Belfast Quotes

The fourth man in the terrorist team was Conor Lenihan. Conor had been born in Catholic Belfast and brought up in the sectarian ways of his peers.

I have often noticed that nationalism is at its strongest at the periphery. Hitler was Austrian, Bonaparte Corsican. In postwar Greece and Turkey the two most prominent ultra-right nationalists had both been born in Cyprus. The most extreme Irish Republicans are in Belfast and Derry (and Boston and New York). Sun Yat Sen, father of Chinese nationalism, was from Hong Kong. The Serbian extremists Milošević and Karadžić were from Montenegro and their most incendiary Croat counterparts in the Ustashe tended to hail from the frontier lands of Western Herzegovina.

the violence intensified, grandiose funerals became routine, with rousing graveside orations and caskets draped in tricolor flags. People took to joking that there was no social life in Belfast anymore, apart from wakes.

You can't choose where you belong, and where you don't. But what if the place you don't belong is the only place you have left?

For all Conor Lenihan cared it could have been Osama Bin Laden who had organised the whole thing. He was simply a mercenary doing a job of work.

Niall Lynch was a braggart poet, a loser musician, a charming bit of hard luck bred in Belfast but born in Cumbria, and Ronan loved him like he loved nothing else.

was rubble and broken glass, what one poet would memorably describe as “Belfast confetti.

One more thing," I said because I couldn't help myself. "Mallory, if your middle name is Audrey and your initials are M. A. K.. -" She raised an index finger. "Don't say it, Beantown." "We are totally calling you Mack now." "Mallory fumed. "My friends in Belfast used to call me that. Constantly." That wasn't a no so I decided we had permission.

Soon, Joanna’s strength waned, and she was reduced to loose slaps on his shoulders and cries of: “Tell me where my baby is.” She sobbed and broke down, literally collapsing on top of him. “Please tell me where my baby is.

Belfast was born as the mongoloid child of British imperialism.

There is an old Belfast joke about the man stopped at a roadblock and asked his religion. When he replies that he is an atheist he is asked, “Protestant or Catholic atheist?

The riot had taken on a beauty of its own now. Arcs of gasoline fire under the crescent moon. Crimson tracer in mystical parabolas. Phosphorescence from the barrels of plastic bullet guns. A distant yelling like that of men below decks in a torpedoed prison ship. The scarlet whoosh of Molotovs intersecting with exacting surfaces. Helicopters everywhere: their spotlights finding one another like lovers in the Afterlife. And all this through a lens of oleaginous Belfast rain.

Indeed, it could occasionally seem that support for the armed struggle was more fervent in Boston or Chicago than it was in Belfast or Derry. The romantic idyll of a revolutionary movement is easier to sustain when there is no danger that one's own family members might get blown to pieces on a trip to the grocery store. Some people in Ireland looked askance at the "plastic Paddies" who urged bloody war in Ulster from the safe distance of America.

You are from Belfast; are you sure that was your first time holding a gun?

If you really have to get shot, Belfast is one of the best places to do it. After twenty years of the Troubles, and after thousands of assassination attempts and punishment shootings, Belfast has trained many of the best gunshot-trauma surgeons in the world.

Once, in the summer of 1995, Adams gave a speech at a rally in Belfast. He looked like a politician, in a crisp summer suit, consulting his cue cards. But during a pause in his prepared remarks, someone in the crowd shouted, "Bring back the IRA!" As the audience cheered, Adams chuckled and smiled. Then he leaned into the microphone and said, "They haven't gone away, you know.

In life, we all have a cross to bear and a unique story to tell. We just hope that someone will take the time to listen.

... but they could barely organize a round of beers.

Blind faith can justify anything.* If a man believes in a different god, or even if he uses a different ritual for worshipping the same god, blind faith can decree that he should die—on the cross, at the stake, skewered on a Crusader’s sword, shot in a Beirut street, or blown up in a bar in Belfast. Memes for blind faith have their own ruthless ways of propagating themselves. This is true of patriotic and political as well as religious blind faith.

--Thing is though, Spud, whin yir intae skag, that's it. That's aw yuv goat tae worry aboot. Ken Billy, ma brar, likes? He's jist signed up tae go back intae the fuckin army. He's gaun tae fucking Belfast, the stupid cunt. Ah always knew that the fucker wis tapped. Fuckin imperialist lackey. Ken whit the daft cunt turned roond n sais tae us? He goes: Ah cannae fuckin stick civvy street. Bein in the army, it's like being a junky. The only difference is thit ye dinnae git shot at sae often bein a junky. Besides, it's usually you that does the shootin. --That, eh, likesay, seems a bit eh, fucked up like man. Ken? --Naw but, listen the now. You jist think aboot it. In the army they dae everything fir they daft cunts. Feed thum, gie the cunts cheap bevvy in scabby camp clubs tae keep thum fae gaun intae toon n lowerin the fuckin tone, upsetting the locals n that. Whin they git intae civvy street, thuv goat tae dae it aw fir thumsells. --Yeah, but likesay, it's different though, cause . . . Spud tries to cut in, but Renton is in full flight. A bottle in the face is the only thing that could shut him up at this point; even then only for a few seconds. --Uh, uh . . . wait a minute, mate. Hear us oot. Listen tae whit ah've goat tae say here . . . what the fuck wis ah sayin . . . aye! Right. Whin yir oan junk, aw ye worry aboot is scorin. Oaf the gear, ye worry aboot loads ay things. Nae money, cannae git pished. Goat money, drinkin too much. Cannae git a burd, nae chance ay a ride. Git a burd, too much hassle, cannae breathe withoot her gittin oan yir case. Either that, or ye blow it, and feel aw guilty. Ye worry aboot bills, food, bailiffs, these Jambo Nazi scum beatin us, aw the things that ye couldnae gie a fuck aboot whin yuv goat a real junk habit. Yuv just goat one thing tae worry aboot. The simplicity ay it aw. Ken whit ah mean?

I remembered when I’d told my family I was moving to Belfast, their reactions were the same.  “IRELAND?” I’d laughed.  “Uh, no.  Belfast, Maine.  It’s a twelve month position.

