DO IT?, he fell over a RTE aerial with 32 different TV cables spliced into it circa 1978, disturbing the Brit unit which had been asleep since the IRA cessation in 1994.
On hearing the man shouting out his wife’s name they misheard and immediately thought he was shouting CIRA - CIRA and believed they were under imminent attack from dissident Republicans. Panicking they ordered a total lock down of the flats, no movement in or out, this meant shutting down the lift which stopped mid floor. Inside the lift Big Bad Bob and the rest of his RIRA unit who had been thrown to the floor, immediately thought they had been captured and phoned for reinforcements starting a chain of events that took years to sort out. The RIRA rang the INLA, who in turn rang the CIRA. The phone call was over heard by the Intelligence Officer of the PIRA who spent most of his time now, bugging and monitoring other Irish Republicans, he then extending the hand of peace across the interface told his opposite number in the UVF they told the RHC who passed it on to the UDA ....who told their handlers in the PSNI/RUC DMSU....,not to be left out the Brits on the Tower had contacted headquarters.. And the SAS and FRU had been sent to relieve their beleaguered colleagues.
By the time the man from Ballnafeigh pulled out his mobile phone the whole conglomeration of Initialled, alphabeticalised band of lunatic armies, freedom fighters, defence forces with their Volunteers, Staff Captains, OC's, IO's, QM's, from North South East and West, they were all descending on Divis Flats.
He was corralled by the dazed Brits near the corner edge, dialling what he thought was the SAMARITANS, was put through to a School Bullying counsellor at CHILDLINE, and was advised to stop snivelling, wipe his nose, pull up his socks and tell his Mummy!

Menawhile back at the Mangie Dog
'Two of your best Pints' Bartender, go easy on the sarcasm'
.
It was 12.30 at night and we had left the New Lodge at 7pm, Belfast, which had been reasonably quiet for years, was burning......... !

'Youse are late tonight boys' said Fonsie, his Doc Martin boot still pinning Brandon to the floor.

'Aye Fonsie, we got caught up in the government’s latest Community relations initiative........'Will they never learn to leave well enough alone'

'What happened' gurgled Brandon as he threatened Fonsie with the Northern Ireland Human Rights Commission for gross violation of his drinking rights.

'I'll give you human rights commission'; growled Fonsie, getting bored and tiring banging what passed for Brandon's head against the bar counter. It was a regular occurrence, Brandon even had his own indentation in the mahogany bar counter, and it was a perfect fit for his face. As Fonsie never tired of demonstrating.

'You don't believe anyone with a right mind would give somebody who spends 85% of his life on his back and the other 15% stuck to the ceiling, human rights, do you?' Finished Fonsie, thinking literally and latterly at the same time.

'Well as far as I can make out, it all started when..............'Fonsie, put Brandon down, give him a pint before falls victim to that headcase wife of his, we saw her waiting outside the Hatfield to ambush the poor crater. You couldn't hate him that much.'

'Hate him, I don't hate Brandon, I just enjoy reminding him that I live in the real world, not the independent, Republic of Ganja, and here on planet earth we pay for our drinks!'

'Carry on, what you were saying...............'

It all started like this:

There had not been an Inter-Community Cup final in decades.

The last was in 1969, the match, between old rivals the Blues and the Greens had been called off, permanently suspended, after the serious trouble broke out involving players, fans and management.
The Succer authorities official inquiry into the violent events, found that the blame for the wholesale intimidation and near collapse of the State lay firmly and squarely with Sean O'Seosamh (John Joe), the Greens centre forward.
According to official Succer authority papers leaked to journalists this week, Seamus O'Seosamh (John Joe), whilst celebrating his second goal had acted in manner likely to cause a severe breach of the act of union. (Sean, after scoring had fallen to his knees and blessed himself).
Local folklore though tells a different story and though unreliable, uncorroborated and heavily biased, it gives the reader an uncanny insight into the conflicting reports of what really happened at the big match.
The game had been called off in the 15th minute due to crowd trouble caused by the Greens 2nd goal scorer indulging in an act of gross anti Blueism. Indeed it was the second goal that sparked the violence. The referee stopped the game, awarded the Blue team the Inter-community cup and told them to keep it!
The infuriated green side chased after the ref, who was busy celebrating with his brother, the Blues captain, they demanded to know why the match had been stopped?
The referee sent them all off...........And then it kicked off, for real.
Much wrecking, rioting and general mayhem ensued across the city. The violence continued for the next 25 years only, pausing twice, once for the papal visit in 1979, and once in 1982 when 'Norn Iron' reached the quarterfinals of the World Cup.

