A bishop for our time

Row upon row of bishops, all wearing their episcopal robes and high pointed hats.  Dozens of priests and other clerics.  Political figures from many quarters, including the Irish President.  And inside – and outside – Saint Eugene’s Cathedral in Derry, thousands of women, men and children.

They had come to honour an extraordinary church leader. They had come to pay respect to a formidable campaigner for justice.  They had come to make a final stand with a humble man.

They were here for Edward Daly – a small, frail boy from Belleek who grew to become a giant of modern Irish history.

The scenes inside Saint Eugene’s on Thursday 11th August 2016 are unlikely to be repeated again in our lifetime.  The Catholic Church across Ireland is under pressure.  The priesthood is in decline.  Attendances at Mass are dwindling.

But the crowd that thronged the old, forbidding, granite cathedral in Derry’s Bogside area was demonstrating that what truly matters is the man, not the organisation.

Edward Daly – or the Most Reverend Doctor Edward Daly, Emeritus Bishop of Derry, to give him his full title – was a man of contradictions.  By nature, gentle and softly spoken – yet a strong and consistent voice for peace that made itself heard above the guns and bombs of the Troubles.  A shy and diffident man, but one that loved to be involved in showbusiness and who adored music, comedy and drama.  At heart a conservative Roman Catholic, yet he argued for priests to be allowed to marry.

Above all, Bishop Edward Daly was a man elevated to a position of power and privilege who never lost the common touch.  He was at home among the ordinary people of Derry.  He may have been born in Donegal and raised in Fermanagh, but he loved Derry.  And the city of Derry took him to its heart and claimed him as its own.

On the day of his funeral, his sister Anne Gibson said: “We always knew Derry loved him, and he was obsessed by Derry and the Derry people – he thought they were the greatest.  And that became a reality for us when we saw the sincerity of their prayer, the sincerity of their grief, and we realised we weren’t on our own.”

His requiem Mass was filled with all the splendour and pomp that Irish Catholicism could muster.  All ranks were on parade – from Cardinal and All-Ireland Primate, down to priest and deacon.  The air was filled with perfumed smoke and sacred song.  A thurible beauty was born.

But this service was all about the man.  A man who served his church.  And above all, a man who served his people.

The wider world knows the tale of the courageous priest who faced the bullets of Bloody Sunday to lead a dying man from the killing zone.

Derry knows all about that courage.  But the city also knows about Edward Daly’s wider bravery.  They know about the man who was weakened by serious illness, but used his enforced retirement to minister to patients in the Foyle Hospice.   He brought comfort, contact and consolation to the dying.  He willingly gave a commodity that he did not possess in abundance – his time.

At his funeral, one could not fail to observe that the thousands of ordinary people who patiently endured the grey drizzle outside Saint Eugene’s were not doing so out of some long-held sense of duty.

They were there because this was THEIR bishop. This was a man who had stood with them during Derry’s darkest hours.  A man who lit a candle of hope that flamed into a beacon of humanity.

They were there because they truly loved this man.  And that is truly remarkable.

Lord of the non-Dance

“C’mon. Get up and dance. You’re not enjoying yourself.”

This is the remark invariably directed at me at parties and weddings. Simply because I wish to stand or sit at the side of a room.

For me the world is divided crudely into tribes: the extroverts and the introverts.  Or, as I like to call them, the Dancers and the non-Dancers.

At social occasions I am perfectly happy to sit and chat on the sidelines. Conversation trumps dancing every time.  Besides, even the most charitable of critics would admit that my inelegant and ill-fated foot-shuffling is at best only for a battle-hardened adult audience, and at worst a public hazard.

The Dancers, however, seem determined to conquer their rival tribe.  At every social occasion they dispatch fearsome raiders to kidnap the hapless and unwary, dragging them off as trophies to parade on the disco floor.  Whooping and hollering, as they dance around them.  Their victims, red-faced and submissive, can do little but submit to their grisly fate.

But not once have I seen any of my peace-loving non-Dancer tribe setting out to retaliate.  No self-respecting introvert every tried to drag a Dancer from the floor, telling them: “C’mon.  Stop that ridiculous display of gay abandon. You’re clearly not enjoying yourself.”

We non-Dancers are quite content to let the Dancers dance. It is, after all, what they were born to do.

We take joy in their ability to enjoy themselves by gyrating, waltzing, sloshing and bopping.  We see no need to enforce our wish for quiet conversation upon them.  We know they will exhaust themselves and join the debate.

