General Election 2015: Should I really care?

The UK will hold a General Election on 7th May 2015 and the campaigns have begun in earnest. For me, it will be my second opportunity to vote and my first chance to vote in a General Election, having already voted in the local and European elections of 2014. My first vote was something I was really looking forward to, and I actually enjoyed it, so much so that I wanted to do it again, but, as I understand it, an election is not like a water slide, there are no second chances. 

WARNING: AN ELECTION IS NOT A WATER SLIDE

By the arrival of the polling day last year, it had seemed like a age since I turned 18, it was actually over a year and a half, though this was exaggerated and exasperated by the fact that I have been watching election nights keenly since I the age of 15 at least. I have felt myself to be both opinionated and informed enough since way back then (perhaps the lowering of the voting age may be a topic for a future blog post) and thus actually putting pen to ballot paper was a moment for which I had waited far too long. 

So I voted, for whom exactly? I will not reveal to you on the whispering, gossiping forum that is the internet. And yet, that election which would traditionally be seen as a less important, a precursor to the big one that is the General Election, may well have been more significant than the one on the horizon, for me anyway. It was the first election to the newly re-drawn Fermanagh and Omagh district council, and the European elections also threw up some potentially interesting dynamics with the candidacies of Anna Lo for Alliance and Jim Allister for the TUV, not to mention the interesting possibilities of further inroads for Sinn Féin on both sides of the border.

As for 2015, what's in it for me Even if the vote provides a minor thrill in Fermanagh-South Tyrone as it did in 2010 with just 4 votes proving the decisive margin for Michelle Gildernew, it will still be a tribal election resulting in one-upmanship whatever the outcome. The choice will be between the abstentionist incumbent from Sinn Féin, someone from the SDLP (Maybe Frank Mitchell, if their criteria from 2010 is anything to go by), a DUP and a UUP candidate (possibly just one ironically entitled 'unity' prospect from the two parties) and others who frankly won't make it near the post in this race; from the TUV, Alliance, a Socialist perhaps and maybe even a UKIPper. Im not a Unionist by the way, I will say that much, so that rather limits my options on any day. Also, UKIP lack any kind of significant presence in the North so are unlikely to feature prominently at all and even if they do choose to run, they'll more than likely damage the Unionist vote rather than the nationalist. So that means we miss out on any of the craic going on in Britain with UKIP and Al Murray and them (non-Republican) Greens and all that there. 

While I will of course exercise my right to vote, I do wonder if, in this election at least, there is any real point at all. My vote will not impact the next government to rule over Fermanagh from London.
(Unless an NI party should hold the balance of power: since Sinn Féin don't take their seats and the Unionist parties cuddle up to the Conservatives anyway, that would realistically leave the SDLP as the only potential party to be courted by a coalition partner or partners) I can not vote Labour or Lib Dem if I wanted since they don't contest the election directly though I could arguably vote conservative via the Ulster Unionists. Thus, in this General Election, it seems the broad strokes of representation are so general that they will manage to miss little old me in my home on the Lough Erne island of Inishmore, and perhaps, that is fitting.

I live in Dublin for at least 4 days every week, coming home to be fed and to hurl so, you may soundly suggest, I don't even live there, why would I want to care about the election in the UK? Well I do, partly because I am interested in its outcome generally, and partly because it may well affect my life, in fact it will. If the UK leaves the EU for example, what would it mean for me as someone who travels from the North to the Republic on a weekly basis for my education? Or if a Conservative government with its own majority was to allow fracking to go ahead in Fermanagh, what would that mean for me and my family living and farming in the county? Or simply as a young person looking for employment once I leave college during the next government's term, will my vote let me choose between austerity and investment? Arguably not. The validity and gravity of my concerns will, as I see it, be decided the forthcoming election, so it seems I will have a vote, but a vote without a say.

The Tamaill Tiger

Sure hasn't it been a while - a tamaill - which just for old time's sake can be my (cue fanfare) Irish Word Of The Week! A word which has absolutely no connection with the Sri Lankan militant organisation, the Tamil Tigers. Though if we accept tamaill to specifically translate as the word 'while' and not just a period of time then that kind of makes sense i.e. those are some 'while tigers'. Thus after almost two years without writing anything in my sensually titled blog, I announce my return with a joke that is both obscure and largely dependent on you having a grasp of colloquially mispronounced and idiomatic Fermanagh-isms which should really be the subject of a lengthy post or thesis at a later date. Anyhoo I digress, to paraphrase the -Terminator - I'm Back!
Well we'll see what happens. The thing is, a lot has changed since I created and then slowly became less interested in this blog, but not too much I hope. I remember once being told by my year 13 Politics teacher that most peoples' brains peak at the age of seventeen and being utterly terrified and thinking, "Fuck! I'd better write my life-defining, legacy-leaving play/novel/tv-series/screenplay/short story/poem or just something!" So I eventually wrote a blog for a bit and then gave up.
Two years later and my portfolio of writing has not expanded to any great extent and, if Mrs. Beeson is to be believed, my best years are behind me. My mind is now gloop. And to make matters worse, I have become a 'recreational alcoholic', or 'student'. The little boy who achieved the heights of 'best academic in Year 8' has become this:

