31 March 2006
Story #161
R. Linda:
To keep the ball rolling, as they say in America, and since there are no unfortunate events to report on me sad life across the pond (as of yet), I will once again delve into me past Sully history for one more harrowing event or events to entertain you. Again, I don't remember when I wrote this or if I did. It was a time of drinking and not much else.
Let's move to Drumcree, shall we? Also known to those who read the Irish newspapers as Portadown (a section at least). Yes, the infamous Drumcree/Portadown, whatever, the place where the holiday marches are like none on the entire island of Ireland. If you want a jolly good time, rock throwing, protesting, shouting obscenities, shoving people you don't know, with a healthy dose of sectarian violence, THIS, me dear R. Linda, is the fecking place to be and be seen!
Yes indeed, at parade time, one can get into the mix and have one's face broadcast worldwide in some cases and bashed in others. If not nationally broadcast, locally will do as well. Yes, indeed, bring your rocks, sticks, and Molotov cocktails and don't stay home, come to Drumcree for the Orange parade rock-fest.
Me first time in Portadown was to meet a friend, who attended, what else? Portadown College! Yes, they have one of those, but you hardly hear anything about it because of all the shouting and stuff going on. It isn't a bad place, really. It only is if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person, then you are in trouble, but that rarely happens. Unless . . . You go to Drumcree/Portadown around the 12th of July?
In me not-so-humble opinion, the best place to have a good time at THE weekend in Portadown be on the train back to Belfast. No matter where you are from or what the bloody hell you believe, the general hangouts in the town of Portadown have an intrinsic sectarian underbelly. There is no place to enjoy oneself as most would, none, I say.
I went with me friend to the Corcrain Bridge. I did not know why we were going to the bridge, but anyone in the know in Portadown (who wants a reasonable time of it) goes to the bloody bridge for a rousing good old drubbing with the opposite religion! This was an epiphany to me. If I wanted to meet someone of the other faith and get them down the backs, Corcrain Bridge be the place to do it. This is a seasonal venue; it is only when the Orange Parades begin that this takes place. So get your reservations in early for 12 July.
The habit of "a fecking good time" happens only once a year. The primary feature of this be the annual stone-throwing contest, also known as DRUMCREE!!! Let me see, I think roughly a million "residents" (give or take one or two), gather on Gravaghny road and another million loyal Orangemen spring up out of bloody nowhere, to join together in this festival which has ensured that everyone, no matter where they live, has heard of PORTADOWN. If you want to meet the people of Portadown, you'll find the whole fecking town on Gravaghny Road on the 12th July. And if you are into Jurassic Park-like venues, the old fart dinosaur named Ian Paisley will be at Drumcree Church for all to view or stone, or throw Buckfast tonic bottles at. Whatever floats your boat. And one final thing, if you make it over, take a good look at the Drumcree Chruch and tell me how in the bloody world all those Orangemen fit in there once a year for their bloody church service.
In between all this fantastic fun, I found a McDonald's to go to. Yes, I did. And what did I see there? 13 to 14-year-old wankers hanging about the place because they're not old enough to go to the nightclubs in Banbridge. They are not shy about accosting people much older than themselves for a few quid to buy drugs. I learned to say, "Feck off you twats!" too many times to count. You know I be easy going, but I was reduced to saying a phrase I would be washing me own mouth out with soap.
It was so bad me friend and I went to the park to eat our burgers, and what did we find? At first sight, we saw the park crew running around the park as if off their heads on something that alters their mind, threatening innocent bypassers and regularly kicking the shite out of anyone that happened to look at them. It was as they got closer that I realised they were Provies with sticks, whacking anyone with two legs. I knew they weren't the park crew when I saw the sticks!
We ended up down by the Bann River only to find more teenage girls asking us if we would like a shag and in return, we had to buy them Buckfast/Diamond White. When we said no, they threatened to throw us in the bloody river. Aaaagh!
We left there with our cold burgers and went to the car park outside Tesco's on Meadow Lane. We were not troubled, but a soggy, cold hamburger wasn't a treat. We started back to meet a friend at the car park and ran smack into rampaging mobs with rocks, bottles, sticks and anything that wasn't nailed down on High Street. It was frightening, I tell ya, we were standing stock still in the middle of what we thought was a deserted street when suddenly the hoards came around the corner straight at us (who had done nothing), only to turn around and see another mob of angry-heads headed in our new direction! On one side of us was a very tall wall. What to do? We ran to the other side instead into a bevy of overweight girls in unwashed Poundstretcher leggings! Begorrah! Back to the rampaging mob? Where were the girls with the short skirts and even shorter memories? We were doomed, we were.
