The absolute (Secretary of) State of this


© The Belfast Telegraph


At certain eras in history, for certain sections of humanity, there were places to which you really didn’t want to go – places whose very name filled you with dread.


For members of the British underworld in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, it was Sydney Cove, Norfolk Island, Port Arthur, Van Diemen’s Land and the other brutal penal colonies that’d been established in Australia, to which you could be transported if you were convicted of anything worse than pinching five shillings-worth of goods.  For criminals in the Second French Empire between 1852 and 1953, the place that was synonymous with hell was another penal colony, the pitiless one at Cayenne, or Devil’s Island as it was better known.  And for German soldiers in the Wehrmacht during World War II, there were surely frequent nightmares about the prospect of being sent to the freezing and carnage-filled Russian Front.


Meanwhile, for members of the British government over the past half-century, the equivalent of the worst penal colony devised by the British or French Empires, or of the Russian Front, is surely Northern Ireland.


Political satirists have long been aware of this.  A 1984 episode of the BBC political comedy Yes, Minister had the British Prime Minister resigning and two ruthless politicians competing to take over as PM.  Both men threatened hapless minister Jim Hacker that they’d make him Secretary of State for Northern Ireland if they ended up winning and he hadn’t publicly backed their campaigns.  A generation later, a 2012 episode of a more abrasive TV satire, The Thick of It, showed slow-witted politician Ben Swain responding warily when he was offered the job of Foreign Secretary: “And you mean Foreign Secretary?  That isn’t code for Northern Ireland?  I’m not f**king going there.”


The position of Secretary of State for Northern Ireland came into being in 1972, when the old Northern Irish government at Stormont was suspended following the start of the long period of bloodshed and mayhem that became known as the Troubles, and when direct rule was imposed from London.  The first holder of the post was Conservative MP Willie Whitelaw, who set the template for many secretaries of state to come.  He was stiff and crusty, looked like he’d be more at home wearing tweeds and trudging around a grouse moor, and seemed perplexed that the half-dozen local Catholic and Protestant terrorist organisations and the mob of unruly local politicians wouldn’t play by Queensberry Rules.


Whitelaw wouldn’t be the first Secretary of State to look ill-at-ease in a province where though the two native communities were at each other’s throats, they had one thing in common, which was that they both hated his guts.  Nationalist Catholics saw him and his successors as stuck-up, patronising, untrustworthy English bastards who’d come to oppress them and keep them imprisoned in the United Kingdom.  Unionist Protestants saw them as stuck-up, patronising, untrustworthy English bastards who’d come to betray them and abandon them to a united Ireland.




Actually, I recall seeing, when I was a wee boy in Northern Ireland and just after Whitelaw’s appointment, satirical posters pasted everywhere depicting him as a grim-faced Wild West sheriff stalking nervously into an unsavoury-looking establishment called The Dead-End Saloon.  However, unlike many of his successors, Whitelaw’s political career didn’t come to a dead-end after Northern Ireland.  He served as British Home Secretary from 1979 to 1983 and became a favourite of Margaret Thatcher, who once said of him gruesomely, “Every Prime Minister needs a Willie.”


I also remember from my boyhood some political satire involving another 1970s Secretary of State for Northern Ireland – the Labour Party MP Roy Mason, who served there during James Callaghan’s three-year tenure as Prime Minister.  The Belfast Telegraph featured a cartoon caricaturing him as Henry II while the Reverend Ian Paisley loomed behind him caricatured as Thomas Beckett.  Mason lamented, “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”  However, unlike Thomas Beckett, who was murdered by knights soon after Henry II made this plea, Paisley lived until 2014 and made life a misery for a further 14 secretaries of state.


After the Conservatives had returned to power under Margaret Thatcher, Northern Ireland had as its Secretary of State the luckless Jim Prior.  Prior was a leading member of the ‘wets’ – the moderates – in the Conservative Party and when he dared to question his boss’s economic policies, his fate was sealed.  Empress Thatcher had him banished to Devil’s Island.


I also remember – for the wrong reasons – Peter Brooke, Secretary of State for Northern Ireland in the early 1990s.  One day in 1992, an IRA bomb slaughtered seven construction workers.  That evening, Brooke appeared on Raidió Teilifis Éireann’s chat show The Late Late Show and unwisely allowed its host, the twinkly-eyed shit-stirrer Gay Byrne, to talk him into singing Oh My Darling Clementine live on air.  And with that, Brooke’s political credibility was gone.  To quote the song: ‘lost and gone forever / Dreadful sorry, Clementine.’