'He was some striker that Seamus O' Seasamh', interrupted Fonsie, who had the annoying habit of not keeping up with the story. 'Me Da knew him, they both worked as rat catchers in the Waterworks for the Corporation'

'Aye, better than that Gerry, bloody Armstrong' says a wee 'oul man from the docks, who we think is called Hugh, he pronounces it 'Cue'.
He was a regular, when you became a regular in the Mangie Dog; nobody knew your name, especially when the abandoned wives were on the phone.
Everyone appreciated Fonsie when the phone rang.......Fonsie liked to think he was doing the abandoned women, he called them his 'fallen ladies', a public service, protecting them from the inherent amount of bullshit espoused by their partners.
The truth is, the punters in the Mangie Dog were, either too pissed, stoned, Tripped up, loved up or suffering from paranoid, manic depression (delete as appropriate), to remember each other's names.
'Aye,......... Falls Road man, my arse! 'Traitor' Cue wheezed, drawing deeply on a roll-up, and promptly threw up a lump of phlegm the size of a golf ball which hit the fag machine. It slowly slid down the chrome plastic landing in the coin trap, just as Blythe was reaching for his change.

His name wasn't Blythe of course, it was Billy, and every time Billy did amphetamines he developed a severe stutter. Watching Billy, choking, trying to order a drink was a sight to behold, he was like an epileptic, pubescent sheepdog trainer with ADHD, trying to collect his 3rd place rosette on 'one man and his dog', without swallowing the dog whistle.
It just sounded like 'Blythe' when Fonsie asked him his name the first night he had sprinted into the 'Mangie' whilst buzzed up on speedballs looking for a drink. That night went down in history....... What happened next was Blythe and Fonsie played 'guess what I want to drink' for the next two and a half-hours. Eventually, Blythe after first turning blue, then purple and eventually a vivid shade of pink, a cross between cerise and puce. Cleared his throat, shaking violently he closed one eye and aimed himself across bar to his seat. He did so with such determination, that he dispersed his change and a weird liquid, the colour of the inside of the inside of a Turkish delight, with a one inch florescent yellow head, around the assembled punters in the dark Bar.
In one hand he'd held a strange mixture of Olde English, Blue WKD and Newcastle Brown Ale in a pint pot and his change in the other. By the time Blythe had sat down, his glass was empty and he was skint!
His fate was sealed, from that point on every time he came in he sat down and Fonsie brought the strange drink over to him. It just seemed easier that way; a Mangie Dog tradition was born.
Later Blythe, swore on the bible he'd ordered a Bacardi and diet Coke.
Fonsie was having none of it, subsequently Blythe developed a liking for his new cocktail, and he had no choice! Fonsie even named the tipple, 'Nitrosem', an explosive experience! It said it on the chalkboard menu above the till. (According to Brandon, it was he who named the new drink after a mixture of his favourite explosive substances from the old days, so he said),
'Shut up Brandon', grumbled Fonsie

'He's good on Radio Ulster so he is, said a confuddled Brandon, oblivious to the danger he was in....
.
'WHO IS?' I asked him, aware that the situation within the dark bar was quickly entering the twilight zone.
'GERRY BLOODY ARMSTRONG, THATS WHO, him and that May McFettrige, she's from the Cliftonville ya know, ... My Ma went to St. Gemmas with her', enthused Brandon whose grip on reality was slowly diminishing as he contemplated a night of passion with Tessie, his girlfriend and sparring partner'.
Fonsie clattered Brandon round the head with a tin tray, still annoyed at Brandon's plagiarising of the new cocktail name.
'THATS GERRY KELLY YOU'RE TALKIN ABOUT', said Fonsie falling under the influence of the Mangie Dogs enormous capacity for shite talk. Though Fonsie liked to believe that it was the bars, eclectic ambience and art nouveau decor that created the Mangie Dogs legendary (in Fonsies head) ethos for, as he put it.... 'Intellectual discussions by men of letters on worldly topics that have occupied the minds of the world’s greatest thinkers'. Fonsie once said in a pure moment of sheer bullshittery, that he liked to think of himself as Belfast's own Socrates or Plato, even Homer.

