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| - 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.
