If you were watching Boris Johnson’s interview with Sky News, you’ll have seen that Over the Rainbow moment. In the movie, that’s when the curtain is pulled back and what has pretended to be a mighty terrifying force is shown to be in fact a puny unimpressive little man. Johnson the blusterer, Johnson the joker, Johnson the booster was shown for what he was: a paper tiger.
Watching Jeffrey Donaldson on TV recently gives a hint of something similar. There was a time when he was smooth-faced, semi-smiling, consummately confident. All that’s begun to fade in recent days and weeks. His tone has become sharper, his smile has changed to lips pursed and tense, he looks 5-10 years older. And no, Virginia, it’s not just the new glasses.
Why the change? The pressure he’s under. You probably saw that volcanic eruption on Tonga, how Internal pressure had built and built, then suddenly what looked like a nuclear explosion filled the air. Jeffrey is perched on top of his own personal volcano called the DUP.
There was a time when the DUP was the force to be reckoned with, it sucked the life out of the UUP, with converts like Arlene Foster and yes, Jeffrey himself abandoning the wishy-washy UUP and joining the ranks of the bold, assertive DUP.
Changed times. We always knew there were internecine rivalries within the DUP, but few of us suspected the scale and intensity. The eruption eventually came, with Arlene the first casualty, her successor Poots the second, and Jeffrey called on to somehow, anyhow, for God’s sake end the DUP blues, or at least hide them from the public.
He’s having less and less success. “The protocol must go, and with it the European Court of Justice !” Jeffrey parped. Alas. The Johnson administration is no longer beholden to the DUP, the way that of Theresa May was. As far as the present Tory party is concerned, Jeffrey can come up with his empty bowl and whine “Please sir, I want more” until he turns red, white and blue in the face. “You think you’ve got trouble?” Johnson tells him, before rushing off to tell a few more desperate lies.
Every day brings a new worry-line to Jeffrey’s once-alabaster features. He was to get holding onto his Westminster seat and contest the Stormont election in May – it all seemed so signed, sealed and delivered, regardless of what all the other Stormont parties thought. Then Boom! The hopes of Jeffrey and his chums disintegrated, flying right, left and centre, sticking in shredded, bleeding pieces to walls, furniture, ceiling.
They talk about Mayo being unable to win an All-Ireland Football Final because of a gypsy curse. Somewhere, somehow the DUP must have attracted a curse, and it’s going to keep on beating them over the head, all the way to the voting centres in May.
Dear Jeffrey – a word from a well-wisher. They’re damaging your manhood, your confidence, your calm. Is it really all worth it? Isn’t your health your wealth? Maybe take a lesson from Arlene, who walked from the UUP to the DUP, and then out of politics completely. Could the gods be trying to tell you to do something similar, Jeffrey? That’s a pier you’re driving down, you know. Not a bridge.
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