Romantic unions usurped by reality as utopia edges closer

IT’S one of the few things that unites us, one of the few things we can all agree on: We’d love the six counties back. We’d love to be reunified. You don’t even have to be a Sh inner, don’ t need to know the words to any of the rebel songs, to feel this way, to believe the island of Ireland should be free of British rule.

Regardless of your background, when you came of age, it has always lingered in the background, spoken of like a utopian fantasy, a distant dream none of us would ever live to see. And it’s true, many of those who belted out those songs, dreamed of a better future, are no longer with us.

But for those who remain, who remember those conversations, those drunken sing-songs, the dream suddenly isn’t so distant, is rapidly becoming a reality.

As neither a patriot nor a nationalist, someone who knows bits of the songs, parts of the stories, I maintain that a reunited Ireland would be the single greatest thing to happen to this country since David O’Leary scored that penalty in Genoa.

It would be the fulfilment of centuries of hardship, of hundreds of years of fighting and battling, a testament to the spirit and courage of those who came before us, those who stood up for what they believed in so that we could live better lives.

For the romantics, myself included, that’s what it’s about: honouring the dead, ensuring they didn’t lay down their lives for nothing, that their efforts eventually bore fruit – even if more blood had to be shed in the process.

The problem with romance is that it quickly fades, replaced by reality, by the drudgery of the everyday.

Say we do live to see a united Ireland, what will it be like? There’ ll be a big party obviously, something akin to winning the All-Ireland on Paddy’s Day and then going to Oxegen for a Dubliner’s gig. Mary Lou will cut a big green ribbon and we’ ll all swarm into Armagh, Derry, Tyrone, armed with fadas, attaching them to road signs, shop-fronts, baby’s heads.

There might be a bit of funny business with the lads who didn’t want to be part of Ireland but we’ ll figure that out, invite them down to the nice end of the country for a few weeks in a gesture of goodwill.

After that, after the excitement has died down and we’ve built statues of Gerry Adams in every village in the country, what happens? An all-Ireland soccer team, like the rugby? Sure the Northern Irish team are even worse than us, we could barely cobble a half-decent XI between us.

A new flag would be nice, something with a harp, or a wolf, something dramatic yet traditional, imposing yet quaint. And then what? A bit of interbreeding, systematic couplings which, over time, will dilute and then eradicate all trace of the British Empire, a few new songs, another national holiday, a special mint coin with Mary Lou on one side and Bobby Sands on the other.

And then what? How long will the warm glow of success last? What do you when you achieve that which you have fought for all your life?

Well, ideally, you’d sit back and enjoy the spoils, but, as we’ve discovered, those spoils may have to be shared with our new brethren. Although disputed by Sinn Féin, a study by the Institute of International and European Affairs (IIEA) has found that the cost of reclaiming the six counties could be €20bn a year, for 20 years.

Not so romantic now, eh? Because this cost, as with all costs, would be passed on to you and I, to the average Irish citizen. According to the IIEA, taxes would go up, wages would go down, and we’d find ourselves mired in a protracted period of austerity, all so we could be a nation once again.

You’d think making ourselves bigger, swelling our ranks, would increase our power, our wealth, but the economists say no, say we must suffer once more if we are to one day reach utopia.

No sooner had we welcomed the lads from Fermanagh back into the fold when we’d blaming them for the price of bread going up, for ruining what was a perfectly functional, albeit splintered, state.

Having done their own thing for the past 100 years, residents of the six counties would now be the scapegoats for everything, viewed more suspiciously, more warily, than any unvetted military age male from lands yonder.

After selling the second car, and going a year without having takeaways four nights of the week, we’d be on to King Charles to take them back, take them all back, and call them Londonderry and Londondown, while he’s at it.

No, what we want is the six counties, but without any of the hassle. We want the big party, the teary-eyed speeches, and the cute, indecipherable, accents, but leave the financial constraints and economic crises for someone else; like, for example, the British.

Yes, there’s the solution. Having effectively stolen six of our counties – admittedly bad ones, but nonetheless ours – Great Britain should pay any of the associated costs which may accrue from returning them. It’s not our fault they couldn’t leave well enough alone and had to have a stake in yet another country, and we shouldn’t have to pay for something that was ours all along. If Mary Lou can negotiate that deal then we’ ll have to put her on all the coins.