'Aye, more like Disney's Pluto and Homer 'fuckin' Simpson, you wanker...'
Brandon flew across the bar, as once again Fonsie propelled him against the wall, unfortunately for Brandon his braces caught in the lace eyelet of Fonsies Doc Martin. He hit the wall and straight back into the danger zone, He appeared to be glued to Fonsies boot, It looked a lot like that contraption that parents buy far helping stupid kids to play Keepy-up. You know the one; the football is tied to your boot with a piece of elastic.

'YOUR 24 CARAT WASTE OF SPACE...ITS GERRY ARMSTRONG THE FOOTBALLER' Roared Fonsie as he remembered the task in hand.

Blythe in an attempt to calm the situation magically produced a pair of studio tickets for next weeks 'KELLY LIVE SHOW' and gave them to Fonsie. Next weeks guests were three of his favourites. Big Tom and the Mainliners sandwiched between Sinead O'Connor and Cahil Daly.
The surprise gift distracted Fonsie long enough for Brandon to unclip his braces and escape shouting, 'fuck you and fuck Gerry Kelly! Every time we have a fight Fonsie you bring the RA in to It.' and 'you know I've been on the run from the boys'. The boys had once kidnapped his bootleg 'Wolfe Tones live in Ardoyne' CD's, (his get Brandon rich quick, social economy project) and didn't return them until he agreed to being levied a 90% Peace Tax on each one he sold.

Fonsie pacified, didn't care his thoughts were with big Tom...
'Peace process my ballocks' said Brandon who was far from pacified, but his mind turned to cuddlier things...
Brandon's Class A optimism, for all things in life never failed to amaze me, optimism in the face of adversity that is his forte in life. His politics like his love life were confused at best, though a firm advocate of a united Ireland, he had been a relief volunteer in the Glen Road Fusiliers during the war. Peace, Buckfast and magic mushrooms had softened the freedom fighter in him and he would now settle for an Independent Nine County Ulster, with him enthroned as King and First Minister. He liked to refer to himself as an 'unrepentant, Fenian bastard', but he was always sorry the next day after Tessie had subjected him her latest hormone addled tirade.
Brandon liked 'rough sex', just as well...his beloved Tessie came crashing through the door on the back of a Viagra crazed Shetland pony called Ulick, Tessie dismounted, reaching for what Brandon believed was a baseball bat that under slung Ulick. Brandon ducked, Ulick whinnied and Tessie ordered Brandon home for fun and games. Three in a bed, It was an offer he couldn't refuse. Indeed he daren't refuse. A ménage de Trois...'Who is the other girl?' said Brandon. 'You'll see luv', grinned Tessie. They were last seen disappearing up the Road, only stopping briefly at the Hatfield for condoms, cider and a nosebag, him and Tessie astride the rampant Ulick.

'Anyway, I digress... where was I'