The introvert never tries to convert the extrovert. It is a pointless task.  We know the Dancers cannot deny their inner drive and impulse.  They cannot change their DNA.

The extrovert, however, is always on a mission to convert the introvert.  We seem like easy prey.  Innocent, unknowing heathens easily beguiled by shiny beads and the promise of a more rewarding existence.

But we, too, cannot change our DNA.  Our essential being is not up for negotiation.  We like to talk.  We like to laugh. We like to argue and dispute. We enjoy life. We enjoy company. We enjoy parties and weddings and social gathering.  We just don’t want to dance.

So, Dancers, thanks but no thanks.

And if anyone suggests Karaoke then it’s war.

How to curry favour with the voter

“I know he’s a good general, but is he lucky?” said Napoleon Bonaparte when asked to confirm the appointment of a new commander.

Even the great Napoleon kept a wary eye on Lady Luck, believing it was only a matter of time before she fluttered her eyelashes and flashed her ankles at a rival.

I’m starting to suspect the Little Corporal may have been on to something.

In the past I’ve never been much of a believer in luck. Nothing more than silly superstitition, I thought.

I’ve spent my life daring fate to do its worst – I deliberately walk under ladders, I hiss at black cats and I love chips too much to miss my target with the salt.

But… But… BUT when it comes to elections something strange happens to that part of the universe I inhabit.

Once I enter a vote-counting centre I feel the chill embrace of Lady Luck, and I know that she’s going to create chaos around me.

Other reporters attend elections and watch votes being counted and candidates winning or losing.

But ME…? No, I find myself at the centre of an electoral Bermuda Triangle where unseen forces go to work.

I’ve been there while boxes of ballots were left out in the rain, after which hairdryers were used on each vote.

I’ve been there when thousands of carefully counted votes were carefully stacked on tables only for those tables to collapse, scattering the will of the people like so much electoral confetti.

I’ve been there when results were loaded into a computer laptop only for the laptop’s software to ‘lock’ itself – and the man with the password had gone home for his tea.

And the 2014 election to the new Derry/Strabane ‘super-council’ took the bizarre to a new level.

Vote-counting was held under the tightest security. No public parking near the building. All candidates, staff and media body-searched. And nothing was allowed inside unless it passed through airport-style x-ray scanners – even the food for the cafeteria.

Tight security, though, is no match for the ballot box poltergeists.

A large consignment of Chicken Curry was being squeezed through the x-ray machine when the container burst. The curry sauce leaked. The scanner hummed and then fell silent.

Twenty-first century security brought to its knees by Chicken Curry.

I felt some degree of responsibility. If only I had been elsewhere my election jinx would not have blighted this hi-tech x-ray device… and Chicken Curry would still have been the freshest thing on the 2014 electoral menu.

Bird song for the world

General Ned Ludd. Ring a bell? Didn’t think it would.

Well, he and I were kindred spirits until a small blue bird caused us to fall out.

The general wasn’t even a proper general. He was a 19th century English textile worker who objected to the mechanisation of his industry.

Technological progress was not a good thing, he thought. So, he and his fellow ‘Luddites’ would attack the machinery that was replacing their skilled labour.

And that’s where the fake general and I briefly shared a common thought. For when it comes to technology, I must confess I’m a bit of a Luddite myself.

In recent years I’ve been particularly irked by the rise of so-called ‘social media’ – you know, Facebook, WhatsApp, Instagram, etc.

I have defiantly resisted the entreaties of my teenage children to join the rest of the world on-line. (Or “Get a life, Dad” as they cruelly put it.)

I didn’t go so far as sabotaging computers, laptops and smart phones. But for years I revelled in the splendid isolation of my one-man boycott.

Then the little blue bird fluttered into view. For those not in the know, the bird in question is the logo of Twitter.

Twitter is the social media phenomenon that is enticing even those who stand Canute-like on the sands and hold up a hand against the in-rushing tide of technology.

The joy of Twitter is that each message or ‘Tweet’ is limited to 140 characters – my previous sentence numbers 140 exactly – so one’s communication is invariably brief and to the point, and the Twittersphere or Tweetscape is genuinely global.

Recently I wrote to Manchester United to congratulate Sir Alex Ferguson on his 70th birthday. Please note, however, that I am a life-long Liverpool FC supporter.

Sir Alex kindly sent a personal note to my home thanking me for my letter.

When I mentioned this on Twitter I ignited a forest fire. Suddenly I was exchanging Tweets with Man Utd and Liverpool fans all over the world.