He’s from Belfast, and he also thinks people in Trinity are weird, which is reassuring.

Like the Hindu in Belfast who was asked whether he was a Catholic Hindu or a Protestant Hindu, those of us who follow this fresh reading of the New Testament want to say to our critics right and left, ‘Don’t imagine that because we don’t check all your fundamentalist boxes, we must be modernists, or that because we don’t check all your modernist boxes, we must be fundamentalists.

There was a time in my life when I did a fair bit of work for the tempestuous Lucretia Stewart, then editor of the American Express travel magazine, Departures. Together, we evolved a harmless satire of the slightly driveling style employed by the journalists of tourism. 'Land of Contrasts' was our shorthand for it. ('Jerusalem: an enthralling blend of old and new.' 'South Africa: a harmony in black and white.' 'Belfast, where ancient meets modern.') It was as you can see, no difficult task. I began to notice a few weeks ago that my enemies in the 'peace' movement had decided to borrow from this tattered style book. The mantra, especially in the letters to this newspaper, was: 'Afghanistan, where the world's richest country rains bombs on the world's poorest country.' Poor fools. They should never have tried to beat me at this game. What about, 'Afghanistan, where the world's most open society confronts the world's most closed one'? 'Where American women pilots kill the men who enslave women.' 'Where the world's most indiscriminate bombers are bombed by the world's most accurate ones.' 'Where the largest number of poor people applaud the bombing of their own regime.' I could go on. (I think number four may need a little work.) But there are some suggested contrasts for the 'doves' to paste into their scrapbook. Incidentally, when they look at their scrapbooks they will be able to re-read themselves saying things like, 'The bombing of Kosovo is driving the Serbs into the arms of Milosevic.

Ulster Ex-Servicemen’s Association and taking a leading part in the anti-boycott campaign.’ The ESMA was the paramilitary body most associated with driving Catholics from the shipyards in 1920 and with taking various actions against the employment of Catholics throughout Belfast.

Our primeval ancestors were by no means atheistic: they raised temples and altars and offered the requisite terrified obsequies and sacrifices. Their religion was man-made, like all the others. There was a time when Greek thinkers denounced Christians and Zoroastrians denounced Muslims as “atheists” for their destruction of old sites and their prohibition of ancient rituals. The source of desecration and profanity is religious, as we can see from the way that today’s believers violate the sanctity of each other’s temples, from Bamiyan to Belfast to Baghdad.

Much of the Irish landscape is dominated by peat bogs; the anaerobic and acidic conditions in the densely packed earth mean that the past in Ireland can be subject to macabre resurrection. Peat cutters occasionally churn up ancient mandibles, clavicles, or entire cadavers that have been preserved for millennia. The bodies date as far back as the Bronze Age, and often show signs of ritual sacrifice and violent death. These victims, cast out of their communities and buried, have surfaced vividly intact, from their hair to their leathery skin. The poet Seamus Heaney, who harvested peat as a boy on his family’s farm, once described the bogs of Ireland as “a landscape that remembered everything that had happened in and to it.

Hate's a terrible thing. It's a wasteful, stupid emotion. You can hate someone with all your heart, but it'll never do them a bit of harm. The only person it hurts is you. You can spend your days hating, letting it eat away at you, and the person you hate will go on living just the same. So what's the point?

Tony went to fight in Belfast, Rudi stayed at home to starve. I could make it all worthwhile as a rock & roll star. Bevan tried to change the nation, Sonny wants to turn the world, well he can tell you that he tried. I could make a transformation as a rock & roll star. So inviting, So enticing to play the part. I could play the wild mutation as a rock & roll star. I could do with the money, I'm so wiped out with things as they are. I'd send my photograph to my honey, And I'd come on like a regular superstar I could fall asleep at night As a rock & roll star I could fall in love all right As a rock & roll star. - Star

This was how it had to be. The city centre had to be for all religions, and so the ubiquitous, shinning, grey had quickly become the nascent colour. Whereas the the Ardoyne rejoced in the tricolours and every shade of green, so too the Shankill kept their houses and kerbs in the Union Jack, and each side of the divided city painted their gables and drenched themselves in the rich colours which formed their history, their protection, their identity, their, and they lived under the terrible weight that came with it. In Belfast, colour was joyful, territorial, and frightening. And so the heart of the city embraced a comforting blanket of grey.

In the weirdly beautiful landscapes along the Irish border, most especially in Derry with its haunting evening light along the Waterside and the old walls, and in rainy Belfast with its nineteenth-century slums and yet its permanent view of the lovely surrounding hills, I saw my first “war” without even needing a passport to travel to it.

- and Stella had that kind of face. One that looked permanently guilty, as if some form of mischief was in the recent past, the near future, or both.

Make up your mind as she makes up her face She'll never really know her place You'll lay on her frame and give her a new name And bless her with all you can spare Empty as wire, violent as fire You'll carve her out of thin air She's crashed home and cruised your world But you can't get the Belfast out of the girl This is how you throw her, you think you know her Empty as wire, violent as fire She hasn't left you yet but she will By airplane ticket or kill-me pills Sewn into her dress, she can't refuse (careful what you love, what you abuse) She knows violence, she knows please Her hands for cuffing and she says nothing And hooks her hands behind her knees You fuck her flag and feel it unfurl But you can't get the Belfast out of the girl.

Neither I nor the poets I love found the keys to the kingdom of prayer and we cannot force god to stumble over us where we sit. But I know that it's a good idea to sit anyway. So every morning I sit, I kneel, waiting, making friends with the habit of listening, hoping that I'm being listened to. There, I greet God in my own disorder. I say hello to my chaos, my unmade decisions, my unmade bed, my desire and my trouble. I say hello to distraction and privilege, I greet the day and I greet my beloved and bewildering Jesus. I recognize and greet my burdens, my luck, my controlled and uncontrollable story. I greet my untold stories, my unfolding story, my unloved body, my own love, my own body. I greet the things I think will happen and I say hello to everything I do not know about the day. I greet my own small world and I hope that I can meet the bigger world someday. I greet my story and hope that I can forget my story during the day, and hope that I can hear some stories, and greet some surprising stories during the long day ahead. I greet God, and I greet the God who is more God than the God I greet. Hello to you all, I say, as the sun rises above the chimneys of North Belfast. Hello.