'Where was I, yes ... The Inter-Community Cup...'
Eventually the entire green team was banned for life by the Succer authority for collective insolence and ideas above their station.
The green team appealed to the Community Relations Appeals Panel (CRAP), that it was grossly unfair to award the blues the cup forever, as there needed to more than one community for there to be community relations, and anyway the blue team were losing 2-0 at the time of the incident.
The appeal was refused on a technicality.
As the green team was not officially part of the Succer authority's long-term plan for the sport, the panel ruled that, they had no right of appeal.
Since then the row has grumbled on incessantly, rancour and violence regularly breaking out between the supporters of the blue and green teams. The Succer authority issued instructions to the Polis to deal with the sectarian violence.
For years the Polis, all firm Blues Fans to a man, when the trouble got too bad they intervened and slapped the green supporters to break it up.
Over the decades various divisions appeared among the blues, over tactics used at the game, some thought the defenders were the best, others, the midfielders, others the attackers. All were agreed though that the referee had played a blinder and was a 'bit special'.
Many shades of blue emerged over the years, sky blue, royal blue, really true blue, really, really true royal blue.
The Greens supporters had its own problems, though their sense of injustice had kept them together. There had been disagreements about attackers or defenders being the most effective, the supporters of the attackers even flirted with playing in red for awhile, accusing the defenders of being little more than bystanders, but when the going got tough, the tough got going. They reverted to playing in green.
And so it continued until the early 1990's when the Succer authorities fed up with green supporters harassing them no matter where they went. In Britain, America, Australia, Europe indeed across the five continents, wherever the Succer authorities went they were accosted by green supporters some of them even violently.
It was a house joke within the Succer community, 'if they ever put a man on the moon, there would be some damned Greeny waiting on the surface shouting about that damned match!'
'We have to do something about these Greenies.' said the Succer President, 'they will not shut up until they get justice.' We might just have to do something!
They approached the Blues about a rematch. However they wouldn't play ball, they had won the cup fair and square, and for life, the referee said so and he was there!
The Succer authorities pleaded with the blues to reconsider, offering all sorts of pledges promises and bribes. Eventually the blues agreed to talk to the Greens, not directly of course, about a rematch.
The price paid for the promised dialogue was expensive, the authority had to support and pay for an Single Identity Cup, so they could get used to the idea that they might eventually have to give up the Inter community cup that they loved and cherished.
The strange dialogue continued for a number of years, between the Blues and the Greens, never coming close to any sort of consensus on the way forward. The authorities, frustrated by the lack of agreement decided to get them all together in a big house, in different rooms if necessary, and not let them out unless they reached agreement.
As the proximity talks continued various dignitaries, foreign politicians, holy men and general do- gooders offering assistance came and went. Until in 1997, after another failed initiative involving the European branch of the games administration. That a young employee of the BBC's Political Sports department commented that, 'the only thing that the greens and blues agreed on, was that they didn't agree on anything!'
It was history in the making...
The Good Friday Agreement was born. And though no one is too sure what they had agreed on, the blues think that they can keep the cup whether the play a rematch or not (they had been guaranteed that any rematch would be a friendly).
The Greens believed, they could have as many rematches as they wanted until they won the cup. However most agree that whatever the detail, the fact that there is agreement at all is a good thing. And so it continued...
Settling into a familiar pattern of claim and counter claim, the Greens pushing for a date for the rematch, the Blues claiming they didn't know anything about it, the authorities had told them they could keep the cup.
The authorities kept insisting they had an agreement and that if the Greens would get rid of their foreign players, forfeit their share of gate and television rights and play the rematch without their goalkeeper, not even on the bench, the rematch could take place.
Things were generally quiet with both teams and supporters going their own ways, accept for once every year. From April through to November supporters of the Blues liked to hold victory marches, through or passing where greens and Blues supporters lived close to each other. Just to remind the Greens that they had the cup.
There was continual low level violence and intimidation, the authorities, though they said they were independent, facilitated these marches, even giving the blues two weeks off work in July to celebrate. The greens complained that this was unfair and the authorities said they could have the holiday as well, allowing the greens to watch the celebrations.
It's the tenth anniversary of the Belfast Agreement and the NIO have decided that there should be an anniversary football match between the blues and greens. It would illustrate how much real change the agreement had made to the lives of both greens and blues, so thought a strategic focus group that commuted everyday from London by helicopter to Hillsborough Castle.
Things did not run smoothly from the beginning, firstly there was no agreement on whether the game should be played at Windsor Park or Landsdowne Road. Finally the greens said it didn't matter where the game was played as long as it took place.
The Blue team were surprised and confused at this concession, immediately they demanded that, as Windsor Park was their home ground that the greens supporters would only get 25% of the ticket allocation and they would be confined to the spion Kop stand.
The Greens could not accept this and demanded 50% of the ticket allocation, the Blues said the Greens were lucky they were allowed supporters into Windsor at all. The blues proposed that Green fans should have to watch the game by a satellite link, and an extra long extension lead from Hectors, on a 14" B/W portable in Casement Park.
The problem was only resolved when the Blues conceded that the Greens could have 39.7% of the tickets as worked out under the d'hondt system.
The Blue team, who had been coerced by big bribes, for some concession that would illustrate their commitment to the match. Had only agreed to the ticket allocation, after winning a commitment from the Succour authorities that the green supporters would be confined to the Spion Kop stand, no matter how many tickets they had.
D'Hondt, Du Barry's, all is fair in love and war.
The green team was happy with their fair share of the ticket allocation, though there was something niggling at the back of their minds. This was the first time the blues had ever conceded anything and whilst they were concerned about their safety at Windsor it was more important that the game went ahead.
The night of the rematch drew near; the reality that the Blues might possibly lose the Inter-Community cup was beginning to dawn on them. They did not really want to play the game; they now had the Inter-community cup and the single Identity Cup.
It wasn't that the Blues were greedy, in fact they didn't really care who had the Cup, as long the Greens didn't. They thought the Green team was really, a bit scruffy smelled different and a few of them had been booked in the past. Indeed, two of them had even been sent off for Professional fouls and banned.
They wondered what to do?
It was the referee's cousin, a canny Ballymena man who came up with the answer. We'll demand that we play by Ulster Scots rules. 'Parrty o' eesteam'. The greens can't refuse that!
The greens, when they heard of the latest delaying tactic stormed over to the authority, demanding to know what was going on, the boss of the authority shrugged his shoulders, the movement causing his sash to crease. The greens leader said he did not care what code or rules the match was played under, they were going to stuff the blues let the game commence!
Word got back quickly to the blues that the big game was on, there was a lot of hustle and bustle in the blues camp and as the night drew near both sides embarked on a rigorous training programs.
The greens set up a scientific training camp inside Casement Park, There were trainers, physios, doctors, consultants, life coaches, the bishop, a whole squad of priests, a couple of nuns, a mystic and an alcoholic, positive thinker called Shay. Shay in a past life had achieved a Community Certificate in Assertive Linguistics for the Verbally Impaired and a Crack habit from Ballymurphy Polytechnic, He specialised in dyslexic sign language for the blind literacy circle. The Greens had covered every possible outcome.
The Blues, also had a strict training campaign, it mainly consisted of huge training sessions at their training ground, affectionately referred to as the field. A witness to the training sessions noticed the players were praying a lot, beating their chests, taking part in giant huddles, a lot of whispering and nudging and a lot of marching up and down led by the chief coach. He was a big lump of a reverend that once had led Windsor's famous soccer hooligan gang, the infamous 'God Crew'; he was forced to retire from active hooliganism with the introduction of Sunday football.
Teams were ready and headed to Windsor, the match was a sell out, and each of the 30,000 tickets had been sold. There were rumours that ticket touts had made a killing, apparently according to a blues supporter interviewed by the BBC in the City Hospital, where he ended up after being mugged by a 10 year old glue sniffer called Seamy, from the lower Ormeau for his ticket.
The Blueman said 'it was my worst nightmare he had witnessed well known ticket touts from the Short Strand and the Markets posing as community workers.'
The witness said, 'they had no fear of authority or getting caught, there in broad daylight, they formed a Community Empowerment Partnership. Drawing down funding under Urban 11, for a cross community training programme in active citizenship, followed by a short course in Practical Machine-gun Mechanics and finally a social history project, informally titled;
Short Strand / Markets 1969-1994
'The Kalashnikov years.'

