Why does Peter Robertson always sound so bad-tempered?
By the sound of things we are about to get another batch of seasonal talks about marching and flags and anything else we can dream up .They “seem” to be scheduled for next Thursday but the Secretary of State wasn’t giving much away on her interview on television’s “The View” the other might. You’d nearly think she was either playing a very esoteric game of high-stakes poker or she actually really had nothing organised at all. She spoke.We listened .She was asked another question.We listened . She talked and talked like any able politician and the words issued from her mouth , forming into sentences . We listened again . She talked a little more . Had the talks been arranged for next Thursday? Who was going to chair them ? Will there be a panel? Are there any academics scheduled for the panel? On and on it went.I imagine , the conversation lasted for a full ten minutes.When it came to an end I looked at the television screen and scratched my head. Then I asked myself…not out loud …of course…inwardly ….”Why am I wasting my precious time listening to these non-words?”
The expression..”None the wiser” seemed very apt. i asked myself again, …”How can anyone make a television programme like this and not burst out laughing. I could just see it in the studio …cameramen falling about …editors …best boys ….various technicians …all falling about laughing . This is how you can suck the very life out of someone . Just talk and talk and say Sweet Fanny Adams. She never said a dicky -bird about the proposed talks. She seemed either to be afraid that the very mention of them would put a magical hex on them .To say anything ….anything at all , would superstitiously have the poor, wee delicate politicians concerned, scampering for the hills like so many little bunny rabbits, frightened of their own shadows. Don’t mention the dreaded talks !!!
It sounds as though Peter Robinson is bent on making light of the proposed “phantom talks” anyway. He grumbled gruffly that he wouldn’t be at the opening in any case .He was making sure his diary would have something else for him to do on that day or on any other day that they might be arranged . He didn’t want to be seen “Starting to Talk” this time around, just in case he might be caught in the spotlight with anyone untouchable. It wouldn’t play too well in East Belfast if he was photographed again with Gerry kelly or anyone from Alliance.
Peter is always in a grump.It’s not a bit of wonder that the reporter and commentator Martina Purdy, has decided to throw her hands in the air and run off to join a religious group. This lot would drive sane men to drink.. Imagine having to interview them every day!!!
Speaking of which…it’s about time to open another bottle of wine.
For someone who has walked the w. so willingly in the past, Peter Robinson shows a right honourable reluctance to t. the talk.
Clontibret comes to mind, as do half a dozen hillsides in the Wee Six. So much so that you’d almost imagine his party piece (as distinct from his political party p.) was ‘The Bould Fenian Men’ :
‘As down by the glenside
I met an old woman
A’ pluckin’ young nettles
She ne’er saw me comin”.
Twitter ye not, oh ye of little belief ! While the context is texted. Back in the not so heavenly Seventies, Perkie once found himself on the exclusive guest list at an unusual St. Patrick’s (no, not Paddy’s nor – most definitely – Pattie’s Day, though if the Dworkin Class had their way the Green Day would be called just that atrocity) do/hooley. Or, dooley to be economical about it..As in, hang down your head, Uncle Tom.
It was held in a rather splendid villa on the southern shores of the Mediterranean (I know, I know, being a Warbeck does tend to get one bumped up from the W-list of celebs, oddly enough. It’s just another cross we toffs in an alarmingly egalitarian world have to carry). A nearby villa, just to emphasise the exclusivity of the neighbourhood (P. R. will appreciate this: once a realtor always a realtor) was the one which housed an OTR known as Carlos the Jackal. He was the VIP guest of General Ghadaffi whose country it was at the time.
Alcoholic beverages / the Devil’s buttermilk was banned in that dry, sandy land of Libya; though an exception was made with regard to exPats. Provided the booze was only allowed to ooze within the walls of their dwelling houses and was restricted to other exPats.
One of the exPats at this congenial gathering was a prominent Loyalist whose teeth were also very prominent. When it came for him to regale the gathering with his party p. it was none other than the same ‘The B. Fenian Men’. The arched eyebrows, mainly middle, though with some high and low to be seen, were agreed that the singer did an excellent job of journey work on this unusual choice of ballad, and sounded not at all like a sewing machine.
However there was one pedant among the gathering (every assembly has one) who was not entirely satisfied. Step forward Perkie, as pernickety as ever who sidled over to the Orange man who had just decanted the crème de menthe coloured chorus to the exclusive multitude of exPats.
-Pluckin’.
-Pluckin’ ?
-Yis, pluckin’ not pickin’. A pluckin’ young nettles.
-Thanks for pluckin’ tallin’ me, brother.
-Don’t mention it. Just remember you pluck banjos and nettles, and pick guitars and noses..
-I’ll remamber that, brother.
Which transports one neatly to another t-word: Talks. Perkie suspects that the sticking point with Robinson the eternal realtor is the venue. From Versailles to Vladivostok the v-word has always been crucial for talks to succeed..