They liked him; Belfast, who was a favourite, and knew it — mimicked him, not quite behind his back. Charley — but with greater caution — imitated his walk. Some of his sayings became established daily quotations in the forecastle. Popularity can go no farther! Besides, all hands were ready to admit that on a fitting occasion the mate could ‘jump down a fellow’s throat in a reg’lar Western Ocean style.

The commissioner has requested permission to use water cannon against the civilian population for the first time in British history—” “Although it has been used in Northern Ireland,” the interviewer chipped in. “Yes, in very specific circumstances.” And who cares about the Paddies anyway? I filled in silently. As usual, what was perfectly acceptable in Belfast or Derry would be an outrage in Southwark.

Ireland, like Ukraine, is a largely rural country which suffers from its proximity to a more powerful industrialised neighbour. Ireland’s contribution to the history of tractors is the genius engineer Harry Ferguson, who was born in 1884, near Belfast. Ferguson was a clever and mischievous man, who also had a passion for aviation. It is said that he was the first man in Great Britain to build and fly his own aircraft in 1909. But he soon came to believe that improving efficiency of food production would be his unique service to mankind. Harry Ferguson’s first two-furrow plough was attached to the chassis of the Ford Model T car converted into a tractor, aptly named Eros. This plough was mounted on the rear of the tractor, and through ingenious use of balance springs it could be raised or lowered by the driver using a lever beside his seat. Ford, meanwhile, was developing its own tractors. The Ferguson design was more advanced, and made use of hydraulic linkage, but Ferguson knew that despite his engineering genius, he could not achieve his dream on his own. He needed a larger company to produce his design. So he made an informal agreement with Henry Ford, sealed only by a handshake. This Ford-Ferguson partnership gave to the world a new type of Fordson tractor far superior to any that had been known before, and the precursor of all modern-type tractors. However, this agreement by a handshake collapsed in 1947 when Henry Ford II took over the empire of his father, and started to produce a new Ford 8N tractor, using the Ferguson system. Ferguson’s open and cheerful nature was no match for the ruthless mentality of the American businessman. The matter was decided in court in 1951. Ferguson claimed $240 million, but was awarded only $9.25 million. Undaunted in spirit, Ferguson had a new idea. He approached the Standard Motor Company at Coventry with a plan, to adapt the Vanguard car for use as tractor. But this design had to be modified, because petrol was still rationed in the post-war period. The biggest challenge for Ferguson was the move from petrol-driven to diesel-driven engines and his success gave rise to the famous TE-20, of which more than half a million were built in the UK. Ferguson will be remembered for bringing together two great engineering stories of our time, the tractor and the family car, agriculture and transport, both of which have contributed so richly to the well-being of mankind.

And to make things worse we started mixing religion with politics. An old argument just like the Crusades. Our God is better than your god. ‘God Is with Us’ on the Nazi belt buckles. Holy Wars against women and children, Catholics killing Protestants in Belfast. We went into Iraq for the wrong reasons and we left our friends behind. More people have been killed in the name of God and so-called ‘faith-based values’ than for any other reason.

East Germany brought down their wall in 1989 as a sign of surrender. The Soviet experiment had failed, and the Eastern bloc realized they couldn't win the Cold War. The falling Berlin Wall was their white flag. The walls I'd visited, though, expressed the opposite. The rising of these walls was the surrender. The walls stood as evidence that their conflicts were unwinnable and permanent. When diplomacy and negotiation crumbles, when the motivation to find solutions wanes and dies, when governments resign themselves to failure, the walls go up. Instead of trying to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, we build a wall. Instead of finding a way for Catholics and Protestants to live together in Belfast, we build a wall. Instead of addressing the despair that leads migrants across our borders, we build a wall. The walls admit our defeat. We throw up a wall right after we throw up our hands.

Indeed, it could occasionally seem that support for the armed struggle was more fervent in Boston or Chicago than it was in Belfast or Derry. The romantic idyll of a revolutionary movement is easier to sustain when there is no danger that one's own family members might get blown to pieces on a trip to the grocery store.. Some people in Ireland looked askance at the "plastic Paddies" who urged bloody war in Ulster from the safe distance of America.

HMS Belfast is a gunship of 11,000 tons, commissioned in 1939, which saw active service in the Second World War. Since then it has been moored on the south bank of the Thames, in postcard-land, between Tower Bridge and London Bridge, opposite the Tower of London. From its deck one can see St. Paul’s Cathedral and the gilt top of the columnlike Monument to the Great Fire of London erected, as so much of London was erected, by Christopher Wren. The ship serves as a floating museum, as a memorial, as a training ground.

Like the musician's portrait, the person who has become a real part of your life is not located in one part of you, and can never be neatly excised. To really lose the notion of them... Well, how would you? You couldn't lose the picture without destroying the room. In time, however, the furniture will be rearranged and will come to represent other people and places. But the old shapes linger, haunt the room. If you look from a certain angle, you can still see them there. But you move on, your perspective shifts. New friends walk beside you through the streets of Belfast. You practise and perform new routines until, eventually, you can't quite remember how the room used to look or how the streets used to feel when walked in the days of love. That is perhaps the saddest loss of all, and why we want to linger for a while at the end of grief. We don't want to lose the notion. There is no real forgetting. Everything leaves a mark, whether you remember it, whether you bring it to mind or not. There is no subtraction in mind. Only and.

On September 11, it was government that failed. Law enforcement agencies didn't detect the plot. The FBI had reports that said young men on the terrorist watch list were going from flight school to flight school, trying to find an instructor who would teach them how to fly a commercial jet. But the FBI never acted on it. The INS let the hijackers in. Three of them had expired visas. Months after the attack, the government issued visas to two dead hijackers. The solution to such government incompetence is to give the government more power? Congress could have done what Amsterdam, Belfast, Brussels, Copenhagen, Frankfurt, Hamburg, London, Paris, and Rome did: set tough standards and let private companies compete to meet them. Many of those cities switched to private companies because they realized government-run security wasn't working very well. Private-sector competition keeps the screeners alert because the airport can fire them. No one can fire the government; that's a reason government agencies gradually deteriorate. There's no competition.