When Tony Blair entered Number 10 Downing Street and 1998’s Good Friday Agreement was on the cards, Northern Ireland finally got a Secretary of State of some substance: Mo Mowlam, also the first woman in the role.  The down-to-earth and bluntly-spoken Mowlam helped to knock heads together in the run-up to the agreement, although she earned herself the displeasure of the Protestant politicians and was eventually side-lined by Blair.  When Bill Clinton flew in to grab a piece of the glory, she grumbled to him that her role had become that of ‘tea lady’.




The Good Friday Agreement paved the way for the Northern Ireland Assembly, which came into being while Peter Mandelson was the province’s Secretary of State.  An operator best described as an oil-slick in a suit, Mandelson had been a key ally and advisor of Tony Blair but he’d fallen from grace thanks to a scandal involving a dodgy home loan.  To rehabilitate himself, he had to do the political equivalent of donning sackcloth and ashes and beating himself with a scourge, which meant taking the Northern Ireland portfolio.  I imagine that Mandelson, a gay man, had his patience stretched to the limit by having to deal with Ian Paisley, who in 1977 had launched the infamous Save Ulster from Sodomy campaign.


With the Assembly up and running and its members responsible for the province’s governance, Mandelson’s successors as Northern Irish Secretary of State had less to do.  However, the Assembly collapsed early in 2017 because of a spat between the Democratic Unionist Party and Sinn Fein and since then London has had to administer things again.  The Secretary of State on whose watch this happened was James Brokenshire, who surely had the most appropriate surname of anyone ever to take on the job: broken shire.


Brokenshire stood down at the start of this year for health reasons – not, as you might expect, mental health reasons, but because he needed to have an operation on his lung.  And this brings me to his replacement, the current Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Karen Bradley.


Last week Bradley hit the headlines when she confessed in an interview that she accepted the Northern Irish brief whilst having a knowledge of Northern Irish politics that was less than encyclopaedic.  “I freely admit that when I started this job, I didn’t understand some of the deep-seated and deep-rooted issues that there are in Northern Ireland.  I didn’t understand things like when elections are fought… people who are Nationalists don’t vote for Unionist parties and vice-versa.  So, the parties fight for the election within their own community.  Actually, the Unionist parties fight the elections against each other in Unionist communities and Nationalists in Nationalist communities. That’s a very different world from the world I came from.”


Oh, come on.  Bradley was born in 1970, which means she grew up in a Britain where the Northern Irish Troubles raged continually in the background – and sometimes in the foreground, for the IRA also set off bombs in England, including the Brighton one in 1984 that killed five members of Bradley’s Conservative Party and nearly took out Margaret Thatcher.  And she makes a living as a politician.  You’d expect her to be aware of political arrangements in the UK’s four corners and have some inkling who the Alliance Party, DUP, Official Unionists, SDLP and Sinn Fein and their supporters are.  Especially as her party has been propped up in government by ten MPs from Ian Paisley’s old outfit the DUP (in return for a 1.5 billion-pound bribe) since the 2017 general election.


Are we really to believe she flew to Belfast to become Secretary of State for Northern Ireland ignorant of such facts as most Protestant households don’t have framed, signed photographs of Martin McGuinness sitting on their mantelpieces and Roman Catholic support for Arlene Foster’s DUP is somewhat on the scant side?


© The Irish Examiner


Then again, Bradley’s ignorance is no worse than that displayed by many members of the Conservative Party these days, especially Brexiters like Boris Johnson and Jacob Rees-Mogg.  These are people whose attitudes towards the post-Brexit condition of the Northern Ireland / Republic of Ireland border – all squiggly, wriggly 310 miles of it, crossing towns, farms, fields and loughs and crossed itself by more than 200 public roads – suggest I.Q.s that are at basement-level.  They proclaim that the border isn’t important enough to worry about, or it can be policed the way it was back in the days of the Troubles (and what happy days those were), or – Boris Johnson’s opinion – all the immigration and customs issues on the border arising from Brexit can be solved with technology.  Maybe Johnson is proposing using drones.   Or maybe he’s thinking about using toy airplanes with cameras fixed to them that can be piloted by leprechauns.  He’s probably heard that there are still a few leprechauns on the go in Ireland.  And what jolly little fellows they are too.


The selection of Karen Bradley to be Secretary of State for Northern Ireland must have been because she sings from the same hymnbook as many of her fellow Tories.  And that’s a hymnbook from the Church of Stupid.


The butcher boy




My last post was about a gruesome figure from recent British political history, Margaret Thatcher, Milk Snatcher.  So I apologise for writing about another such figure in this post.  However, I feel obliged to comment on the news story earlier this week about a London restaurant worker called Twiggy Garcia.  One evening Garcia noticed that a certain Tony Blair had just stepped into his place of employment – Tramshed, a trendy and no doubt costly eatery in Shoreditch – and decided on the spur of the moment to carry out a citizen’s arrest on the former Labour Party prime minister.