They used the money to buy up all available tickets.
A Spokesman for the funders said that they were investigating the claim, and if the allegation were found to be true then the community group would be in real trouble when they handed in their receipts for vouching.
Windsor Park was full, 45,000 green fans (the printer had been busy) crammed into the spion Kop, and 15,000 bluemen spread throughout the rest of the ground. The tension was unbearable as the kick-off neared; the green team ran on to the pitch taking up their positions in their own half, no goalie in the goal.
The green supporters roared with confidence, their day had finally come. As they waited for the blue team to emerge, the green anthem rang out across the city- Tiocfhaidh ar la, sing up the raaaaaa, Ooh ah up the ra, sing ooh ah up the ra!
The greens first noticed something wrong as the blue team emerged on to the pitch led by the big Rev, 15 players followed him, with an oval ball.
The Greens captain confronted the authority about the disparities in the sides, by his reckoning it was 15 against 10. The official pulled out the Ulster Scots Succer rool book, and began reading the relevant clause: Claws 91 says "Tha Bloo teem wull hev fufteen pliars and ply wuth un oval boll".
That's not Ulster /Scots Succer, that's Rugby shouted the Greens captain.
"A mekunikul defence and a gull kipper with the capacity to catch anything," continued the official. (He had been flown in especially from Purdysburn to give correct interpretation of the rools.)
The line of people just continued coming and lining up in the Blues half, the Referee, the two linesmen and the fourth official. Next it was the Succer authorities, Belfast City Council and the USA Congress and Senate, the House of Commons and House of Lords, were all in the blue half of the field.
The Dail, awkwardly brought up the rear, Bertie staring at the ground, scared to look up in case he caught the eye of anybody wearing Green; all took up positions in the Blue half. Huddled around the ball.
When he was finished reading, the clause, the interpreter said, 'listen, you know its Rugby, I know its Rugby, and the fans know its Rugby. Does it really matter if the Blues think its Ulster Scots succer?, now, get the game kicked off before I report the hole lot av yoo for time wasting!
To increase defensive capacity, the Blues had acquired a mechanical defence on a 'Bosman' from Racing Ahoghill.
The Blues new defence consisted of four brothers called Ferguson from Harryville, collectively known as the 'tractor unit'. They were admired far and wide, especially in Israel for their defensive skills; they were so good that they doubled up as 'Peaceline' in Ardoyne during the marching season. Indeed, the Ferguson brothers, Massey, Massey Jnr., Our Massey and Bert formed a formidable barrier, protecting their cousin, the Goalkeeper, Ringo, known to his friends as 'The Culler'. He was in fact a recommissioned UDR land rover.