Reid was born in 1818 in Ballyroney, County Down, the son of Rev. Thomas Mayne Reid Sr., who was a senior clerk of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in Ireland. His father wanted him to become a Presbyterian minister, so in September 1834 he enrolled at the Royal Belfast Academical Institution. Although he stayed for four years, he could not motivate himself enough to complete his studies and receive a degree. In December 1839 he boarded the Dumfriesshire bound for New Orleans, Louisiana, arriving in January 1840. Shortly afterward he found work as a clerk for a corn factor

Hate’s a terrible thing. It’s a wasteful, stupid emotion. You can hate someone with all your heart, but it’ll never do them a bit of harm. The only person it hurts is you. You can spend your days hating, letting it eat away at you, and the person you hate will go on living just the same. So, what’s the point?

Quantum physics speaks in chance, with the syntax of uncertainty. You can know the position of an electron but you cannot know where its going, or where it is by the time you register the reading. John went blind. Or you can know it's direction, but you cannot know it's position. Heinz Formaggio at Light Box read my Belfast papers and offered me a job. The particles in the atoms of the brain of that young man who pulled me out of the bath of the taxi in London were configured so that he was there, and able to, and willing to. Even the most complete knowledge of a radioactive atom will not tell you when it will decay. I don't know when the Texan will be here. Nowhere does the microscopic world stop and the macroscopic world begin.

stories involving the troubles in Northern Ireland, Morocco’s war for the Spanish Sahara, and a ring of traders violating the sanctions against Rhodesia. He was exhilarated by danger. Once in Belfast he insisted that we go cover a demonstration, when I was quite content to stay at the bar of the Europa Hotel. He showed me that even though the street clashes might seem violent and bloody on television, just a half block away things were calm and safe. Journalism required an eagerness to get up and go places. While we were out, a bomb went off at the Europa Hotel. Blundy insisted that this should serve as a lesson for me. I agreed. But when he was killed a few years later by a sniper’s bullet in El Salvador, I gave up trying to fathom the meaning of the lesson he wanted me to learn.

She began to think of all the people in Belfast who were drinking or drugging themselves into bearable insensibility that night. People would be hitting other people in the face with broken bottles. People were avowing and making love to people for whom they truly cared nothing; other people were screaming hatred at those whom they really did love. People were destroying things, daubing walls with paint and breaking up telephone boxes; joy-riding stolen cars into stone walls. In hospitals and homes, people were watching others dying, hoping and praying that the inevitable would not happen, while other people were planning murder. People elsewhere were trying to commit suicide, fumbling with change for the gas meter or emptying brown plastic bottles of their pills and tablets, which were bitter and dry in the mouth. And there are, she thought, there must be, people who think as I do.

Men sitting doubled up in the upper bunks smoked short pipes, swinging bare brown feet above the heads of those who, sprawling below on sea-chests, listened, smiling stupidly or scornfully. Over the white rims of berths stuck out heads with blinking eyes; but the bodies were lost in the gloom of those places, that resembled narrow niches for coffins in a white-washed and lighted mortuary. Voices buzzed louder. Archie, with compressed lips, drew himself in, seemed to shrink into a smaller space, and sewed steadily, industrious and dumb. Belfast shrieked like an inspired Dervish: — ‘... So I seez to him, boys, seez I, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sorr,” seez I to that second mate of that steamer — “beggin’ your-r-r pardon, sorr, the Board of Trade must ‘ave been drunk when they granted you your certificate!” “What do you say, you — !” seez he, comin’ at me like a mad bull... all in his white clothes; and I up with my tarpot and capsizes it all over his blamed lovely face and his lovely jacket... “Take that!” seez I. “I am a sailor, anyhow, you nosing, skipper-licking, useless, sooperfloos bridge-stanchion, you! That’s the kind of man I am!” shouts I... You should have seed him skip, boys! Drowned, blind with

The picture is nevertheless complicated in Britain – at home, if not in its former empire – and might provide some of the reasons why white people here sometimes find terms like ‘white supremacy’ and ‘white privilege’ either inapplicable to Britain or hard to understand. First, Britain never practised open white supremacy on domestic soil as it did in the colonies, so those of us who hail from the colonies have a different understanding of British racial governance, even if we were born here. Second, the most deprived and violent regions of Britain remain areas that are almost exclusively white, such as the rough parts of Glasgow, Belfast and north-east England, a subject to which we will return later. Can the white people who burned to death in Grenfell Tower along with the ‘ethnics’, or were crushed to death at Hillsborough and then demonised in the press as thieves, or the dead at Aberfan, be said to have had ‘white privilege’? I can totally see why this might at first seem absurd to some people. Especially in relation to Kensington and Chelsea, where the working-class Muslim population in the north of the borough so visible during the Grenfell fire contrasts sharply with another large population of Muslims in the south of the borough who hail from the Gulf states, and are rich enough for the paupers to know not to aim their hatred of Muslims at them as they drive up Kensington High Street in their Louis Vuitton-patterned Lamborghinis.

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I was singing in Belfast the night the Luftwaffe firebombed the theatre. That's what you call a mixed review.

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Calculating that the patch of sky she wanted would be in the telescope at around two o’clock in the morning, she decided on no sleep till Belfast, and headed over to the observatory.

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The need to engage Hamas at all levels remains vital, a position articulated by several analysts and negotiators including John Hume, who shared the Nobel Peace Prize for his work on the Belfast Agreement, and a group of senior intelligence officers at the U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) in June 2010.

Remember, no one else has lived your life or had your experiences. Nor have they seen the world through your eyes, and I believe my experiences, what I witnessed was more than helpful to writing the Lonely Street Series; capturing the atmosphere back then, and revealing the reality of teenage life in 1970s Belfast

The Lonely Street series is not like any other Coming of age tale. This is about teenage life in 1970s Belfast, during a war. it's about the fear of families within a community controlled by republican paramilitaries, brutalising, and killing at will; and I have no doubt the series will captivate the reader, as will the very unique love story...

