30 March 2006
163
R. Linda:
There be nothing unfortunate happening with yours truly, so here we go back into the Sully history annals for another story of me misspent life, for sure. So let us go onward to life in Belfast, another I don't remember actually sitting down and writing, but like I say, the bottle was me friend.
Having lost a lot of time in catching the train and not catching the train, arriving too late for class or not at all, I decided to give up Filthy Towers and me tenuous membership in Satan's Lot for that other hellhole, Belfast, NI.
I will have to admit upfront, that yours truly was disillusioned with life, and found I was pissed most of me stay in Belfast, the city where arrogance is not suffered gladly. How I made it through college is a complete mystery to me, and that I passed me classes is a bigger one. What can be said about Ulster City that is positive? Well, one can talk about the Ulster fries (yummy), the "norn iron" accents (fascinating, you swear they aren't talking anything remotely like English), the drinking culture (which is constant), and the limited street crime. I say that last if you stay away from areas like the Shankill and the Falls, then there is very little.
For the most part, Belfast is laid back, no one hurries unless the local constabulary are apprehending. The people for the most part (except those in the aforementioned areas) are as they say with their distinct accent, "noy snobbly like that bout every other city and generally a wee bit more modest and friendly toypes here, I tink." Erm yes, the accent can be off-putting for sure, but one gets used to it.
The weather in Belfast is special. Yes, nowhere else will you find the rain a certain shade of "grey gloomy" and this seems to bring out the best, yes R. Linda, the best in the locals it does. They offer you a "toastie" and a beaker filled with that horrible shite buckfast, but not on Sundays, no everything including the sidewalks are rolled up on Sundays. So if I was looking forward to going anywhere, it had to be on Saturday.
Now I did not have the funds for a bit of cheek flat, I had to scratch by and live at the students union at Queens. And whoever built that building should be drawn and quartered for such a place as that. However, me classes were on the opposite side of the campus, so I had to either walk in that special grey weather or take a taxi. These taxis are cheap I want you to know, so I didn't walk much. I think the reason they were so cheap is that there is a certain stigma the populace holds to black taxis that those new to the city aren't aware of. Seems the Shankill butchers (infamous Proddy killers from the 70s) picked up their victims in these taxis and to this day, the locals don't trust to ride in one, thus the cheap fares. If you can forget about the imaginings of someone's last moments in the back of a taxi, you'll fare all right you will and cheaply.
The buses are a better source of travel mode (they come at a certain time, one does not have to wave them down until the arm is about to drop off), but the problem there is you don't want to be at a bus stop from 3 to 5 p.m. because the high on sugar school children can make your life miserable from the wait to the ride. One can only shout as they get off the bus, "Bring back St. Anne's you wankers!" (St. A's was known for ruler across hands and bottoms and many other forms of punishment that today would be called abuse. Oh those Anglicans, are just as bad as the Catholics, I tell ya!)
That brings me to the history of conflict, strife, murder, kidnapping, and the kneecapping outrage and craze, that gives the old city an air of tenacious gloom that adds heavily to the special grey gloom of the weather, which can be great if you're in the right mood for it. But the city is great, don't get me wrong. There is this sense of humour among those that live there along the lines of the take-no-prisoners, take no crap, black sense of humour. This leads me to the favourite pastime "bowelling."
I found this out on me first jaunt to a local. This practice is a unique mixture of personal abuse, sarcasm and surrealism which only Scousers will understand. Or tolerate for that matter. If you just try and not take it personally, with strangers joining in on your conversations, you will get by. Mild anglophobia and the all-pervading ugliness that drives tourists away and allows the pubs to remain habitable for the locals is what this "bowelling" is all about. No Oirish bars here, no just Proddy local loyalists who are guarded of their politics and who they want next to them at the bar top. But hey, I told me family not to worry about the Troubles, I lived through it, and I be grateful to have done so.
People do fear for their lives when they visit Belfast, but some shouldn't. I found that all one has to do is stay away from sectarian discussions. I noticed rarely will you see a nun or a priest walking down the street unless it be in front of a church where they can dash into safety, parishioners right behind.
