No longer the ‘funny friend’, Ireland should recast itself as the villain in the Brexit farce
Notebook
ANTI-IRISH sentiment in England has reached a new high (or low, depending on which side of the Irish Sea you’re staring across from, I guess). The Brexit Border impasse revived an opposition that most of us believed redundant, breathing life into dusty stereotypes and stale prejudices. It also exposed the staggeringly poor knowledge of Irish history our nearest neighbours possess, which, considering the large part they played in it, is somewhat ironic.
Of course, a cynic might say that far from giving these anti-Irish attitudes a kiss-of-life, Brexit frustrations have simply pierced the facade of tolerance, unmasking long-held prejudices beneath.
But irrespective of whether it’s a new or old animosity, reading some of the anti-Irish rhetoric emanating from Westminster, the English media and beyond has been oddly refreshing – in a duck-your-head-in-a-barrel-oficed-cat-wee kind of way, but curiously novel all the same.
Is nobody else a bit tired of always being the friendly, funloving, craic-seeking Irish? Like the typecast actor, surely there is part of us desperate to be more than ‘the funny friend’. In truth, I like the thought of being the Bond villain to Britain’s mutineering Brexiteers. And I don’t think I’m the only one getting some sort of perverse joy from all the Irishbashing. I’ve seen plenty of my fellow countryfolk revelling in being slightly recast in the farce that is Britain’s exit from the EU. I’m sure the novelty will wear off pretty soon though.
Good Lord, hands off our Donegal
SPEAKING of Brexit, I was full of admiration for the recent stealth bid on the part of one peer to swipe one of Ireland’s greatest assets from under our noses. I can hear the gushing waves of panic collectively washing over you all from here but don’t panic: the Book of Kells, the Supermac’s curry sauce recipe and the entire back row of the Irish rugby team have all been relocated to a safe house.
What former Unionist politician and current Baron Kilclooney was after was not quite so easy to stash. It seems that Co Donegal and all the treasures within caught the magpie peer’s beady eye.
You see the northern county – and by northern I mean in the north of Ireland, as opposed to ‘Norn Iron’ (that’s for our UK readers) – not only boasts a rugged coastline of more than 1,000km with such topographical delights as Europe’s highest sea cliffs (Sliabh Liag), numerous Blue Flag beaches and a postcard-worthy vista around nearly every bend, it also has that elusive x-factor.
Earlier this year, travel Bible ‘National Geographic’ declared it the ‘Coolest Place on the Planet’, producing a 20-page supplement to back up its bold claim.
Hollywood has also fallen victim to the county’s rugged charms, with the ‘Star Wars’ juggernaut lured to Malin Head to shoot some of its multi-billiondollar franchise on Donegal’s hallowed shores. When the film is released later this month, the already-resurgent tourism sector in Donegal is set for another boost.
So excuse me if I doubt the authenticity of the Baron’s concern for the welfare of the people of Donegal, whom he insists would be better off as part of Northern Ireland. Hands off, Kilclooney.
Manspreader met his match
IDON’T know if the good Baron is a manspreader, but I have a funny feeling he might be. Manspreading, of course, is the space-swallowing practice of sitting with your knees so far apart it would not be inconceivable to park a Honda Civic between them. It afflicts mainly the commuting classes, but can also be observed, in all its splayed glory, in cinemas, doctor’s surgeries and even, gasp, your own home.
But the manspreader has finally met his match. She is #womanspreader and she’s coming to an Instagram account near you.
This new social-media campaign is all about “reclaiming your space” and millennial favourites such as the Kardashians siblings and the Hadid sisters have been flooding their accounts with pictures of themselves sitting while using their (very long) limbs to gobble up vast swathes of space. After years of being told to sit ‘like a lady’ and cross your legs, womenspreading can be a bit of a stretch for some.
And, admittedly, sitting in the back row of the number 27a with my legs akimbo is not high on my list of life goals, but I stand behind any woman who wants to adopt this pose either for reasons of comfort or as a political statement. One word of warning, though.
You can spread those legs as wide as you want, but if you end up forcing the person sitting beside you to shrink into the corner, then manspreader, womanspreader or I’ve-bought-so-much-I can’t-fit-all-my-bags-onthe-floor spreader, you’re just being selfish.