My team is very disappointed, as am I myself, but there is nothing we can do except hope for an agreement between the British in London and the British in Belfast." -- Monday, 4th December 2017 [Theresa May was in Brussels to sign the Joint Report on the financial settlement between EU and UK but had to hurry back to London after Arlene Foster and the DUP objected to its Article 48 (and threatened to bring down her government)]

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Up in the crow’s nest on the foremast, lookouts Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee could see the lights of the French coast in the distance and the mast lights of other ships. For a closer look, binoculars would have helped, but the pair they had used in the crow’s nest on the trip from Belfast to Southampton had gone missing. This had been reported to Second Officer Charles Lightoller, but he had said there wasn’t a replacement set available. No one seemed bothered about it, so the lookouts weren’t worried either. Binoculars were not standard equipment in the crow’s nest on many ships. And these things just seemed to happen on a maiden voyage.

Among Morgan’s many “loads” at the time was a scheme to create a huge international shipping syndicate that could stabilize trade and yield huge returns from the lucrative transatlantic routes. By June of 1902 he had purchased Britain’s prestigious White Star Line for $32 million and combined it with other shipping acquisitions to form a trust called the International Mercantile Marine. In 1904 Morgan installed White Star Line’s largest shareholder, forty-one-year-old J. Bruce Ismay, son of the line’s late founder, as president of the IMM. The second-largest shareholder was Lord William J. Pirrie, the chairman of Harland and Wolff, the Belfast shipbuilders responsible for the construction of White Star’s ships. Pirrie had been the chief negotiator with Morgan’s men and was placed on the board of the new trust. The British government had acceded to Morgan’s flexing of American financial muscle in the acquisition of White Star but had also provided loans and subsidies to the rival Cunard Line for the building of the world’s largest, fastest liners, Lusitania and Mauretania—with the proviso that they be available for wartime service. By the summer of 1907, the Lusitania had made its record-breaking maiden voyage, and Pirrie and Ismay soon hatched White Star’s response. They would use Morgan’s money to build three of the world’s biggest and most luxurious liners. Within a year Harland and Wolff had drawn up plans for two giant ships, and by mid-December the keel plate for the first liner, the Olympic, had been laid. On March 31, 1909, the same was done for a sister ship, to be called Titanic. A third, named Britannic, was to be built later.

One consequence of this change was the missing binoculars for the lookouts. On the trip to Southampton from Belfast, the lookouts had used the now-departed second officer’s binoculars, which he had locked in a drawer in his cabin before he left the ship. When Lightoller inquired about binoculars for the lookouts, he was told that none were available for them.

of the most delicious Cox’s Orange Pippins each autumn leaning precariously on the garden wall, the tree like a corner boy up to no good, her mother used to joke. Harp ran around the back – the front door hadn’t been opened in years at that stage – and let herself in. The kitchen was just the same, the delph from breakfast drying on the rack beside the big, deep Belfast sink, the large black flags on the floor, the table cleared and scrubbed, ready for dinner preparations, the big black enamel range that never went out heating the room, winter and summer, the tea cloths hanging on the line over it. Everything neat and tidy. She scurried out the door of the kitchen into the wide bright hallway, almost skidding on the silk carpet runner as she rounded the ornate bannister to bound up the stairs, taking two at a time. The landing overlooked the hallway and was home to a huge walnut sideboard on which sat all the china dolls Mrs Devereaux had loved. Harp thought they were a bit creepy with their glass eyes, real hair and fancy handmade clothes, and thankfully she’d never felt the

Once in a lifetime . . . hope and history rhyme.” Heaney’s life in Belfast had shown him, every hour, how brutally history mocks hope; yet he was wise enough to know that a life that doesn’t know possibility takes in only half the truth.

Cheated spouses didn’t get their happily ever after, swindlers didn’t their comeuppance and missing people didn’t want to be found. His business dealt with dishonesty and infidelity, shysters and criminals, the crazies, the addicts and every loser in between, and Jacob knew it was taking a toll.

One IRA man, a schoolteacher, has a part-time job and is employed and paid a monthly wage by the intelligence wing of the IRA Belfast Brigade, spending his spare time feeding information into a computer; details of thousands of men and women whom the IRA believe that it might want to target at some future date. Every

If you need to clear the air with these gentlemen, better remove yourself from the car!” Julia’s boyfriend, or whatever he was, didn’t seem like much. I had fought more fearsome men in my life. When I heard him mentioning my mother, whom he had started bespattering in something resembling the English language, calling her “a Norwegian whore”, I opened the door and headbutted him without the slightest hesitation. I yelled at the top of my lungs too, so that bitch, Julia, could hear me loud and clear: “I’m an Irish man, you fucking asshole, I’m from Belfast, we would stick some Semtex up your ass" (Doina Rusti - Logodnica/The The Fiancée, Polirom, 2017)

The bus continued on to its last stop before Bangor. In the mid-nineteenth century, Belfast became known for its production of large five-masted schooners. This was due to the abundance of tall pines in the proximity that were used as masts. There were fortunes made in shipbuilding and some of the larger homes, which are still in existence, are testimony to that. Unfortunately, this all ended with the advent of iron ships and the steam engine. Even the labor-intensive shoe manufacturing industry, which followed shipbuilding, faltered. Belfast still had its poultry business in 1952, and once a year held a popular Broiler Festival that brought in many people.