And that brings me to Belfast's favourite pastime, rock throwing. There are in some sections of the city, barricades. These are erected to keep the Catholic population on one side, and the Protestant on the other. Besides the occasional name-calling and taunting, is the well-aimed rock. I have seen more scars on heads where hair should be from a good rock-throwing bout. I did me best to avoid this event at all costs. Forget I was told it was a "grand bit of fun," I decided I wasn't about to have me name on the local RUC lists and add to me Bangor record.
There be a general view held by the rest of Ireland that the population of Belfast are stereotypical scum, when most are average working class. However, the media portrays them as hostile, combative souls whose temper is made worse by the special grey gloom of the weather.
And no, there are not many sunny afternoons, but when there are, beware of the "spides, mill bags and Australian gits" who burgle flats of people already out of work. It was like what is up with that? Why not burgle someone with something to steal?
When I went to Belfast I just knew I was going to be blown up. I mean you hear about the IRA or the UFF blowing people and cars to bits and they are not discriminating in who they blow up. It is no wonder one feels personally in jeopardy. What I found was, that one was safe if they took to heart the words of a Belfast resident who said, "The intel is pretty good here, scare tactics I don't like, but tourists are welcome, just stay the feck away from me. Just go there and heck it out for urself!" He also said, "Change your identity if in certain parts of Belfast for our own safety and comfort." I will admit this advice is sound . . . "waiter another drink please!''
I finally moved to the best council estate I could find for the price. The "garden" suburb of Belvior, featuring incredible austerity measures of Cregagh (which look vaguely biblical), which means NO FURNISHED FLAT, NO LANDSCAPING, NO NOTHING. I did look at the other affordable council estates of Finaghy and Ballybeen, which were worse than Belvoir. I even went to Lavery's where upon stepping out of one flat, the would-be flatmate next door hollers out the window at me, "Aye yer ma," (which means anything you, the recipient, want it to mean). So I was living in Cregagh which has a 'Green' called Cregagh Park East which attracts people from faraway places like Newcastle-on-Tyne and Malaysia! There was a bloody sign I did not see until I moved in that announced to the world, "Take the 33 bus, get off a Cregagh Terminus (just past Castlereagh Borough Council Offices) and continue up the street." And where did this take one? To the flat next to me own where the "hoods" hung out. Was I reaping in the luck of the Oirish or what?
That brings me to the subject of police which are not called RUC but cops. You'll have to go visit Belfast to find out why. I did find they are good little soldiers where visiting English students are concerned. The English students left for holidays intact and that is saying A LOT. I made a friend of one of them and at the local McDonalds (yes McDonalds again, it was all I could afford), we encountered trouble in the form of two pissed-up teenage girls at closing, because me friend was speaking to me in his English accent. They took notice like dogs after a fox and were offended. They asked both of us why on earth we were in Northern Ireland and told us to go back to England. I think it was all good-humoured, but we weren't scared away.
We did encounter a bevvy of teenage girls on a walk home from the Europa Hotel, the most bombed hotel in Europe/the World or something. They challenged us to take a "scenic tour" with them and stupid us did. We went for a walk up the Falls Road to the corner shop where President Clinton bumped into Gerry Adams. Then we took a right and were told we had "crossed the border" onto Shankill Road. The conclusion to this is if one decides to tour these areas, one should drive quickly through them, never, never, ever, WALK them, unless one likes long taunting walks, that give off decidedly bad vibes from the people living in those places. We acted like we were admiring the murals (which are everyfeckingwhere). IRA here, UVF there, it was like nothing I had ever seen before. We left Falls Road where the Oirish flag was hung out, to Shankill Road where the Union Jack was proudly hung from every door jam. It was begorrah bizarre.
Finally, the best thing about Belfast is going to all the parties there. Party, party, party! Forget the all-pervading ugliness. The buildings are just plain awful, but the views are a wow. What the Luftwaffe and terrorism couldn't manage, the Planning Service had. The Stalingrad-like destruction of a once-proud city is evident. Bloody stupid sectarianism, which is probably as bad as you've heard it is, prevails. A certain inwardness, indicated by the lack of multiculturalism and people shouting "fruit" at you in the street for wearing a suit where, elsewhere, you would be admired for the ace face you are. "Spides" bombing round in cap cars belting out techno at full volume permeate any silence. Years before, it was Bob Marley mellowing out of the stereo and while there was more violence generally I was in a better mood than in Bangor. The only problem I had was with some of the residents in-comprehensive attitudes and paranoia. Aargh! Chill out yeah!"