Somehow we got to the church -- no, not Drumcree, St. John's and jumped the wall into the graveyard. We came to rest on the table headstone of one Brian McPhee (may he rest in eternal peace and not be upset about the Tayto Cheese and Onion crisp wrappers littering his place of rest). We hunkered down as a helicopter's sharp and piercing beams of floodlight came whipping at the angry crowd, beating each other to a pulp. We listened to the bullhorns directing them to "STOP IT, STOP IT NOW OR ELSE!" Or else what? We wondered. We knew if we moved that damning beam of light would find us, rubber bullets were being shot from above, and we didn't want to attract that unwanted attention. We sat motionless.
Me friend decided it was as good a time as ever to inform yours truly that we were sitting at the exact place Gillian O'Neil met the devil. The devil worshippers met in the graveyard and used Brian McPhee's table headstone for an unholy altar. He said it in a low whisper, making the hair on the back of me neck stand up. Just as he said that, the heavens opened up and the rain pelted us like rubber bullets. Which at first we thought were rubber bullets and like two queers forgetting their pink boas, we stood up screaming and dancing an Irish jig to beat the band. This attracted the notice of the policemen with BATONS.
We ran like we had done something wrong, splashing through puddles, climbing through thorny hedges and falling down a lot. The damn lot of police kept coming, first, there were three, then there were ten, and because we weren't looking where we were going we found ourselves on another street with another raging mob! Fire bombs came our way, and we were like jackrabbits sprinting away when BOOM! Then the batons finally found us. Two innocents getting whacked by ardent police who didn't care if we were innocent or not. We were in the fray, the town fun-fest, so therefore, we must be enjoying ourselves. Oh yes indeed, the black and blues, the swollen eggs on our heads the next day, attested to all the fun we had.
We looked like everyone else in that town the next day. Everyone was walking wounded, had a story to tell, and was still itching for another rock fest. And, so they wouldn't be disappointed, the Orange Order would set up all week for the march after "bloody" and I mean bloody march. All week this went on, but thankfully, I was on me way back to Belfast on the train, drinking ale, eating Tayto crisps and chasing down with Maltesers, nursing me battered body. It be true the ride back was the best part of me visit.
I swore I would never go back, and don't you think once I graduated and worked for a worthy newspaper, I was sent on assignment to Drumcree! Oh, me aching head at the thought and as I told you a long time ago, I took a rubber bullet reporting on the fecking bloody riots, so finally, the bastards got me, and I was still innocent of doing anything wrong. (See 9 November 2009 Reflections Of The Past - History Lesson On Northern Ireland)
R. Linda:
To keep the ball rolling, as they say in America, and since there are no unfortunate events to report on me sad life across the pond (as of yet), I will once again delve into me past Sully history for one more harrowing event or events to entertain you. Again, I don't remember when I wrote this or if I did. It was a time of drinking and not much else.
Let's move to Drumcree, shall we? Also known to those who read the Irish newspapers as Portadown (a section at least). Yes, the infamous Drumcree/Portadown, whatever, the place where the holiday marches are like none on the entire island of Ireland. If you want a jolly good time, rock throwing, protesting, shouting obscenities, shoving people you don't know, with a healthy dose of sectarian violence, THIS, me dear R. Linda, is the fecking place to be and be seen!
Yes indeed, at parade time, one can get into the mix and have one's face broadcast worldwide in some cases and bashed in others. If not nationally broadcast, locally will do as well. Yes, indeed, bring your rocks, sticks, and Molotov cocktails and don't stay home, come to Drumcree for the Orange parade rock-fest.
Me first time in Portadown was to meet a friend, who attended, what else? Portadown College! Yes, they have one of those, but you hardly hear anything about it because of all the shouting and stuff going on. It isn't a bad place, really. It only is if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person, then you are in trouble, but that rarely happens. Unless . . . You go to Drumcree/Portadown around the 12th of July?
In me not-so-humble opinion, the best place to have a good time at THE weekend in Portadown be on the train back to Belfast. No matter where you are from or what the bloody hell you believe, the general hangouts in the town of Portadown have an intrinsic sectarian underbelly. There is no place to enjoy oneself as most would, none, I say.
I went with me friend to the Corcrain Bridge. I did not know why we were going to the bridge, but anyone in the know in Portadown (who wants a reasonable time of it) goes to the bloody bridge for a rousing good old drubbing with the opposite religion! This was an epiphany to me. If I wanted to meet someone of the other faith and get them down the backs, Corcrain Bridge be the place to do it. This is a seasonal venue; it is only when the Orange Parades begin that this takes place. So get your reservations in early for 12 July.
