And what a beautiful little circus this is. There I was, merely pointing out the awkward similarities, the nationalism, the racism, the religious bigotry and the curious habit of treating an Irish identity as though it comes with a membership card, a blood test and a list of people who are sufficiently Irish to be admitted. Then click locked, the modern political equivalent of putting your fingers in your ears and screaming, “I Can't Hear You!” while running away from the evidence.
What makes the whole performance particularly absurd is watching self-appointed patriots suddenly discover Garvaghy Road whenever there is an opportunity to climb aboard its coat-tails. The people who actually live there, organise there and have carried the weight of that struggle do not need lectures from Johnny-come-lately nationalists with a suspiciously well-developed hatred of immigrants.
Garvaghy Road is not a stage for every opportunist faction looking for a few photographs and some borrowed legitimacy. Its history belongs to the people who live there. And if your version of Irish nationalism is rooted in racism, religious bigotry and exclusion, then perhaps the uncomfortable truth is that you have more ideological furniture in common with the sectarian Orange tradition than with the republican tradition you claim to represent.
Blocking somebody doesn't make the argument disappear. It merely means you have decided that the safest place for an argument is somewhere you don't have to look at it.
Notice how the Naz* rats didn't have the balls to announce their presence on Garvaghy Road. Not a banner, not a party badge, not even a little commemorative sticker clinging desperately to a lamppost.
And there is good reason for this remarkable outbreak of political invisibility, they know their particular brand of nationalism wouldn't exactly receive the warm embrace they enjoy from the safety of a keyboard. The revolutionary vanguard, brave enough to shout through a Facebook account, but suddenly afflicted with an extraordinary case of stage fright when confronted with the actual people whose history they have been so eager to appropriate.
Fu*k The Naz*list Party, Fu*k The Orange Order, No pasarán!
























