24 April 2003
31
R. Linda:
A few years back when I was a cub reporter, one of me first assignments was the gargantuan task of covering the Orange Parades in Northern Ireland. There is a place called Portadown, which is a bone of contention every year because the Orangemen follow a route that takes them through a couple of large Catholic neighbourhoods. The Catholics there find the Orange parade insulting and resent they would march where they are not welcome. Further, they think the parade is a way of rubbing their noses in the dirt, as they say.
To make this annual event clear, you should know a little about the Orangemen and why for the parades each 12 July. And, as an added bonus, if you ever decide to visit Northern Ireland, you will know to avoid the first few weeks in July unless you are looking for an exciting adventure or quick training in Irish survival.
The Orange Order founded itself way back in the 1700s and stemmed from working-class Protestants who called themselves the Peep-O-Day Boys, a bunch of hooligans that set upon the Catholics at any provocation they could invent. But first, you should know a short bit of history on this matter. The Peep O' Day Boys were a group of disgruntled Scots Irish Presbies (who ended up in Ireland fleeing English religious persecution) and later along with ascendency Anglicans, some of whom took the side of the Catholics over the Crown in Ireland, did some vicious raiding of the ruling classes to overturn the strict rules of the Crown's landlordism; for a time they fought side by side Catholic and Presbyterian. This roughly meant that if you were a non-Anglican, you held no property and had little to no rights. This caused a mass exodus of a lot of the Scots Irish to America. But in the late 1700s, a change was instituted where these self-same groups could bid on the land. The problem was, that the Catholics thought it was their land to begin with and outbid their Protestant neighbours making them angry, and they turned on the Catholics and thus established the Orange Order. The Orange Order revered the British King William, who basically plundered Ireland, fought the Gaelic population, trounced them, and made every native-born Irish Catholic resentful that they were demoted to second-class citizenry, whose sole purpose in life was to be a slave of the British empire.
Now Linda, for some reason, the Orange Order exists to this day and takes great delight in reminding the native Catholic population of Northern Ireland, that they were beaten to a pulp by King Willie's men and ever since then, the Protestant population has lorded it over the Catholic one.
As you may imagine, this does not sit well with the Catholics of Northern Ireland. So, when the Orangemen get the urge to march in July through the Catholic neighbourhoods, with their bands, banners, orange sashes and bowler hats, the Catholics get upset. I should point out that in August, the Catholic Order of the Hibernians takes to the streets with their marching bands as well, and they're wearin' o' the green, only they don't make the fuss of "having" to march through the Proddy (an affectionate term for Protestants -- affection depending upon whether you are a Catholic or a Protestant) neighbourhoods.
To make a long history short, the most contentious area where the Orangemen battle the Catholics for their marching parades, is in County Armagh (where it all started in the first place), in the old linen-making town of Portadown. Such a lovely little place it be too. White and pink blossomed trees are abundant in the spring, giving the town a flowery fragrance when the breeze blows just right. It used to be an industrial town, but now it is a place near the lakes and such, that many a trout fisherman will tell you there be no finer place to stay when the season comes, except for maybe the competing town of Craigavon (but who's looking?).
With that wee bit of background down, we are ready for me story of excitement, adventure, intrigue, spying (yes spying), and pretend.
As I said, there I was a cub reporter basically wet behind the ears, but feeling confident I could do a good job on reporting the showdown in Portadown, which was particularly ugly that year, just me luck. The Brits had sent in the Scottish paratroopers who made their HQ the church of all places, and they set up barricades all over the place to keep the Catholics on one side and the Proddys on the other. In between this ruckus were the reporters, that be me, in a cordoned-off area.
I came down there with me camcorder and mic all set to get some great video and sound bytes, and then went back to the Seagoe Hotel (great view of the churchyard) and wrote it all up like I was a true professional, with me video and sound to back me up. So, I get me down there in the midst of it all and there are Catholics throwing stones and bottles, and Proddys shouting back at them, with the Brits and their submachine guns pushing and shoving both sides and in between all this are the reporters, a wonderful bunch of gluttons for punishment, because I can tell you first hand, it isn't easy trying to record and being punched in the belly at the same time, while flying rock missiles whiz by one's head.