Garcia did this because he considered Blair to be a war criminal, on account of his role in the invasion of Iraq in 2003 and its subsequent occupation.  The invasion was launched in order to depose Saddam Hussein who, it was claimed, possessed Weapons of Mass Destruction.  It transpired, though, that these WMDs didn’t actually exist and it became obvious that Blair and his invasion partner George W. Bush had spun a web of lies beforehand to make people believe that they did.  By the end of the conflict, though, it wasn’t just the WMDs that didn’t exist.  According to the Associated Press, approximately 110,000 Iraqi civilians up until 2009 (600,000 up until 2006 if you believe the Lancet) had stopped existing too, thanks to George and Tony’s actions.


Indeed, a decade after the American-led, British-backed invasion and occupation of Iraq, the country remains a violent basket case.  On Tuesday this week, at the same time that I heard about Blair’s meal being disrupted in the Tramshed Restaurant, I read a newspaper article reporting the deaths of 28 people in a series of bomb-blasts in Baghdad.  The same article said that fighters linked to al-Qaeda are currently entrenched in Fallujah and one official warned that they “possess enough heavy weapons to storm into Baghdad.”


George Bush once donned a flak jacket, posed on board an American aircraft carrier and boasted that the ‘mission’ in Iraq was ‘accomplished’.  That seems a very long time ago now.  Mind you, through the dubious involvement in the supposed reconstruction of Iraq by outfits like Halliburton, the debacle succeeded in lining Dick Cheney’s pockets very nicely, which I suppose was the real point of it.


Of course, the Iraq War put some coinage into Tony Blair’s pockets too.  Thanks to his support for one of the most right-wing and incompetent presidents in American history, the ex-PM is now revered in Republican circles and he makes more than a few bob on the USA’s public speaking and lecturing circuit.  (He’s also profited from dealings with the South Korean oil firm UI Energy Corporation, dealings that may also have involved Iraq:  I suppose his continuing popularity in America reduces his pain at being less admired in other parts of the world.  For instance, I worked in India during the worst phase of the ‘official’ Iraq War – Abu Ghraib and all that – and whenever I read the Indian English-language newspapers, his name seldom appeared in a sentence without being accompanied by the words ‘poodle’ or ‘lapdog’.


But the fact that everything that happened in Iraq was a reprehensible failure – morally, diplomatically, even in terms of making ground against Osamu Bin Laden and co in the supposed War on Terror – has never dented Blair’s belief that he did the proper thing.  He was right and those millions of people who came out on British streets at the time to protest against the invasion were wrong.  I suppose this was because Blair regards himself as a good Christian.  With God on his side, he reasoned, his decision to back Bush was divinely sanctioned.  (Bush, of course, professed to be a Christian too, although one couldn’t imagine the gimlet-eyed draft-dodger being as zealous about it as Blair.)  Actually, Blair’s take on Christianity puts me in mind of something said by the late William S. Burroughs in his spoken lyrics for the song Words of Advice for Young People: “If you’re doing business with a religious sonofabitch, get it in writing.  His word isn’t worth shit, not with the good Lord telling him how to f**k you on the deal.”


It would be nice to report that following Twiggy Garcia’s citizen’s arrest, Blair is now in a cell at Shoreditch Police Station and preparations are being made to fly him out to The Hague, where he will stand trial for crimes against humanity on the same spot that was recently occupied by Liberia’s Charles Taylor.  Alas, that hasn’t happened.  Blair first tried to argue with Garcia, asking, “Shouldn’t you be worried about Syria?”  Apparently, two wrong wars of mass slaughter make one right war of mass slaughter.  Then someone in Blair’s party fetched his plainclothes bodyguards from another part of the restaurant and Garcia had to make a run for it.  His employment at Tramshed seems to have ended there and then, although if I was the manager I’d offer him his job back, with a pay increase.  He’s certainly done wonders for the venue’s publicity.


Over the years, I’ve heard people admit grudgingly of Margaret Thatcher: “At least you knew where you stood with her.  We hated her and she hated us.”  In that regard, Blair, who ended his premiership with his hands drenched in Iraqi blood, was even worse.  He was as vile as his handbag-wielding predecessor but, unlike her, he also tried to be ingratiating.  He sported a sickeningly big smile and made out that he wanted to be everyone’s pal.  And he headed a political party that claimed to have some conscience, principles and scruples, the supposed antithesis of Thatcher and her cynical gang.  For that reason, I hope that when Tony Blair shuffles off this mortal coil (or someone pushes him off it), the celebratory street parties and bonfires will be much bigger, brighter and noisier than they were for Thatcher’s passing.


Here’s what the Independent said about the Tramshed incident:  And if you’re interested in carrying out a citizen’s arrest of Tony Blair, here’s a website for it: