It has been 13 years since I was last in Belfast ( in Gaelic Béal Feirste, sandy ford at river mouth). Even then we were slipping through on route to Rosslare ferry.
   In the 1970s when we lived near Ballymena, we’d visit every weekend for the ‘craic’, not so much the heavily fortified pubs as theatre and music events.
   I imagine there are few places in the whole of Europe which have changed as much as this city, since the Peace Agreement of 1994 led to a power-sharing coalition.
   I vividly recall a city of body-checks, army patrols, vehicles called Saracens, spying helicopter beams and ubiquitous ‘Bomb Sales’ in shops.
    A place where the war was on-going and even the most horrendous acts sometimes went unreported in the media.
   Today the city centre is largely thriving and tourist industry evident. The most prevalent uniforms aren’t khaki but the red of workers touting for bus tours. Hotels are springing up like soldiers once did at your feet on the Falls.
   Holiday Inn and Hampton both face directly onto a large gable-end mural celebrating King William III ( of Orange) who, according to the painting, led some kind of international crusade to the battle of the Boyne in 1690.
   This is a recent one, created at the entrance to loyalist Sandy Row to appease business and tourism, who are still paying for it. It replaced the previous one of three masked gunmen and , on one tourist bus, we’re told it was done for the Queen’s visit…..but I prefer to believe a local as Mrs Windsor would hardly have arrived by bus at Victoria Street!
   It’s hard to think of this city embroiled in a conflict which took so many lives with bombs and bullets and even harder to see it returning.
   Yet……on our first day we visited the splendours of Stormont, a palatial building in wide-ranging estate which has had no Assembly since January 2017 and whose only sign of life is an inquiry into the ‘Cash for ashes’ scandal which implicates the Tories’ ally First Minister Arlene Foster alongside her senior Civil Servants. How can devolution possibly resume till this is finished and that is still way off.
   Stormont resembles some grand colonial residence and the debating chamber something out of St. Fagan’s  folk museum.
   Both the Irish language and single sex marriage are other important issues behind the lack of devolved government and Foster’s DUP are sounding the old Paisleyite war cry of ‘No surrender!’
   Gazing from the window of one tourist bus you see the two giant cranes symbolizing the city’s shipbuilding past, H & W , Harland and Wolf  ; now only about 120 work there.
   One guide quips about the vast Protestant workforce who built the Titanic and equally vast Catholic one who created the iceberg. Another tells us of the Trade Union leader Jim Larkin who returned to the city after being shown short-shrift to lay down Union Jack, Irish tricolour and a loaf of bread, addressing the dockers and asking which the birds took to in their hunger.
   Neither mentioned the fact that - especially in the 1920s after the partition of Ireland  - many Catholics lost their livelihoods when they were forced out of those shipyards, some having burning rivets hurled at them by that exclusively Protestant workforce!
   One thing I noticed were the number of UVF flags displayed on public lamp-posts. The UVF was a loyalist paramilitary organisation responsible for killing many innocents just because of their allegiances. It’s disturbing that Belfast City Council should allow this.
   There are versions of the truth and many tales untold, but from tour guides on the buses you’d swear the  British army had never been here, let alone welcomed initially by the Catholic people till internment without trial destroyed trust utterly.
   The taxi driver who took us on a ‘political’ tour kicked with a different foot ( well, both feet…..if you read the poem below).
   Driving up the loyalist Shankill was intriguing as it was the first time for myself and my wife, who had actually grown up a short distance distance away in the Falls Road.
   Murals lauded loyalist paramilitaries and also one killed by his own for having an affair with the leader’s wife ( no mention of that there though).
   One bizarre plaque and sculpture praised republican Oliver Cromwell who also razed Drogheda to the ground.
   The black cab took us to the International Wall of Justice in the Lower Falls, where  murals expressed solidarity with causes from Catalonia to Palestine. While on the loyalist side we quickly passed by their equivalent showing, amongst other things, the Israeli flag.
   I remembered the 70s when the then legal UDA ( another Protestant paramilitary) was  had close links with both  Israel and apartheid S.Africa.
   Visiting the Lower Falls was a revelation and it’s now designated a Gaeltacht, or Irish-speaking area, with bi-lingual signs, an Irish language centre called Culturlann and a  Bunscoil ( Irish language Primary) where my wife’s old school used to be.
   A living language still not recognised officially.
   In the City Hall exhibition in the city centre – that oul’ tit-for-tat – it soberly explains how there are two other languages apart from English here : Gaelic of the natives and Ulster Scots of the planters.
   I’ve never heard anyone speaking the latter or seen it written down, yet it is recognised by the EU as a minority language thanks to the efforts of the recently-deceased Lord Leith. No wonder Arlene and her acolytes harp on about it every time an Irish Language Act is mooted.
   A number of Protestants in the north have been prominent promoters of Irish and that son of east Belfast Van Morrison embraced Irish culture when he recorded ‘Celtic Heartbeat’ with The Chieftains.
   Nothing is simple as it seems.
   Belfast has the marvellous Titanic experience, famous fried breakfasts including potato and soda bread and a luscious dessert called a pavlova which you could climb and put a flag on top, if you could decide which one.  
   Our taxi driver takes us to the looming Peace Wall between Falls and Shankill, Catholic and Protestant, republican and loyalist, Irish and British ( the Empire knew expertly how to divide and rule).
   He hands us a black marker and says that graffiti’s legal here.
   My younger daughter finds a rare pale patch to write ‘Heddwch’ and notices the same word not far above it.
   Later the driver explains – ‘Our hopes are with the younger generation.’   
 
