Here We Go Again: Marching Season 2005
In public greens, residential streets and alleyways across Belfast (and indeed all of Northern Ireland) piles of wooden fork-lift palettes are growing high. Scruffy sofas, lamed tables with missing legs and all manner of discarded household items conspire to trip up the innocent passer-by.
Are the binmen on strike? No, naive tourist, it’s July in Northern Ireland. Look closer and you’ll see makeshift signs tied to lampposts inviting you to “Dump Wood Here”. You might also notice a few more flags than usual, and the kerbstones will proudly show off a fresh coat of red, white and blue paint.
Ah, marching season. Tattoo-clad paramilitary psychotics striding alongside their more moderate kinsmen, their thick necks reddened by the blistering sun that the Almighty will send to light their righteous path. Be under no illusion, there are people who march in the name of tradition - I wish them well, although I disagree with the cause. It’s the “Red-Hand Luke’s” I have a problem with: Those who strut through Nationalist areas with the intention of stirring up trouble. The triumphalism. The bravado.
A few years ago, before we were married, Mrs Levee and I took a trip on the Twelfth of July. We took a train from Belfast to Ballymoney. Further up the coach, a rowdy Loyalist mob could be easily identified by the blue plastic bags, the smell of booze and the loud chanting of sectarian *cough* anthems. Across the aisle, a demented-looking little man in a bowler hat was sitting and before long he’d engaged us in conversation about The Twelfth.
He was on his way up to Portrush, he told us. Lovely day. Big Ian would be there. Hoping for a good turnout. Came over from England every year to support the boys. And were we headed for a march, he asked us, assuming that any right-minded Catholics were safely barricaded in their houses.
Trying to keep a low profile, we nodded to pass ourselves and politely allowed the man to ramble on until we reached Ballymoney. His conversation became increasingly sectarian as time went on, and I know we felt angry, even if we didn’t show it. We wanted to keep a low profile, particularly with our sash-singing travel companions up the carriage!
I know that there are people who have a genuine love of the Twelfth of July celebrations, but these are the people who represent it for me: drunken yobs, football hooligans by any other name and bigotted little men who still believe that flags line the path to righteousness.
So, dear tourist, when you’re out an about in Northern Ireland over the next month, enjoy the lovely colours, marvel at the parades that bring in marching bands from far and wide. A unique spectacle is about to unfold. My only hope is that it passes off peacefully - for eveybody’s sake!