Almost all were amusing or pleasant. Only one was abusive and that came rather pleasingly from a United fan in Argentina.

Social media. It may not solve the Falklands problem – or “El Problema de las Malvinas” as my Argentine correspondent might say – but it does get us talking.

And surely that’s a good thing.

Tweet, Tweet, my lovelies…!

Walk the Line

Television journalists have to watch their step.

One false move can lead to embarrassment, not to mention a substantial bill for libel.

You’d think that we TV hacks would be a fairly nifty bunch. Light on our feet. Well-balanced. But balance is a real problem for me.

I’ve had almost 50 years of trying to inject some balance into my life. So far, I’ve failed miserably.

I’m an adult, a married man, a father of three kids. But to my shame and eternal embarrassment I cannot ride a bike. As a child I couldn’t even stay on a trike.

How I laugh (not) when people describe some fairly mundane skill and say, “Of course you’ll remember how to do it. Sure, it’s like riding a bicycle.”

Falling over is a speciality of mine. I once stumbled against the big red ‘Stop’ button beside a department store escalator. As shoppers came hurtling down towards me, I beat a hasty (and red-faced) retreat.

My wife says when it comes to clumsiness, I’m just naturally gifted.

It’s true that I broke my leg just days before flying off on holiday with her (it meant she carried the luggage and I came home sun-tanned apart from one plaster-cast leg).

It’s also true that I managed to set myself on fire in a Catholic church. I was blissfully unaware that I was too close to the candles until a man started beating out the flames on my back.

And let’s face it, the chances of me running away to join the circus and become a tightrope walker are just about zero.

So, if you feel my journalism sometimes strays a little off-line, if you consider my reports a tad unbalanced, then have a little compassion.

Being perfectly balanced isn’t always as easy as it looks.

Health and Safe-Tea

We’re living in a police state. Before you get hot under the collar, I’m referring to the Nanny State and the Health and Safety police.

But be very careful. Getting too hot under the collar is a health and safety issue.

The 21st Century may well be the era of not too high, not too fast, not too heavy and not too dark. Not “too” anything, in fact.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the need to avoid unnecessary hazards, minimise risk and maximise safe outcomes. (You see? I’m even beginning to talk like ‘Them’.)

But whatever happened to Common Sense? How can we judge a situation if we’re rarely allowed to use our critical faculties?

Recently, I was part of a group of journalists and TV camera men reporting from an airport.  Each of us was ordered to wear a high-visibility vest. A thing of real beauty in eye-wateringly bright yellow.

We looked like a gaggle of nuclear ducks and I was the biggest quack in the pond.

For a brief moment I took mine off so that I could do a quick ‘piece-to-camera’.

Immediately I was spotted by a health and safety official and ordered to put the hi-vis back on.

“How did you spot me?” I asked him.

“You weren’t wearing your hi-vis yellow vest,” the official said, the irony meter about to explode, “so you stood out like a sore thumb.”

Defeated and perplexed in equal measure, I retired to a nearby hut where refreshments were provided.

“Cup of tea, please,” I said. “But not too hot.”

After all, if you can’t beat them, join them.

Smile when you get it wrong

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

Three little words signifying an eternal truth from the Eternal City.

It was the response given by Vatican spokesman Fr. Federico Lombardi when 6,000 commemorative Papal coins were minted with Jesus’s name spelt wrong.

Let me state that again: the Vatican misspelled Jesus’s name.

The world’s biggest Christian church, its mission to follow and spread the teachings of Jesus Christ, managed to produce a set of bronze, silver and gold coins on which the Messiah was named Lesus.

I must confess (no pun intended) I allowed myself a chuckle. It certainly adds a humorous element to the notion of Papal Infallibility.

To think of the mighty Roman Catholic Church, its red-robed cardinals and purple-clad bishops, getting something so simple so wrong.

But then I paused. Hubris is always stalked by Nemesis. Pride is quickly followed by a fall.

It made me think of my own frailty. My history of errors and mistakes. It made me consider my own humanity.

As a journalist, my cock-ups are made in public and archived for future gloating.

Whilst working for the ‘Derry Journal’ newspaper I had to review a just-published guidebook on Irish bars.

A slip of the computer key and the headline – forever there in huge black and white letters – invited the reader to find out about the “Pubic” houses of Ireland.

I’m a walking catalogue of duffs, mistakes, trips, slips and falls.

I got married with my zip down. I fell down the same spiral staircase THREE times. I set myself on fire in church. I can’t ride a bike – or even a trike. I fell against the red emergency stop button in a large store and sent a dozen shoppers tumbling down the escalator.

