Two Anarchists And A Drunk With A Dog Meet The Taoiseach

national | anti-war / imperialism | feature Saturday November 12, 2005 22:43 by K Barry - n/a

"he is intent on treating us like thick kids or perhaps smart dogs -I am not sure which"

Extract: An idea or rather an image bubbles up in my head of a human being held in one of the prisons for captives in the “War on Terror” - their sense of self slowly disintegrating under the pressure of uncertainity, torture and fear. I try to articulate what I think about Guantanamo. My heart is pounding and I am stabbing the air with my finger.

Meanwhile the same lackey is continuing to repeat his demand that we condemn Republican violence. This is absurd. I had expected grubby debating society tricks, oily pragmatism and weasel words but I wasn’t ready for such lazy contempt and a sheer inability or unwillingmess to argue for the merits of his decision on refuelling at Shannon.

Unexpectedly one of the retinue makes a coherent point about the plight of the Kurds and I begin talking to him. Bertie is still looking up and down the street though and his prayers are answered in the form of a beetroot faced man with a bristling moustache, a stocky little black dog and more than a couple of jars inside him.

Complete Article As Submitted To Indymedia Ireland

Today the Taoiseach was once again doing what he does best –making meaningless but reassuring remarks. In an article in today's Irish Independent Bertie insisted that the US military’s use of Shannon does not make Ireland a potential target of Islamist terror. Whatever the truth of this is Bertie’s longstanding strategy of actively supporting the US military while attempting to portray himself as a neutral party is fooling noone least of all the Pitstop Ploughshares who are now facing yet another retrial. Below is an account of a chance meeting with the Taoiseach and his inimitable political style.

Late on a Saturday morning a beefy, self-satisfied middle-aged man carrying a golfing umbrella knocked on the door to my north inner city flat. He tells me with more than a little pride that the Taoiseach is meeting and greeting his constituents and being one of that lucky number I was being invited to meet the great man. Foggy headed and tired I just want to return to my lair and I decline his offer. I go back in and tell my girlfriend that Bertie is out and about. She immediately proposes that we go and share some of our gripes about the military use of Shannon so we decide to go and meet the Taoiseach

We go out and he is now twenty metres up the road. His entourage is calling in on my neighbours and asking if they want to meet the Red Tsar. Nearly everybody is just resignedly taking the leaflet, nodding politely and closing their doors- there are shopping lists to compile, hangovers to nurse, kitchens to clean, We cross the road and there he is- a bit like what you see on TV just a little more rotund and shorter. The face is so familiar that you feel you know him. It is an unusual face like something from a cheap Irish version of the Muppet show -a face that is at once sheepish and cunning. Up close I can see tiny broken veins across the bridge of his nose and this briefly endears him to me. He grins and despite all the illusions I like to entertain about myself I feel a little bit nervous and bit awkward.

He greets us and we explain that we are not happy with Shannon being used to refuel US warplanes. He says that it is good that Saddam is gone but “I am anti-war” and if “we had our way the war wouldn’t of happened”. When this rather open and inclusive version of what constitutes anti-war activity doesn’t mollify us he explains that the High Court has judged US refuelling to be legal. I am getting a bit irritated and I am surprised at myself I thought this exchange would be fairly superficial and breezy and I am not making my points very well. N is doing a much better job she is asking him about Iraqi civilians and in response to this Bertie is talking about all the people killed by Saddam. The conversation is lurching around and I realise that he is just throwing out lines that he thinks might placate us. . The whole thing is a bit like that playground trick where you point at something non-existent in the distance in order to distract someone and take their ball or crisps or whatever. In fact as the conversation continues it becomes clear that he is intent on treating us like thick kids or perhaps smart dogs -I am not quite sure which.

I say that Shannon has been used to ship detainees bound for Guantanamo and torture. He flatly denies this. “I am anti-war” he says again and grins nervously at us and then some finely honed political instinct tells him that because we haven’t just dropped the matter we have to belong to some parliamentary party or other and are really just trying to score points. He goes on the offensive Bertie style “I am anti war and I am anti-Provo and I am anti-UVF” I think guessing, incorrectly, that we are members of Sinn Fein. The sheer inanity of this remark is making me feel even more annoyed.

N is talking to him about sensory deprivation techniques used in Guantanomo and he grins, looks left and then looks right. His only response to the stubborn, awful facts of war and human rights abuse seems to be placid arrogance. One of the men with golfing umbrellas pipes up for his boss with “you should condemn the murder of innocent people on your own shore!” Obviously he sniffs Fenianism at the bottom of all this as well. N says that is not what we are talking about.

An idea or rather an image bubbles up in my head -of a human being held in one of the prisons for captives in the “War on Terror” their sense of self slowly disintegrating under the pressure of uncertainity, torture and fear. I try to articulate what I think about Guantanamo. My heart is pounding and I am stabbing the air with my finger. Meanwhile the same lackey is continuing to repeat his demand that we condemn Republican violence. This is absurd. I had expected grubby debating society tricks, oily pragmatism and weasel words but I wasn’t ready for such lazy contempt and a sheer inability or unwillingmess to argue for the merits of his decision on refuelling at Shannon. Unexpectedly one of the retinue makes a coherent point about the plight of the Kurds and I begin talking to him. Bertie is still looking up and down the street though and his prayers are answered in the form of a beetroot faced man with a bristling moustache, a stocky little black dog and more than a couple of jars inside him.

This man with a dog is delighted to see Bertie and he enthusiastically pumps his hand “Hi ya Bertie. Hi ya Bertie. You are a great man Bertie” Bertie greets him, relieved he is once again a friend of the people. This man has overheard some of our conversation and he is not impressed-he is going to defend Bertie from the slings and arrows of unwarranted criticism He also has his own very individual method for debating the pro and cons of the war in Iraq. He bellows at us “You should go to the North Wall”.At this stage I am unsure if this is a very cunning insult or a reference to some piece of injustice closer to home. He shouts at us again. Bertie is still grinning. “They are coming in on pallettes in the North Wall. The refugees are coming in on pallettes on the North Wall”. Improbable as this is it is clearly not a good thing as far as he is concerned and he wants action now. Bertie plays safe with his fan and says nothing.

After witnessing the most powerful politician in Ireland mount a defence for the State’s support of US refuelling that would not convince a weak minded child I am depressed and angry We begin to walk away. I am wasting my time I am not doing anyone any favours- least of all for the people of Iraq.. Bertie clearly couldn’t care less about Iraq or my badly expressed objection to Irish complicity with the US war effort and I don’t want to now start arguing with a bellowing racist pickled in booze. Bertie’s fan thinks we are walking away because we are scared and encouraged by this he follows us screaming about immigrants and insulting us. He takes a new tack “Get a job. Get a fucking job”. I want to say to him “now? but this is my day off ” but something tells me taking the piss might also be a waste of time. I turn and look up the street and Bertie is walking away in the other direction and I realise that two disgruntled anarchists who don’t vote and one happy-to-be-angry racist are the only people who want to talk to the Taoiseach on my whole street. God bless common sense.