How about goodbye?
The Limeys owned up to being killers the other day, apologizing for Bloody Sunday back in Belfast in 1972 when their boys murdered a few filthy Catholics for standing up and saying they had no right to be in Ireland in the first place. Only took them 38 years, but what’s that?
It’s been more than 900 years since they started using the Irish for target practice, or starving them when they weren’t up to shooting, burning, hanging and deporting them, and filling the country up with crooks and criminals who were only too happy to shoot, loot, burn and beat Irishmen, women and children at any available opportunity.
Now, I figure well begun is not yet done. So how about we hear an apology for The Famine? How about a little, “Oops, our bad,” for the murders of priests and slaughter of Catholics by the Prods during the Penal law days? How about owning up that they owe the country something for all the land, cattle, wood and people stolen away during those 900 years of benevolent mayhem committed in the name of “lebensraum”.
How about they go all the way back to the beginning, to the only British Pope, Adrian IV, who gave the place away to Henry II, the same guy who had Thomas a Becket martyred, so that he could keep it safe for Catholicism. That’s like some chief mullah over in Iran writing to Ahmadinijad telling him it’s just fine to take over Kuwait and make it a nation of Muslims.
You don’t believe me? Read the first paragraph of the Papal letter saying, “Go ahead. It’s all yours. Take it whenever you have a few moments to spare.”
Did you know some clown of a Brutish general (that’s no typo) was caught saying that during the Troubles about 600 British soldiers were killed on duty in Ireland. (Notice I don’t use the term Northern Ireland.) There was a way that all of those lives could have been saved. They could have been kept where they belonged, marching up and down before Bucky Palace in silly hats and tight red pants guarding some old bag’s collection of bonnets and purses and long white gloves. So 600 hundred guys who shouldn’t have been there to begin with were killed. They should have apologized for that, too, and for the 3600 other people who were killed.
I read that the great “We’re Sorry” was spoken the day before “Bloomsday”. Bloomsday is a day that commemorates Leopold Bloom’s wanderings about Dublin. Leo is the Ulysses in Joyce’s novel which is called by some the greatest novel written in English. That’s funny, you know for dozens of reasons.
But here’s a few reasons that make me laugh. Joyce was Irish. He couldn’t stand the place and ran away to live in France and die there. An Irishman doesn’t write this great novel in his native language, Irish, because it wasn’t much of a language any more. Who’s gonna buy and read a book like his if he writes it in Irish, he might have figured, a few hundred or so pig farmers down in the bog? I don’t even know if he knew enough Irish to do it for all of his legendary intelligence and wit.
Joyce was supposed to have been fluent in eight or nine languages. But he doesn’t write in Irish because the English had pretty near destroyed it by the time he comes along. And Ulysses gets itself banned in Boston, that hangout for Anglophiles who once tried to ban anyone Irish. That’s funny, too.
Here’s a saying in Irish for you all to think about while your sipping some tea and saying how gracious and humble the Brutish have finally become, “Tir gan teanga, tir gan anim.” It means, “A land without a tongue is a land without a soul.” Now, that’s funny to me.
I know a little bit of Irish, not enough to write a book, but a little bit. Here’s what I say in Irish about the Brutish apology, “Pog mo thoin!”
They should apologize for Ian Paisley.