Well, I went down there and was finding meself bleeding and battered after each episode of me trying to report on it all. Finally, I noticed there was safety in numbers. While I was coming down Upper Church Street, I spied the BBC crew in the middle of the rock and bottle throwing, and the shouting, filming, getting sound and live feedback to the telly station. That, I knew would make for glued viewers to the telly and the ratings go up, up, up!
I was fecking impressed that the onscreen talent was in the middle of a ring of his crew completely safe from the flying projectiles and totally oblivious to the insults; reporting the news like he was the only person standing in the street!
I had to get closer and as I did, I realised I'd seen the talent before. He was not the in-studio presenter, but an investigative reporter who did his own work, and reported usually by wire, but on occasion would report from the field if there was no one else to do it. I knew him by reputation as a hard-driven type, quick on his feet (you had to be in this business, because more times than not, a crowd from one side or the other might not like what you were reporting and take it upon themselves to chase you, so they could smash your camera along with your face). He is a handsome bloke he be, and I wondered why he wasn't in-studio, but having been in the business a short time, I had realised it was more satisfying to be out in the field reporting than being on the telly announcing what someone else sent in. I admired him for that, and being ready to face danger and risk to his handsome countenance. :)~
As I got closer, he had finished his live broadcast and he ducked as did his crew, in unison (was like the flight people in the TOP GUN flick who guide the jets on takeoff), the rocks and bottles that went over them and hit the Proddy targets by mistake (well, maybe not by mistake). I realised only a seasoned crew would know when to duck and get the hell out, so I was all wanting to interview THEM!
I stuck with it for two days getting closer to the BBC team, and on the third day, I was IN. Ok, it was purely by accident, but I was among the chosen. What happened was we were down by the churchyard where the Paras were holding us back and shooting rubber bullets into a now extremely unruly crowd to back them away from each other. Well, I can tell you Linda, that doesn't stop the news from churning out. Bravely the BBC crew and the Thames TV teams jostled each other for better position for footage coverage. I was standing between them minding me own business when one of the Thames people shoved me out of the way, and I landed smack inside the enclosed circle of the BBC crew, right up next to Mr. Handsome Reporter Man, who looked at me like "Who the hell are you?"
I grinned at him and said, "Gabriel O'Sullivan, sent to help." Ok, I lied. But opportunity beckoned and what a story it would make, or so I thought, me covering the men covering the news! I could see his lips mouthing O'Sullivan and in his eyes, he was thinking, Why is a Catholic in my crew? But there was no time for him to ask because "we" were about to air LIVE.
I know what I said was lame, but bottles be flying, and we be ducking (I got the ducking down by watching the others in the crew and felt very important), and there was no time to waste because the reporter had to get his report in before the Thames crew. He told me to stand out of camera range and I picked up me cam and started shooting like I was a professional. That brought puzzled looks from the BBC Cameraman, the boom and mic man, and the one with the lights that he had to keep replacing from the stone-throwing. I shrugged, smiled and kept on filming as another one counted down to air time.
The live feed went through and we (well, the BBC and I) had just finished when live rounds were being shot AT us. Not one side at the other, they were shooting AT US! More importantly at ME (or so it felt like). Someone said, "Shite!" Someone else said, "Christ they are shooting in this direction, scatter!" Well, I was next to the handsome reporter whose name was being called from the angry crowd of Catholics, and for a fraction of a second he looked like he was thinking of turning towards them, but being experienced knew not to, but yours truly, being not so experienced did and took a bullet in the upper arm. Yes, I took a bullet meant for me companion, well, not exactly me companion, but well, you know.