Adams held the position of Officer Commanding the 2nd Battalion, a total of 52 people were murdered, including soldiers, police and civilians.  As a result of those ‘successes’, Adams was promoted, becoming Commander of the IRA’s foremost operational command, the Provisional IRA Belfast Brigade, with three Battalions under his authority. I

One example of how closely the two work together was revealed during the British Parliamentary or local Northern Ireland elections.  During the years, I would become involved in helping the Sinn Fein cause, along with many other young men and women, many of whom were members of the IRA. From their headquarters in Connolly House, Belfast, Sinn Fein organisers would try, with the assistance of the IRA, to do everything in their power to rig the elections.  The plan would be to distribute false identification papers to IRA men and women and other republican sympathisers, and send them around to a number of polling stations so that they could cast votes in perhaps six to ten different places. The

I was desperately trying to relive the love we shared after you left. I began visiting underground gay sex clubs in the hope of finding another like you. Instead I spiraled into disillusionment. I used sex as a pervasive tool to drown my sorrowful loneliness, which drove me deeper into abysmal miseries. I knew I had to leave London and salvation arrived with my acceptance into The Belfast College of Art and Technology, to pursue my Foundation Art Studies. I plunged myself passionately into my college projects in war-torn Belfast, where the IRA (Irish Republican Army) were in conflict with the British Army. There wasn’t much a nightlife to divert my attention, and I had the perfect opportunity to devote time to my numerous artistic pursuits. Being a workaholic, I channeled my pervasive vexations into my eternal love: fashion design.

First Week Of June 2012 Andy wrote in his email: Hi Young, I wish I had been there to protect you from KiWi. I’m glad you were unharmed. I should have returned to England to spend my life with you. Both of us have gone through difficulties after our separation, and I needed you more than ever. When reading your email messages, flashbacks of our wonderful times together seemed like they happened only yesterday. I feel closer to you now than ever. I’m intrigued to know more of what happened after your return to London from Belfast. Tell me everything.

End of May 2012               Hi Andy, I guess we were too arrogant to admit we missed each other after our separation. There were moments when I felt lost and did not know which direction to turn, because my Valet wasn’t there to guide me. I descended into an abyss, looking for love in all the wrong places. I was too inexperienced to understand the spiritual love we shared. I mistook sex for love. A major mistake! I was lonely and I missed your presence. To fill the void, I visited the London underground sex club dungeons and back rooms. These places offered me nothing, except a temporary sexual fix that became a habit and an addiction. Nine months passed before I finally picked up the broken pieces of my life. Lucky to be accepted into the Belfast College of Art and Design, I took this opportunity to start fresh. I left London in the autumn of 1971 for Ireland. My departure proved to be my saving grace. There was nothing to do in the evenings in war-torn Belfast. I plunged myself into my art studies, which I enjoyed tremendously. You’ll never guess what transpired in Belfast that year.

KiWi, my first lover from Kuala Lumpur, studying at a boarding school in the outskirts of Belfast, appeared at my hostel one evening. I have no idea how he tracked me down or knew that I was in the city. Thinking it was the maid coming to turn down my bed, I was shocked to discover KiWi standing outside the door. He forced his way in without uttering a word. I had not seen the man for the past five years and had no wish to see him again. He locked the door behind him and shoved me roughly onto the bed, demanding to have sex with me. He pointed a pocket knife at my face, threatening disfiguration if I did not comply. Forcing my head on his groin, he commanded me to give him a blowjob. I was left with no choice – I agreed to his threats. I

End of May 2012 The continuation of my email to Andy: …I was delighted to return to London after war-ravaged Belfast. The students in our college had to evacuate several times due to IRA bomb threats. I must have subconsciously selected to be in Northern Ireland because of my unsettling inner upheavals. Much like the riots that went on in the city in 1971, I was unconsciously fighting my inner demons within myself. I needed that year to overcome my sexual additions and to immerse myself in my fashion studies. By the following year, I had compiled an impressive fashion design portfolio for application with various London Art and Design colleges. Foundation students generally required two years to complete their studies. I graduated from the Belfast College of Art with flying colors within a year. By the autumn of 1972, I was accepted into the prestigious Harrow School of Art and Technology. Around that period, my father’s business was waning and my family had financial difficulty sponsoring my graduate studies. Unbeknownst to my family, I had earned sufficient money during my Harem services to comfortably put myself through college. I lied to my parents and told them I was working part-time in London to make ends meet so I could finance my fashion education. They believed my tall tale. For the next three years I put my heart and soul into my fashion projects. I would occasionally work as a waiter at the famous Rainbow Room in Biba, which is now defunct. Working at this dinner dance club was a convenient way of meeting beautiful and trendy patrons, who often visit this capricious establishment.

June 2012               Dearest Andy, You haven’t changed much over the years. I’m glad we can continue to relate to each other after such a long absence. Times of change had not vanquished my love for you either. You are always in my heart and I’ll continue to cherish your love wherever I am. You haven’t heard the last of Bernard – at one time, he arrived to visit me at Uncle James. I had no idea he was in London when he showed up one afternoon. I had been out running a couple of errands. As I was unlocking the front door, I felt a tap on my shoulder and Bernard was behind me, looking as handsome as when we parted in Belfast. He had grown taller and more mature during our absence. In Ireland he had worked some odd jobs to earn enough money for a one-way plane ticket to London. The only person he knew in London was me. He knew I would not turn him away if he called. Uncle James was in Hong Kong and I was the only one staying in the house; I took the boy in, making him promise that he would have to leave when I moved in 3 weeks to my new lodgings in Ladbroke Grove. He did as promised and was a splendid house guest. When Uncle James returned a week before my move, he was charmed by the adolescent. Bernard made a good impression on Uncle James. The boy had run away from Belfast and planned a fresh start in London. During the course of the 3 weeks, he successfully secured himself as a newspaper delivery boy in the mornings and also worked part-time in a Deli near the house. To top it off, five evenings a week he was a bus boy in an Italian restaurant. Both Uncle James and I were impressed by his industrious tenacity. James decided to help him obtain an apprenticeship with a professional photographer in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Katie had visited Belfast many times before, but mostly to the city centre, for meetings with the Crime Operations Department, and she had forgotten how blatant the hostility still was between republicans and loyalists. UFF could almost have stood for Us? Forgive and Forget? Dunboyne