Therefore, with the modesty and diplomatic skill-sets for which he is renowned, and having duly pondered the predicament with his pipe of peace, Perkie hereby nominates -Montepelier Hill. That is, the grassy knoll to the south of Dublin City and not the one in France. As a venue, it has mucho going for it.
Background briefing: historic venues has been under fire in the Free Southern Stateen of late, none more so than the Seanad/Senate. One of the reasons was that it had, what is called a Caligula vibe about the place. Not so much horses for the wrong courses, as asses, as befitted its Ascendancy back story (which is contemporary for history).
Thankfully, that august venue has been saved, while another one languishes. And a venue which is (or rather, was) far more visual to the denizens of Dubland. That being the venue which sits atop Montpelier Hill: The Hell Fire Club.
A short panted Perkie can still recall looking out over the turrets of Wabeck Towers on Christmas Eve at the nightsky high above the Hell Fire Club and wondering would Mr. S. Clause make it safely by, without been taken for the hindmost by the Devil. Now, alas, that is a wondrous sight denied to the pre-longers boys of Liffeyside: the local council has allowed the Hell Fire Club to be obscured by an uncurbed growth in the surrounding plantations of Sitka spruce, larch and beech.
This is Peter Robinson’s opportunity to allow his inner Realtor to save this edifying edifice, this piece of prime property.
Consider the attractions: the political atmosphere of the hinterland would not be entirely distasteful to Pierre’s liking. Like its London prototype the motto of the club is in French: ‘Fait ce que tu vourdra’. In other words, ‘whatever you’re having yourself, monsieur’.
Liberty Hall, so: we serve neither Kaiser nor choleric Kapitan. Tis open season here for all sorts of Sodom and Begorradom.. And the only firearm certificate to be seen being waved will be the sickle in the hand of the nettle plucking maw of the wrinkly old woman.
The eleventh hour rescue of the Senate/Seanad should act as an encouragement to Peadar: its latest member is a former member of the …..RIR.
Now, if that does not put a spring in Peadar’s step even as he renews his rusty old halo hill-climbing skill sets as he makes his way up Montpelier Hill, to the venue of v. , The Hell Fire Club, then it is difficult to know what might. Except perhaps, yon hillside of Kippur.
And when he casts his statemanlike gaze south from the venue his delightful gimlet eye will fall on the Featherbed Bog. Ah, what imaginings that will stir in the Realtor Robinson’s brain: Peat for Pete. In the Free Southern Stateeen where featherbedding the DUP is the order of the establishmentarian day of the DUB parliament.
And when Pedro swivels to look north his real estate assessing eyes will fall on the…Tallaght Football Stadium.. This is the stadium which the local authority of South Dublin bullt out of the public purse some years ago for the sole use of the private football (almost wrote soccer !) club known as Shamrock Rovers. A club composed of fabulous fly by night mercaneries who failed to make it in the Vauxhall Conference. And doing down local Bogball club, Thomas Davis, in the wonky process.
Football loving Pedro would say: ‘me encanta mucho’ Dublin sur Lagan is indeed a cold house for Tommy Davis, Jnr for sure. And as he glances down glowingly at this bijou stadium where Fairness GFC has the behayus beaten out of it on a weekly basis, PR can tune in to the ‘Hamilton Scores’.
Presented by another PR for proper thought old Methody boy, George H this is possibly the only soccer, oops, football programme on a classical music station (Lyric FM) in the entire world of melody, rhythm and harmony.
Of course, there are drawbacks: let us not mince words here. And should biro twiddling Peter happen to drop his writing implement to the floor and should he stoop to pick/pluck it up he will spot cloven feet belonging to the parties opposite beneath the t..
This is not a cause for concern. Nothing that a long spoon will not sort out.
One last piece of housekeeping: the wrinkly old woman on the glenside (see above) can be hired at the going rate to pick (not pluck) delicately the local irises to decorate the Talks Table. She will arrange them artfully in the venue’s vases.
Time, perhaps, for exPete to become an exPat, and in time, perhaps, even a Pat.
Well ,Mighty Perk , to be in any small way responsible for uncorking that holy stream of fizzing effervescence is no small pleasure. . Mixing memory of one Francisco Howard , the Hellfire Club and even my dear departed father, who would give us all a rendering of said Bould Men when he had imbibed a glass or two of the Great Satan’s lovely brew. ….Wonderful……
GRMA, paddykool.
One’s inner Pernikety Perky especially appreciates your correct spelling of the wonderful Franciso’s real surname.
‘Howerd’ was his stage name.
Born ‘Howard’, Francis Alick went on to do what many sublime comedians do before their death, i.e., die. And it was at the death that he demonstrated his splendid sense of timing. He died the day before that other sublime comedian, Benny Hill.
He demonstrated too his essential Englishness in death. Whereas many brash and superbly trailer trashy showbiz types from America of the same era expressed a deathwish to be buried in a coupe, Franciso opted to be buried in a…..toupee.
And not just any toupee; but one filched from the ITV props department.
Aris, GRME.