                                            THE TAXI-DRIVER’S TALE
 
I’ll close the door
so nobody can hear.
They caught what Micky Brady
told those Americans,
went viral on social media.
Micky’s supposed to be sacked….
‘cept he isn’t really ;
he was sounding off
about that rat on the wall.
 
I’ll tell you my own story….
you can’t help
who you fall in love with,
we ended up in Yorkshire,
fell in love with a Protestant girl….
I know it sounds like Shakespeare.
We got run out of the Falls
then south Belfast did the same,
I even changed my name
to Sammy to hide identity.
 
They found out eventually.
The local ‘boys’ came round
‘Sure it’s Pat, he’s a good Catholic!’
Then came the punch-line –
‘We’ll give you one day
before you get the bullet!’
 
Now I’m back I remember
‘whatever you say, say nothing’,
it has to be tit-for-tat,
will you look at this, look at that.
I’m done with running
but have to keep my tone even :
UVF flags still rule the lamp-posts
and Stormont’s a waiting tomb.
​

     Like my son, my younger daughter is a Bluebird.
   I took my son along from the age of 5, but my daughter still hasn't forgiven me for leaving her behind for our trips to Wembley.
   Nevertheless, she's made up for it since and the highlight of her fandom was the same as mine, with promotion to the Premiership last season, so much better in blue and with the club as one.
   Like me she's an obsessive, collecting autographs and photos much like I did with programmes and stickers.
   So it was we turned up for last Saturday's friendly v. Real Betis ( not Real Bettws as wags would have it) at ridiculous o'clock.
   For once I persuaded her to enter via the old Ninian Park gate on Sloper Road just to check on the state of Welsh writer and renowned supporter Dannie Abse's tree ( we planted a few years ago in commemoration).
   The brick-walk had been cleaned and the one my son bought for me bearing the title 'Bluebirds' Poet' was easily found.
   'Do you want a tree when you die dad?' asked my tactful daughter. 'There are plenty of other Mikes here to keep you company!'
   Dannie's laurel was in fine fettle , though the plaque is a bit chipped.
   Outside the ground the first person we encounter is, of course, Dai Hunt : City Legend or Total Pain, depending. The fella who did the team talk at Kevin McNaughton's Testimonial.
   Who climbed a tree next to our training ground, only for players to hurl balls at him.
   Who fell off his moped driving through Swansea and was taken to hospital ; legend having it that he was doing the Ayatollah at the time!
   Who used to yell out to all the players before every game in Ninian as if he knew them personally.
   In all his wisdom, what does Dai say?
   ' We're going down! We'll be be bottom! I've got a bet on it.'
   Lej soon turned Pain and as the players' cars eventually arrived he intercepted them. New signing and keeper Alex Smithies must've been warned as he nearly ran him over.
   My daughter managed to get almost every signature ( only Hoilett slid in unnoticed ) and, as a left-back herself, had photos with our own left-backs union of Bennett and Cunningham.
   Highlight was undoubtedly skipper Sean Morrison, who signed the excellent cartoon of himself you can see above. He was very impressed with it.
   New signing from Brizzle City Bobby Reid looked a 'twt' and it was a shock to see him as the only recognized striker when our team was announced.
   We played with a false number 9 ! Was Warnock trying to out-Spanish a Spanish team?
   We began brilliantly, with Josh Murphy, Hoilett and Reid high-pressing and Murphy scoring with a great finish.
   From 10 minutes into the game till half time they completely dominated possession, with Sol Bamba dropping back from holding midfielder to extra defender and it was no surprise we went in 2-1 down.
   However, the second half could easily have seen us win : two good penalty shouts for pushing ( both ignored ) and two great chances for Murphy and , right at the end, Cunningham.  
   Our shortcomings are obvious and must be addressed by manager Neil Warnock this week : we need a striker and dominant midfielder at the very least.
   Almost every single pundit is saying we'll be relegated, yet we have a lot of attributes this time which we didn't possess last time we went up : togetherness, fitness and, above all, exceptional pace.
   On the positive side, we also tried to play it through midfield far more and Reid was a key in linking defence and attack, although Murphy and Bennett were the outstanding players.
  Passionate, hard-working players like Peltier and Patterson could well struggle in the Prem through lack of technique ; while others like Manga and Ralls may well surprise.
   The examples of Burnley and Bournemouth show it can be done : the former finishing seventh last season without spending a fortune.
   I'd like to bet on Dai Hunt losing his bet.


          WE DON'T STAND A CHANCE!

We don't stand a chance!
Look at all the money
which hasn't been spent
by our billionaire owner
who, last time, lost out.

Look at all those Big Boys
with their Internationals
even on the bench ;
Fulham and Wolves blowing it
like lottery-winners on a night out.

We're doomed from the start....
except, there's little Bobby Reid
with dreadlocks swinging out
and Josh Murphy, the other twin,
like a kid on the Rec.

Thinking of Bournemouth and Burnley
then there's always hope
that Callum will be doing The Floss
and Mozza rising up to score
( well, I had a dream like that).