Schools had let out early and most businesses were closed in anticipation of the storm. My last ride dropped me off in Belfast, telling me that he was trying to get as far as Augusta, before State Road 3 became impassable. Standing alongside the two-lane coastal highway with darkness not far off, I was half thinking that I should turn back. My mind was made up for me when I stepped back off the road, making room for a big State DOT dump truck with a huge yellow snowplow. His airbrakes wheezed as he braked, coming to a stop, at the same time lifting his plow to keep from burying me. The driver couldn’t believe that I was out hitchhiking in a blizzard. This kind of weather in Maine is no joke! The driver told me that the year before a body had been found under a snow bank during the spring thaw. Never mind, I was invincible and nothing like that could happen to me, or so I thought. He got me as far as Camden and suggested that I get a room. “This storm is only going to get worse,” he cautioned as I got off. I waved as he drove off. Nevertheless, still hoping that things would improve, I was determined to continue…. My next ride was not for quite a while, but eventually an old car fishtailed to a stop. It was a clunker, covered with snow and I couldn’t really see in. Opening the front door, I realized that both seats were occupied. “Sorry, I’ll get into the back,” I said. Opening the back door, I saw that both people in the front were women. The car was cold and they explained that the heater didn’t work but they sounded like they felt sorry for me. “Where are you going, sailor?” the woman behind the wheel asked. “It’s going to snow all night,” the other one added. Again, I didn’t know if I really wanted to continue. “Well, I was going to New Jersey but maybe I should find a place here in Camden.” “What? No way!” I heard them say. “Come stay with us,” the younger one said with an interesting smile. She looked cute peering at me from under the hood of her green parka. The fur surrounding the hood still had some snow on it, so I assumed that they hadn’t come from that far away. I don’t know what I was thinking, when I agreed to their offer of staying with them, but it didn’t escape me that the woman driving was also attractive. I assumed that she must have been in her late thirties or early forties. The woolen scarf around her neck was loosely tied and her brown hair was up in a knot. “We’re just coming into town to get some bacon and eggs for breakfast,” the older one said. “We could use a little company. Come on,” the younger of the two, invitingly added. How could I say “no” to this kind of flirtatiousness? Giving my name, I said, “I’m Hank, and I certainly appreciate your offer.” They pulled into the snow-covered parking lot of a local food market. “We’re Rita and Connie. Let’s get in out of the cold before we freeze to death.

I wish I knew how to ask him to be gentle. The thought was in his head, but in Rian’s unmistakable Belfast tones. I’ve never made love... but, then, maybe I’m not meant for such. Cuinn

Camden in the winter of 1954 was a bleak place. It is difficult to see it this way if you’ve only been there in the summer, but most of Maine can be dismal, especially along the coast, during the long nights and short days. Once the colorful leaves have fallen from the majestic maple trees, and the last tourist has gone home, things become grim. So it was, during that cold January day, when I was on the road hoping to get a ride to New Jersey. On the radio, the weather forecasters predicted an overnight blizzard, but here it was only late afternoon and snow was already accumulating on the road. This would be my last opportunity to get home to see my family and friends, before cruising back on down to the Caribbean. I had really hoped to get an earlier start, to get far enough south to miss the brunt of the storm. Maine is known for this kind of weather, and the snowplows and sanders were ready. In fact, I didn’t see many other vehicles on the road any longer. Schools had let out early and most businesses were closed in anticipation of the storm. My last ride dropped me off in Belfast, telling me that he was trying to get as far as Augusta, before State Road 3 became impassable. Standing alongside the two-lane coastal highway with darkness not far off, I was half thinking that I should turn back. My mind was made up for me when I stepped back off the road, making room for a big State DOT dump truck with a huge yellow snowplow. His airbrakes wheezed as he braked, coming to a stop, at the same time lifting his plow to keep from burying me. The driver couldn’t believe that I was out hitchhiking in a blizzard. This kind of weather in Maine is no joke! The driver told me that the year before a body had been found under a snow bank during the spring thaw. Never mind, I was invincible and nothing like that could happen to me, or so I thought. He got me as far as Camden and suggested that I get a room. “This storm is only going to get worse,” he cautioned as I got off. I waved as he drove off. Nevertheless, still hoping that things would improve, I was determined to continue…

When people are actively engaged in a cause their lives have more purpose… with a resulting improvement in mental health,” Lyons wrote in the Journal of Psychosomatic Research in 1979. “It would be irresponsible to suggest violence as a means of improving mental health, but the Belfast findings suggest that people will feel better psychologically if they have more involvement with their community.

The epidemic was at its worst in Belfast with one in every seven people succumbing to the fever. Donegal Street where we lived was one of the most affluent areas in town but at the foot of the street near the Linen Hall was one of Belfast’s most deprived areas know as the ‘Half Bap’. Here people lived some eight or more people to a house and there were houses backing on to each other with open sewers. It is also said that in the shebeens off York Street that people were so hungry they ate rats alive.

In December 1970, Aristotle Onassis tries to buy the Belfast ship-yard Harland and Woolf. Seven union leaders spend the night in Claridges at his expense. One of them says later that his bed was too soft.

• While Rommel was going to see Hitler to beg for more tanks and a tighter command structure, Eisenhower was visited by Churchill, who was coming to the supreme commander to beg a favor. He wanted to go along on the invasion, on HMS Belfast. (“Of course, no one likes to be shot at,” Eisenhower later remarked, “but I must say that more people wanted in than wanted out on this one.”) As Eisenhower related the story, “I told him he couldn’t do it. I was in command of this operation and I wasn’t going to risk losing him. He was worth too much to the Allied cause. “He thought a moment and said, ‘You have the operational command of all forces, but you are not responsible administratively for the makeup of the crews.’ “And I said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ “He said, ‘Well, then I can sign on as a member of the crew of one of His Majesty’s ships, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ “I said, ‘That’s correct. But, Prime Minister, you will make my burden a lot heavier if you do it.’ ” Churchill said he was going to do it anyway. Eisenhower had his chief of staff, General Smith, call King George VI to explain the problem. The king told Smith, “You boys leave Winston to me.” He called Churchill to say, “Well, as long as you feel that it is desirable to go along, I think it is my duty to go along with you.” Churchill gave up.

THERE IS an old saying that in Belfast it rains five days out

Norman Whiteside: ‘I remember sitting in the digs and he came walking in to be introduced to us. This big, six-foot-plus lad from Dublin. And me being from the Shankill Road in Belfast, I just turned around and said, “Big man, it’s bad enough being a Catholic, but being a black one …” ‘That broke the ice a little. It got a laugh.