Captain of the Greens called out to his team to get ready, he should have known the Blues wouldn't play fair, or on an even surface.
But they were here now and the Greens captain knew they were better, more skilful, more intelligent footballers than the Blues. Bill Clinton, George Bush, Tony Blair and the Pope had all told him so and they don't lie!
The Blues captain positioned himself over the ball ready to kick- off, the referees flute blew, the captain lobbed the ball back to the goal-keeper, 'Culler'.
The green team chased after the lobbed ball and as they crossed into the blues half the referees flute blew shrilly stopping the game.
What’s that for? Ref, screamed the green team as the referee slowly reached for his back pocket, the crowd boo'd as the red card was shown to the entire green team.
Refereeeeeee! Screamed the entire green team, and 45,000 fans.

You know the rules he said, the Ulster/Scots rules clearly state, 'the blue side is allowed 15 outfield players, and their own oval ball. ( And as many support staff as they required, building up their capacity) For what, nobody was quite sure, but there were Euro funds available by the million, indeed it was community relations funding that sponsored the Blue team. They had to win or at least not lose.

The Referee continued 'the Green side is allowed 10 outfield players, no goalkeeper and must at all times remain in their own half of the pitch! Now get off!'

Ps. Rumour has it that as Windsor Park descended into chaos with greens everywhere demanding equality, the blues tried frantically to clamber towards the podium to claim their birth right, The Inter-Community Cup.
The Blues struggled against the green hoards, in a vain attempt to reclaim the historic trophy only to find it snatched from their grasp at the last minute by a grubby hand with the letters KAB inexpertly tattooed across the knuckles. The Inter-Community Cup began its final journey across South Belfast in the back of a 'black hack'. Followed by crowds of Bluemen. Incandescent with rage, they lost sight of the 'Black hack' in Donegal Pass. After searching for hours they heard celebrating in the distance, when they reached the Ormeau Road, behind the locked gates of the old gasworks, they hear the noise of a small lad, whooping for joy, laughing and dancing, something bright and shiny glisten in the young lad’s left hand.
Give us back our Cup or we'll burn you out! You Green scumbag, they roared, shaking the gasworks gates.
'GOD SAVE OUR BLUE! They screamed as they began to march up and down.

FUCK YOU!

'GOD SAVE OUR...SANITY came the reply...
It was young Seamy Megann, from the banks of the Lagan, high on life and Evostick. With a wee glint in his one good eye, Glue bag in one hand, drinking Lurgan Champagne from the huge silver trophy in the other!
And that's how we ended up, spending a wet, windy night in The Mangie Dog in April 2008, soaked to the skin, drinking cold beer, holding warm women, watching Belfast waking up to a new morning. As the first sunlight struggled, with the jet black plumes of acrid smoke drifting across the city from a host of burning hi-jacked vehicles. Was it the beginning of the end for the good folk of Belfast?
Just then galloping across the new Lagan Motorway Bridge, between the Waterfront Hall and the Odyssey went Brandon, Tessie and Ulick; they were singing, sincerely happy in their stonedness...

My momma told me, there'd be days like this..........!...

I turned to Fonsie, 'I doubt it!' and headed home. I was trying to workout a plausible excuse for staying out all night, again! The missus will never believe this!
It s True, I swear...

Piczo