R. Linda:
There be nothing unfortunate happening with yours truly, so here we go back into the Sully history annals for another story of me misspent life, for sure. So let us go onward to life in Belfast, another I don't remember actually sitting down and writing, but like I say, the bottle was me friend.
Having lost a lot of time in catching the train and not catching the train, arriving too late for class or not at all, I decided to give up Filthy Towers and me tenuous membership in Satan's Lot for that other hellhole, Belfast, NI.
I will have to admit upfront, that yours truly was disillusioned with life, and found I was pissed most of me stay in Belfast, the city where arrogance is not suffered gladly. How I made it through college is a complete mystery to me, and that I passed me classes is a bigger one. What can be said about Ulster City that is positive? Well, one can talk about the Ulster fries (yummy), the "norn iron" accents (fascinating, you swear they aren't talking anything remotely like English), the drinking culture (which is constant), and the limited street crime. I say that last if you stay away from areas like the Shankill and the Falls, then there is very little.
For the most part, Belfast is laid back, no one hurries unless the local constabulary are apprehending. The people for the most part (except those in the aforementioned areas) are as they say with their distinct accent, "noy snobbly like that bout every other city and generally a wee bit more modest and friendly toypes here, I tink." Erm yes, the accent can be off-putting for sure, but one gets used to it.
The weather in Belfast is special. Yes, nowhere else will you find the rain a certain shade of "grey gloomy" and this seems to bring out the best, yes R. Linda, the best in the locals it does. They offer you a "toastie" and a beaker filled with that horrible shite buckfast, but not on Sundays, no everything including the sidewalks are rolled up on Sundays. So if I was looking forward to going anywhere, it had to be on Saturday.
Now I did not have the funds for a bit of cheek flat, I had to scratch by and live at the students union at Queens. And whoever built that building should be drawn and quartered for such a place as that. However, me classes were on the opposite side of the campus, so I had to either walk in that special grey weather or take a taxi. These taxis are cheap I want you to know, so I didn't walk much. I think the reason they were so cheap is that there is a certain stigma the populace holds to black taxis that those new to the city aren't aware of. Seems the Shankill butchers (infamous Proddy killers from the 70s) picked up their victims in these taxis and to this day, the locals don't trust to ride in one, thus the cheap fares. If you can forget about the imaginings of someone's last moments in the back of a taxi, you'll fare all right you will and cheaply.
The buses are a better source of travel mode (they come at a certain time, one does not have to wave them down until the arm is about to drop off), but the problem there is you don't want to be at a bus stop from 3 to 5 p.m. because the high on sugar school children can make your life miserable from the wait to the ride. One can only shout as they get off the bus, "Bring back St. Anne's you wankers!" (St. A's was known for ruler across hands and bottoms and many other forms of punishment that today would be called abuse. Oh those Anglicans, are just as bad as the Catholics, I tell ya!)
That brings me to the history of conflict, strife, murder, kidnapping, and the kneecapping outrage and craze, that gives the old city an air of tenacious gloom that adds heavily to the special grey gloom of the weather, which can be great if you're in the right mood for it. But the city is great, don't get me wrong. There is this sense of humour among those that live there along the lines of the take-no-prisoners, take no crap, black sense of humour. This leads me to the favourite pastime "bowelling."
I found this out on me first jaunt to a local. This practice is a unique mixture of personal abuse, sarcasm and surrealism which only Scousers will understand. Or tolerate for that matter. If you just try and not take it personally, with strangers joining in on your conversations, you will get by. Mild anglophobia and the all-pervading ugliness that drives tourists away and allows the pubs to remain habitable for the locals is what this "bowelling" is all about. No Oirish bars here, no just Proddy local loyalists who are guarded of their politics and who they want next to them at the bar top. But hey, I told me family not to worry about the Troubles, I lived through it, and I be grateful to have done so.
People do fear for their lives when they visit Belfast, but some shouldn't. I found that all one has to do is stay away from sectarian discussions. I noticed rarely will you see a nun or a priest walking down the street unless it be in front of a church where they can dash into safety, parishioners right behind.
And that brings me to Belfast's favourite pastime, rock throwing. There are in some sections of the city, barricades. These are erected to keep the Catholic population on one side, and the Protestant on the other. Besides the occasional name-calling and taunting, is the well-aimed rock. I have seen more scars on heads where hair should be from a good rock-throwing bout. I did me best to avoid this event at all costs. Forget I was told it was a "grand bit of fun," I decided I wasn't about to have me name on the local RUC lists and add to me Bangor record.