The habit of "a fecking good time" happens only once a year. The primary feature of this be the annual stone-throwing contest, also known as DRUMCREE!!! Let me see, I think roughly a million "residents" (give or take one or two), gather on Gravaghny road and another million loyal Orangemen spring up out of bloody nowhere, to join together in this festival which has ensured that everyone, no matter where they live, has heard of PORTADOWN. If you want to meet the people of Portadown, you'll find the whole fecking town on Gravaghny Road on the 12th July. And if you are into Jurassic Park-like venues, the old fart dinosaur named Ian Paisley will be at Drumcree Church for all to view or stone, or throw Buckfast tonic bottles at. Whatever floats your boat. And one final thing, if you make it over, take a good look at the Drumcree Chruch and tell me how in the bloody world all those Orangemen fit in there once a year for their bloody church service.
In between all this fantastic fun, I found a McDonald's to go to. Yes, I did. And what did I see there? 13 to 14-year-old wankers hanging about the place because they're not old enough to go to the nightclubs in Banbridge. They are not shy about accosting people much older than themselves for a few quid to buy drugs. I learned to say, "Feck off you twats!" too many times to count. You know I be easy going, but I was reduced to saying a phrase I would be washing me own mouth out with soap.
It was so bad me friend and I went to the park to eat our burgers, and what did we find? At first sight, we saw the park crew running around the park as if off their heads on something that alters their mind, threatening innocent bypassers and regularly kicking the shite out of anyone that happened to look at them. It was as they got closer that I realised they were Provies with sticks, whacking anyone with two legs. I knew they weren't the park crew when I saw the sticks!
We ended up down by the Bann River only to find more teenage girls asking us if we would like a shag and in return, we had to buy them Buckfast/Diamond White. When we said no, they threatened to throw us in the bloody river. Aaaagh!
We left there with our cold burgers and went to the car park outside Tesco's on Meadow Lane. We were not troubled, but a soggy, cold hamburger wasn't a treat. We started back to meet a friend at the car park and ran smack into rampaging mobs with rocks, bottles, sticks and anything that wasn't nailed down on High Street. It was frightening, I tell ya, we were standing stock still in the middle of what we thought was a deserted street when suddenly the hoards came around the corner straight at us (who had done nothing), only to turn around and see another mob of angry-heads headed in our new direction! On one side of us was a very tall wall. What to do? We ran to the other side instead into a bevy of overweight girls in unwashed Poundstretcher leggings! Begorrah! Back to the rampaging mob? Where were the girls with the short skirts and even shorter memories? We were doomed, we were.
Somehow we got to the church -- no, not Drumcree, St. John's and jumped the wall into the graveyard. We came to rest on the table headstone of one Brian McPhee (may he rest in eternal peace and not be upset about the Tayto Cheese and Onion crisp wrappers littering his place of rest). We hunkered down as a helicopter's sharp and piercing beams of floodlight came whipping at the angry crowd, beating each other to a pulp. We listened to the bullhorns directing them to "STOP IT, STOP IT NOW OR ELSE!" Or else what? We wondered. We knew if we moved that damning beam of light would find us, rubber bullets were being shot from above, and we didn't want to attract that unwanted attention. We sat motionless.
Me friend decided it was as good a time as ever to inform yours truly that we were sitting at the exact place Gillian O'Neil met the devil. The devil worshippers met in the graveyard and used Brian McPhee's table headstone for an unholy altar. He said it in a low whisper, making the hair on the back of me neck stand up. Just as he said that, the heavens opened up and the rain pelted us like rubber bullets. Which at first we thought were rubber bullets and like two queers forgetting their pink boas, we stood up screaming and dancing an Irish jig to beat the band. This attracted the notice of the policemen with BATONS.
We ran like we had done something wrong, splashing through puddles, climbing through thorny hedges and falling down a lot. The damn lot of police kept coming, first, there were three, then there were ten, and because we weren't looking where we were going we found ourselves on another street with another raging mob! Fire bombs came our way, and we were like jackrabbits sprinting away when BOOM! Then the batons finally found us. Two innocents getting whacked by ardent police who didn't care if we were innocent or not. We were in the fray, the town fun-fest, so therefore, we must be enjoying ourselves. Oh yes indeed, the black and blues, the swollen eggs on our heads the next day, attested to all the fun we had.
We looked like everyone else in that town the next day. Everyone was walking wounded, had a story to tell, and was still itching for another rock fest. And, so they wouldn't be disappointed, the Orange Order would set up all week for the march after "bloody" and I mean bloody march. All week this went on, but thankfully, I was on me way back to Belfast on the train, drinking ale, eating Tayto crisps and chasing down with Maltesers, nursing me battered body. It be true the ride back was the best part of me visit.
I swore I would never go back, and don't you think once I graduated and worked for a worthy newspaper, I was sent on assignment to Drumcree! Oh, me aching head at the thought and as I told you a long time ago, I took a rubber bullet reporting on the fecking bloody riots, so finally, the bastards got me, and I was still innocent of doing anything wrong. (See 9 November 2009 Reflections Of The Past - History Lesson On Northern Ireland)
Gabe
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