Paul Costelloe One of the most established and experienced names in British fashion, Irish-born Paul Costelloe has maintained a highly successful design label for more than twenty-five years. He was educated in Paris and Milan, and has since become known for his expertise in fabrics, primarily crisp linen and tweed. I was commuting to London from Ireland at the time when I got a call to come to Kensington Palace. I got a minicab and threw some garments in the back of the car, and the driver drove me to Kensington Palace. The police at the gate were surprised to see a battered minicab--it was no black cab, if you know the difference between a black cab and a minicab in London (a minicab is half the price of a black cab and always more battered). Anyway, they asked me who I was. I said, “I have an appointment to see Diana,” and they told me to wait. They were reluctant to let me through the gates--it was during the major troubles in Northern Ireland, during the mid to late seventies and early eighties, when Belfast was blazing--but I was soon met at the door. I remember hauling my garments up the stairs of the palace. I fell. Diana came halfway down the stairs and gave me a hand with the garments. Then we went into the living room and had a lovely cup of tea, and I met the children, William and Harry. She tried on some of the garments right there in front of me. I (being a confirmed heterosexual) found her very attraction. I came back down the stairs, and half an hour later she made her selection. She was a perfect size 10 (that would be a U.S. size 8), except she was tall, so a few things had to be lengthened. She was an absolute delight. Afterward, I went into Hyde Park for the afternoon and sat on a bench. I just couldn’t believe what had just happened!

I take back the notebook and begin. While sleet pelts the windows, I read to George. “Outside Belfast, in County Down, a young-“ “Wait!” George presses his hand to mine. “That’s not how you start a story.” “How do I start it?” I ask him, looking up from y words. “Do I say, ‘Once upon a time’?” “If you want.” He seems incredulous at this boring start. “How about…” I think for a breath or two. “How about, ‘Not long ago…’” “And not far away,” he says. “Or,” I say with a grin, “’once upon a… wardrobe’!

He’s not sure. Just weird addresses, kind of storage units in back streets in Algeria, storage units in industrial estates in Belfast. Jonno did Google Map Street View

Morgan and Simone are a younger couple. Morgan, an albino with long, silver hair, is from Belfast, Northern Ireland. He's always joking around, and is very dramatic. He has been an actor and an artist's model. His husband, Simone, is very quiet. He's from Mexico, and is very artistic. We've spent countless hours together drawing, painting, and working with clay...Daddy Matt joined us one time, and sculpted a gift for Father Timothy. Father took one look at it, turned scarlet with embarrassment, and promptly hid it in their nightstand. I felt rather sorry for Dad, because he had worked so hard on it, and Father didn't proudly display it in the front room as he did with my work... I don't know why. It looked like a perfectly good hot dog to me. I told Father so, and he promptly sent me to my room, which was completely unfair, as I was only asking a question.

The seven official founders were as follows: •  Michael Cusack from Carron, County Clare, a teacher •  Maurice Davin from Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, a farmer •  John Wyse Power, a journalist, editor of the Leinster Leader and an ‘associate of the extreme section of Irish Nationalism’ •  James K. Bracken, a building contractor and a monumental mason from Templemore, County Tipperary, who was a prominent member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood •  Joseph P. O’Ryan, who was born in Carrick-on-Suir and practised as a solicitor in Callan and Thurles •  John McKay, a Belfast man then working as a journalist with the Cork Examiner •  District Inspector St George McCarthy, who was born in Bansha, County Tipperary and who was a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary stationed at Templemore THE UNOFFICIAL LIST As well as the official founders a number of other people are reputed to have been present at the meeting. They include Frank Moloney from Nenagh, William Foley from Carrick-on-Suir and Thurles residents T.K. Dwyer, Charles Culhane, William Delahunty, John Butler and Michael Cantwell. There is a strong Kilkenny tradition that Henry Joseph Meagher, father of the famous Lory, Jack Hoyne, who played on Kilkenny’s first All-Ireland winning side in 1904, and a third Tullaroan man, Ned Teehan, also attended the foundation meeting

The gravitational pull of love has a sense of urgency that cannot be rebuffed.

Ulster before 1969 had been sick but with hidden symptoms. Streets and streets of houses with bricked up windows and broken fanlights, graffiti on gable walls, soldiers everywhere: Belfast was now like a madman who tears his flesh, put straws in his hair and screams gibberish. Before, it had resembled the infinitely more sinister figure of the articulate man in a dark, neat suit whose conversation charms and entertains; and whose insanity is apparent only when he says calmly, incidentally, that he will club his children to death and eat their entrails with a golden fork because God has told him to do so; and then offers you more tea.

There was a discomfiting sense in Belfast that there was no place where you were truly secure: you would run inside to get away from a gun battle, only to run outside again for fear of a bomb.

The chronology which I propose, based on a close reading of the primary sources, is as follows: March–June 1930: Lewis comes to believe in God. 19 September 1931: A conversation with Tolkien leads Lewis to realise that Christianity is a “true myth.” 28 September 1931: Lewis comes to believe in the divinity of Christ while being driven to Whipsnade Zoo. 1 October 1931: Lewis tells Arthur Greeves that he has “passed over” from belief in God to belief in Christ. 15–29 August 1932: Lewis describes his intellectual journey to God in The Pilgrim’s Regress, written at this time in Belfast.

Having bid the professor farewell and wished him abundant success in his very interesting experiments, I went home and read again for the thirty-ninth time Professor Tyndall's address at Belfast. December 1875

In Ireland, the light is secretive. Textured, uncertain, and cool, it falls short of corners, conspiring with shadows to fill every room and alley with an air of foreboding. Compound that baleful light with fog and a near-constant drizzle, and you’ve the perfect recipe for staying indoors, layering up, brooding into your cups before a fire and producing some of the world’s finest literature. James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, W. B. Yeats, and even C. S. Lewis, born in Belfast, are but a few of Ireland’s sons. In Faery, the qualities of light,

Belfast confetti,