There be a general view held by the rest of Ireland that the population of Belfast are stereotypical scum, when most are average working class. However, the media portrays them as hostile, combative souls whose temper is made worse by the special grey gloom of the weather.
And no, there are not many sunny afternoons, but when there are, beware of the "spides, mill bags and Australian gits" who burgle flats of people already out of work. It was like what is up with that? Why not burgle someone with something to steal?
When I went to Belfast I just knew I was going to be blown up. I mean you hear about the IRA or the UFF blowing people and cars to bits and they are not discriminating in who they blow up. It is no wonder one feels personally in jeopardy. What I found was, that one was safe if they took to heart the words of a Belfast resident who said, "The intel is pretty good here, scare tactics I don't like, but tourists are welcome, just stay the feck away from me. Just go there and heck it out for urself!" He also said, "Change your identity if in certain parts of Belfast for our own safety and comfort." I will admit this advice is sound . . . "waiter another drink please!''
I finally moved to the best council estate I could find for the price. The "garden" suburb of Belvior, featuring incredible austerity measures of Cregagh (which look vaguely biblical), which means NO FURNISHED FLAT, NO LANDSCAPING, NO NOTHING. I did look at the other affordable council estates of Finaghy and Ballybeen, which were worse than Belvoir. I even went to Lavery's where upon stepping out of one flat, the would-be flatmate next door hollers out the window at me, "Aye yer ma," (which means anything you, the recipient, want it to mean). So I was living in Cregagh which has a 'Green' called Cregagh Park East which attracts people from faraway places like Newcastle-on-Tyne and Malaysia! There was a bloody sign I did not see until I moved in that announced to the world, "Take the 33 bus, get off a Cregagh Terminus (just past Castlereagh Borough Council Offices) and continue up the street." And where did this take one? To the flat next to me own where the "hoods" hung out. Was I reaping in the luck of the Oirish or what?
That brings me to the subject of police which are not called RUC but cops. You'll have to go visit Belfast to find out why. I did find they are good little soldiers where visiting English students are concerned. The English students left for holidays intact and that is saying A LOT. I made a friend of one of them and at the local McDonalds (yes McDonalds again, it was all I could afford), we encountered trouble in the form of two pissed-up teenage girls at closing, because me friend was speaking to me in his English accent. They took notice like dogs after a fox and were offended. They asked both of us why on earth we were in Northern Ireland and told us to go back to England. I think it was all good-humoured, but we weren't scared away.
We did encounter a bevvy of teenage girls on a walk home from the Europa Hotel, the most bombed hotel in Europe/the World or something. They challenged us to take a "scenic tour" with them and stupid us did. We went for a walk up the Falls Road to the corner shop where President Clinton bumped into Gerry Adams. Then we took a right and were told we had "crossed the border" onto Shankill Road. The conclusion to this is if one decides to tour these areas, one should drive quickly through them, never, never, ever, WALK them, unless one likes long taunting walks, that give off decidedly bad vibes from the people living in those places. We acted like we were admiring the murals (which are everyfeckingwhere). IRA here, UVF there, it was like nothing I had ever seen before. We left Falls Road where the Oirish flag was hung out, to Shankill Road where the Union Jack was proudly hung from every door jam. It was begorrah bizarre.
Finally, the best thing about Belfast is going to all the parties there. Party, party, party! Forget the all-pervading ugliness. The buildings are just plain awful, but the views are a wow. What the Luftwaffe and terrorism couldn't manage, the Planning Service had. The Stalingrad-like destruction of a once-proud city is evident. Bloody stupid sectarianism, which is probably as bad as you've heard it is, prevails. A certain inwardness, indicated by the lack of multiculturalism and people shouting "fruit" at you in the street for wearing a suit where, elsewhere, you would be admired for the ace face you are. "Spides" bombing round in cap cars belting out techno at full volume permeate any silence. Years before, it was Bob Marley mellowing out of the stereo and while there was more violence generally I was in a better mood than in Bangor. The only problem I had was with some of the residents in-comprehensive attitudes and paranoia. Aargh! Chill out yeah!"
1 comment:
hilariously accurate.unfortunately.
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