The reporter caught me because the bullet hit me with a jolt almost over backwards and he half carried, half dragged me into the graveyard (I thought no not there, it's too appropriate), and up the slight hill to the side of the church where a Casualty Clearing area was set up. I was seeing a priest coming towards me and thought, uh oh, it's all over.
With the priest seeing to me bloody sleeve while I awaited a medical attendant, I looked up to find the reporter growling at me, what a bloody damn fool I was and who the hell was I anyway? Gabriel what? The rest of the crew had made off, all but the cameraman who was standing there looking at me like I was a simpleton. The two of them looked at each other and the cameraman went off to get help while the reporter and priest stayed with me. The priest said I was in shock, but I could have told him the only shock was from the way the reporter started cursing me arse out in front of the priest. The priest stood up put a hand on the reporter's arm and said, "Ye aren't a Catholic are ye laddie?"
"Ni, I be no, but this eejit was bloody stupid and could have lost his bloody fool life! He should know just how stupid he is!"
Well, before he could tell me how stupid I was, a nurse type came up and started tsking and tasking at me arm, announcing to all it be nothing more than a graze. Damn, I wanted so to be the hero. I needn't of felt bad because it seemed I was a hero. I took the bullet meant for the BBC reporter. Seems he was a known Proddy and the Catholics on the other side of the barricade knew such, so to shut him up, they decided to "warm him off." I don't think they meant to kill him, I mean how foolish would that have been on public telly with all of the UK watching? Though I bet the ratings would have soared sky-high.
I wore me arm in a sling for a week to act like I was a casualty victim of the Orange Parades. That went over big at me local in the neighbourhood back home, but I took the sling off when I went near the Proddy neighbourhoods, so as not to be recognised as the Catholic casualty. To add insult to injury me act of heroism never did make the news. The reporter didn't want the attention (and who could blame him?) and if me newspaper knew where I was, and who I was pretending to be, I'd have been fired. Instead, I told them at the paper a stray shot caught me on me way back up the churchyard.
Ack, such a momentary glory.
Gabe
Copyright © 2003 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
A few years back when I was a cub reporter, one of me first assignments was the gargantuan task of covering the Orange Parades in Northern Ireland. There is a place called Portadown, which is a bone of contention every year because the Orangemen follow a route that takes them through a couple of large Catholic neighbourhoods. The Catholics there find the Orange parade insulting and resent they would march where they are not welcome. Further, they think the parade is a way of rubbing their noses in the dirt, as they say.
To make this annual event clear, you should know a little about the Orangemen and why for the parades each 12 July. And, as an added bonus, if you ever decide to visit Northern Ireland, you will know to avoid the first few weeks in July unless you are looking for an exciting adventure or quick training in Irish survival.
The Orange Order founded itself way back in the 1700s and stemmed from working-class Protestants who called themselves the Peep-O-Day Boys, a bunch of hooligans that set upon the Catholics at any provocation they could invent. But first, you should know a short bit of history on this matter. The Peep O' Day Boys were a group of disgruntled Scots Irish Presbies (who ended up in Ireland fleeing English religious persecution) and later along with ascendency Anglicans, some of whom took the side of the Catholics over the Crown in Ireland, did some vicious raiding of the ruling classes to overturn the strict rules of the Crown's landlordism; for a time they fought side by side Catholic and Presbyterian. This roughly meant that if you were a non-Anglican, you held no property and had little to no rights. This caused a mass exodus of a lot of the Scots Irish to America. But in the late 1700s, a change was instituted where these self-same groups could bid on the land. The problem was, that the Catholics thought it was their land to begin with and outbid their Protestant neighbours making them angry, and they turned on the Catholics and thus established the Orange Order. The Orange Order revered the British King William, who basically plundered Ireland, fought the Gaelic population, trounced them, and made every native-born Irish Catholic resentful that they were demoted to second-class citizenry, whose sole purpose in life was to be a slave of the British empire.