And I am not alone. That’s the joy of humanity. We’re all in it together. We’re all equally flawed.

U.S. Vice-President Dan Quayle memorably “corrected” a small child’s spelling of potato and added an aberrant extra letter to make it “potatoe”.

Derry City Council produced a glossy, full-colour brochure for an arts festival in 1992. The cover picture was reversed, however, and the city’s west bank went east whilst the east headed for the sunset side.

Jane Austen, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Agatha Christie had difficulty spelling.

Even William Butler Yeats was a dreadful speller. His biographer David A. Ross described W.B’s spelling as “a matter of wildly errant guesswork”…. and Yeats went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

So next time you stub your toe, smash a hammer on your thumb or spill soup down your shirt – just pause, take a breath and smile. It means you’re part of the human race.

As Federico Lombardi says: “Everybody makes mistakes.”

What’s in a name..?

If Shakespeare were around today I’m sure he’d be Tweeting furiously.

Using 140 characters to sum up the day’s events – the historic and the banal.

But a topic that appears trifling to some may be of crucial importance to others.

Sport so often elevates the trivial to undeserved prominence. Now, two sports teams separated by thousands of miles find themselves threatened by the weight of history and protest.

Tottenham Hotspur, a football club famously supported by many within London’s Jewish community, was often abused in the past by rival fans who derided Spurs supporters as “Yids”.

Now many Tottenham fans have fought back by trying to reclaim that abusive word for their very own. They go to matches and proudly chant that they are the “Yid Army”.

Across the Atlantic and in another national capital, an American Football team finds itself the subject of national debate.

The Washington Redskins take their name from an outmoded and dated reference to Native Americans.

The Redskins’ badge features a caricature profile “an Indian”.

The club is coming under pressure to change its name. Some Native Americans condemn it as a racial slur.

Even Barack Obama has joined the debate. The President says he’d consider changing the Redskins’ name if he were the team owner.

Two teams – an ocean between apart – with fans agonizing over names, nicknames, epithets, chants and history.

At times like this, I often reach for the Bard of Avon for guidance and advice. Where would Shakespeare stand on this issue?

In ‘Romeo and Juliet’ his tragic heroine asks:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.”

But history teaches us that the sweet aroma of one perfume may be sickly and sickening to other noses.

In 21st century Northern Ireland we struggle with names and symbols. They are a source of dissent, division and even violence.

The city of my birth is centuries old yet its citizens have still not settled on a name that can be agreed by all – Londonderry, Derry, Doire.

Perhaps, though, we ought to take comfort that across the world others find their current identities weighed down by the baggage of history.

At least we’re not alone.

Tory MP’s bitter-sweet moment

It’s not easy being a Member of Parliament. Our hard-working MPs have to navigate their way through labyrinthine and archaic rules, only to fail when their objective is in sight.

Yes, playing Candy Crush Saga can be a frustrating, difficult and demanding task.

But is it too much to ask MPs to focus on health, education and the economy rather than entering this online candy-coloured parallel universe?

The game’s designers invite you to “join Tiffi and Mr. Toffee in their sweet adventure through the wonderful Candy Kingdom”.

Well, one Tory MP simply couldn’t resist the saccharine pull of Candy Crush Saga.

Nigel Mills, Conservative MP for the sweetly named Amber Valley constituency, was caught on camera playing Candy Crush Saga during a Work & Pensions Select Committee hearing.

Photographs show Mr Mills playing the game on his iPad. The Apple tablet was, needless to say, provided to him at the tax-payers’ expense

He has apologised, and the House of Commons authorities have begun a mole hunt to track down the rogue photographer.

Mr Mills, a fan of Real Ale, is clearly keen on games. His website describes him as “a keen follower of sport… a season ticket holder at Notts County… a member of Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club”.

With those kind of interests he ought to be used to disappointment.

But just because his wife is called Alice doesn’t mean he’s entitled to meander into Wonderland when he ought to be dealing with Affairs of State.

If you think I’m treating him harshly for playing a harmless game, perhaps you’re right.

However, let’s assess his behaviour in the manner laid down in his website. There Mr Mills writes: “When I was elected, I said that I would be judged based on my performance both in the constituency and in Parliament.”

A Tory whose personal pledges include a mission to “remove migrants from the UK after six months if they aren’t in work” seems to have found his niche.

As the makers of Candy Crush Saga might have said of the Amber Valley MP’s devotion to parliament, “Isn’t it the sweetest game ever?”