That's right. I am out of control.
The bottle pictured above may well have contained over a sixth of its maximum contents by the time I got my fiendish hands to it. Won't somebody please think of the children.
So I return to my pretentiously titled blog at a time in my life when, specifically, I am lying in bed at home in Fermanagh with self-diagnosed tonsillitis (an experience which may affect my relationship with my as yet unborn son who shall be named Tonsil) having come home at the weekend to play hurling only to be struck down with illness - oh the horror! But more generally I am midway through my second term at Trinity College Dublin where I am studying English Literature and I have realised that I am doing a lot more thinking. At first this thinking manifested itself in my return to Twitter, something which happens once or twice a year since I do tend to go through phases of stuff. But as I sat struggling with the immense pressure of being funny in my Twitter 'bio' I had a nice wee epiphany (these tend to be more frequent the more thinking I do). I thought why 'micro-blog' when I can 'macro-blog', or 'blog'. So I came back to Oftentimes, just to touch base (awful phrase) and hopefully it will be a little less awkward the next time I decide I'd like to write having got the initial reunion over with. I wanted to write about what I was thinking about when trying to cram everything about me into a limited paragraph or even a single phrase but that can wait for another day now that the pleasantries are almost complete.
On a more narcissistic note, when I type 'Oftentimes' into Google my blog is way down the list instead of where it should be and well, that just ain't right.
Finally, I glanced at my old blogposts and noticed one entitled 'Stupid like a fox', my fox favouritism and phrase usage has not waned in two years so I can't have changed that much. I think that's a good thing. I like me. #narcissist

Joe

Identity crisis

- facing stiff competition from Barra Best as Mr. Northern Ireland -

Something struck me today. After watching the Spanish teach the Irish a footballing lesson by way of a four-nil thrashing I took a gander at the post-match reaction on Facebook and Twitter as well as a few news websites. An exchange on Facebook caught my attention and has since left me decidedly confused.

A girl, evidently not a Catholic or a fenian, decided to publicly declare her support for Spain based on the idea that she had always liked them as a team, wanted them to win, and because her team, Northern Ireland, were not playing.

Of course this status did not escape fenian eyes and a spat of to-ing and fro-ing underneath the status satisfied the need for attention. Admittedly, I struggle to understand how anyone living on Ireland in Northern Ireland cannot but feel a tinge of Irishness. Instead the clichéd arguments of the colour of your passport, where does your address say you live and where do yous'uns get your benefits from are banded about. A real identity crisis seems to have taken hold. I am Irish, though my neighbours may call themselves British, Northern Irish, or even European.

But when I think of Northern Ireland there are no national images of pride. Probably from my own point of view, a sense of ingrained accepted resentment. My mind's eye depicts Northern Ireland as a negative entity, maybe even a non-entity. What is it? A place worthy of escape come early July, a place where the colour of my school uniform, my sports gear or my language brand me as one side of the community, a place lacking in identity besides the titanic, Tayto and Frank Mitchell. Can a country truly exist if none of its citizens wish it to be independent. My resentment is unavoidable, just the other day I had to suffer a stroll through continuous masses of triumphalist union flags, some were absurdly huge and, quite honestly, encouraged an atmosphere of intimidation.

Imagine the situation should Scotland choose to go it alone. What will Britishness be then? Is it anything more  than clinging to the English. A little section of my mind wonders if my view is all due to my unsuccessful catholic indoctrination since I was a child but then I remember that as a hurly-playing, Tottenham supporting, vegetarian who once wore an Armagh jersey to a Fermanagh-Armagh Ulster final having lived and grown up in Fermanagh for ten of the eleven years of his life who writes in his own Blog from time to time; I am not that impressionable and I actually considered all the benefits of Unionism for a brief time, as an eight year old.

I appear to have re-opened a significantly weather beaten can of worms. To return to the theme of football that is struggling to hold this post together: then comes the argument that the Republic of Ireland national team are stealing players from the North. Considering the image that Northern Ireland holds in the eyes of most Catholic/Nationalist/Republican/fenians (I know they're not all the same thing) as well as the thoroughly British support at their games including a rousing rendition of God Save the Queen, some would consider it too as a threatening environment, bordering on sectarian. James McClean who made an appearance in tonight's game publicly admitted that he never felt at home in a Northern Ireland jersey to the bemusement of some IFA chiefs.

To me, Northern Ireland means nothing; I can't quite grasp the idea of it as being anything more than an inconvenience. Though that's just me and I will gladly enter into an unclichéd debate with those of the opposite opinion. I suppose my state of confusion is typical of the complex situation. I'm not having an identity crisis but I can't comprehend a sense of nationalism or patriotism when it comes to the six counties.
Phew.
Every time I try to come to a conclusion about anything related to Norn Iron my brain starts to hurt and the result is an article that adds very little to the debate.



For some reason, this photo encapsulates Irishness.