Now Linda, for some reason, the Orange Order exists to this day and takes great delight in reminding the native Catholic population of Northern Ireland, that they were beaten to a pulp by King Willie's men and ever since then, the Protestant population has lorded it over the Catholic one.
As you may imagine, this does not sit well with the Catholics of Northern Ireland. So, when the Orangemen get the urge to march in July through the Catholic neighbourhoods, with their bands, banners, orange sashes and bowler hats, the Catholics get upset. I should point out that in August, the Catholic Order of the Hibernians takes to the streets with their marching bands as well, and they're wearin' o' the green, only they don't make the fuss of "having" to march through the Proddy (an affectionate term for Protestants -- affection depending upon whether you are a Catholic or a Protestant) neighbourhoods.
To make a long history short, the most contentious area where the Orangemen battle the Catholics for their marching parades, is in County Armagh (where it all started in the first place), in the old linen-making town of Portadown. Such a lovely little place it be too. White and pink blossomed trees are abundant in the spring, giving the town a flowery fragrance when the breeze blows just right. It used to be an industrial town, but now it is a place near the lakes and such, that many a trout fisherman will tell you there be no finer place to stay when the season comes, except for maybe the competing town of Craigavon (but who's looking?).
With that wee bit of background down, we are ready for me story of excitement, adventure, intrigue, spying (yes spying), and pretend.
As I said, there I was a cub reporter basically wet behind the ears, but feeling confident I could do a good job on reporting the showdown in Portadown, which was particularly ugly that year, just me luck. The Brits had sent in the Scottish paratroopers who made their HQ the church of all places, and they set up barricades all over the place to keep the Catholics on one side and the Proddys on the other. In between this ruckus were the reporters, that be me, in a cordoned-off area.
I came down there with me camcorder and mic all set to get some great video and sound bytes, and then went back to the Seagoe Hotel (great view of the churchyard) and wrote it all up like I was a true professional, with me video and sound to back me up. So, I get me down there in the midst of it all and there are Catholics throwing stones and bottles, and Proddys shouting back at them, with the Brits and their submachine guns pushing and shoving both sides and in between all this are the reporters, a wonderful bunch of gluttons for punishment, because I can tell you first hand, it isn't easy trying to record and being punched in the belly at the same time, while flying rock missiles whiz by one's head.
Well, I went down there and was finding meself bleeding and battered after each episode of me trying to report on it all. Finally, I noticed there was safety in numbers. While I was coming down Upper Church Street, I spied the BBC crew in the middle of the rock and bottle throwing, and the shouting, filming, getting sound and live feedback to the telly station. That, I knew would make for glued viewers to the telly and the ratings go up, up, up!
I was fecking impressed that the onscreen talent was in the middle of a ring of his crew completely safe from the flying projectiles and totally oblivious to the insults; reporting the news like he was the only person standing in the street!
I had to get closer and as I did, I realised I'd seen the talent before. He was not the in-studio presenter, but an investigative reporter who did his own work, and reported usually by wire, but on occasion would report from the field if there was no one else to do it. I knew him by reputation as a hard-driven type, quick on his feet (you had to be in this business, because more times than not, a crowd from one side or the other might not like what you were reporting and take it upon themselves to chase you, so they could smash your camera along with your face). He is a handsome bloke he be, and I wondered why he wasn't in-studio, but having been in the business a short time, I had realised it was more satisfying to be out in the field reporting than being on the telly announcing what someone else sent in. I admired him for that, and being ready to face danger and risk to his handsome countenance. :)~
As I got closer, he had finished his live broadcast and he ducked as did his crew, in unison (was like the flight people in the TOP GUN flick who guide the jets on takeoff), the rocks and bottles that went over them and hit the Proddy targets by mistake (well, maybe not by mistake). I realised only a seasoned crew would know when to duck and get the hell out, so I was all wanting to interview THEM!
I stuck with it for two days getting closer to the BBC team, and on the third day, I was IN. Ok, it was purely by accident, but I was among the chosen. What happened was we were down by the churchyard where the Paras were holding us back and shooting rubber bullets into a now extremely unruly crowd to back them away from each other. Well, I can tell you Linda, that doesn't stop the news from churning out. Bravely the BBC crew and the Thames TV teams jostled each other for better position for footage coverage. I was standing between them minding me own business when one of the Thames people shoved me out of the way, and I landed smack inside the enclosed circle of the BBC crew, right up next to Mr. Handsome Reporter Man, who looked at me like "Who the hell are you?"
I grinned at him and said, "Gabriel O'Sullivan, sent to help." Ok, I lied. But opportunity beckoned and what a story it would make, or so I thought, me covering the men covering the news! I could see his lips mouthing O'Sullivan and in his eyes, he was thinking, Why is a Catholic in my crew? But there was no time for him to ask because "we" were about to air LIVE.
I know what I said was lame, but bottles be flying, and we be ducking (I got the ducking down by watching the others in the crew and felt very important), and there was no time to waste because the reporter had to get his report in before the Thames crew. He told me to stand out of camera range and I picked up me cam and started shooting like I was a professional. That brought puzzled looks from the BBC Cameraman, the boom and mic man, and the one with the lights that he had to keep replacing from the stone-throwing. I shrugged, smiled and kept on filming as another one counted down to air time.
The live feed went through and we (well, the BBC and I) had just finished when live rounds were being shot AT us. Not one side at the other, they were shooting AT US! More importantly at ME (or so it felt like). Someone said, "Shite!" Someone else said, "Christ they are shooting in this direction, scatter!" Well, I was next to the handsome reporter whose name was being called from the angry crowd of Catholics, and for a fraction of a second he looked like he was thinking of turning towards them, but being experienced knew not to, but yours truly, being not so experienced did and took a bullet in the upper arm. Yes, I took a bullet meant for me companion, well, not exactly me companion, but well, you know.
The reporter caught me because the bullet hit me with a jolt almost over backwards and he half carried, half dragged me into the graveyard (I thought no not there, it's too appropriate), and up the slight hill to the side of the church where a Casualty Clearing area was set up. I was seeing a priest coming towards me and thought, uh oh, it's all over.
With the priest seeing to me bloody sleeve while I awaited a medical attendant, I looked up to find the reporter growling at me, what a bloody damn fool I was and who the hell was I anyway? Gabriel what? The rest of the crew had made off, all but the cameraman who was standing there looking at me like I was a simpleton. The two of them looked at each other and the cameraman went off to get help while the reporter and priest stayed with me. The priest said I was in shock, but I could have told him the only shock was from the way the reporter started cursing me arse out in front of the priest. The priest stood up put a hand on the reporter's arm and said, "Ye aren't a Catholic are ye laddie?"
"Ni, I be no, but this eejit was bloody stupid and could have lost his bloody fool life! He should know just how stupid he is!"
Well, before he could tell me how stupid I was, a nurse type came up and started tsking and tasking at me arm, announcing to all it be nothing more than a graze. Damn, I wanted so to be the hero. I needn't of felt bad because it seemed I was a hero. I took the bullet meant for the BBC reporter. Seems he was a known Proddy and the Catholics on the other side of the barricade knew such, so to shut him up, they decided to "warm him off." I don't think they meant to kill him, I mean how foolish would that have been on public telly with all of the UK watching? Though I bet the ratings would have soared sky-high.
I wore me arm in a sling for a week to act like I was a casualty victim of the Orange Parades. That went over big at me local in the neighbourhood back home, but I took the sling off when I went near the Proddy neighbourhoods, so as not to be recognised as the Catholic casualty. To add insult to injury me act of heroism never did make the news. The reporter didn't want the attention (and who could blame him?) and if me newspaper knew where I was, and who I was pretending to be, I'd have been fired. Instead, I told them at the paper a stray shot caught me on me way back up the churchyard.
Ack, such a momentary glory.
Gabe
Copyright © 2003 All rights reserved
