Marketeers north and south are seizing their moment. A cynic might note a deliberate effort to dust off the old Sinn Féin/IRA tiocfaidh ár lá brand and make unification cool again. It’s a full Pimp My Ride makeover for the island. The young ones will love the virtual packaging and app notifications.
With all the conferences, roundtables and TV debates parading old foes in staged face-offs, you can almost hear the corks popping. Referendums are coming down the pipeline. Lo and behold, the Telegraph is warning Unionism that the end is nigh. There’s even an uptick in interest abroad: I’m regularly fielding questions from Italians about unification. Their excitement is real—and oddly comforting.
I’ve soaked up some of the positive campaigning myself while browsing online, wishing I could attend one or two of the events. It’s hard not to. New logos are being unfurled and, let’s be honest, who doesn’t fall for a new logo on old branding? We’re all suckers for it—until you step back and catch yourself on, as the Belfast lingo goes.
But southern politicians don’t want us. A hundred years on, you can still taste the disdain they reserve for the North, and especially for the northern “terrorists” staking a claim to a nation that—ahem—previous Republican terrorists handed them. I think I know why their vitriol persists, and I almost feel for them. An incy-wincy bit, at least.
A brief tangent. They’ve long known something Unionists were in denial about until relatively recently: the peace process strips Unionism of political power and money—rebranded as “sharing.” In economic terms, it’s real money leaving their deep lined pockets for decades. That must hurt. Worse still, when they look at their children, they’re probably wondering how to explain that guaranteed jobs and privileged social positions are no longer guaranteed. The kids may have to go abroad, or God forbid, integrate into Paisley’s long predicated nightmare: a future papal state. Unionism, it seems, is working its way through the five stages of grief. Who knows which stage they’re at now.
Southern politicians, by contrast, have known this forever, which means they’ve had longer to prepare for the inevitable. Their bitterness toward us, however, hasn’t waned. There’s no statute of limitations on grief.
But something has shifted. While dumping masonry at an Italian recycling plant a few weeks ago, a friendly woman struck up a conversation about her dream of touring Ireland. Naturally, I talked up our green pastures and scenery—Italians appreciate that sort of thing—before she asked, with sudden seriousness: “Is it in Ireland you have those small people?” I was tempted to take the answer in several directions, but knew immediately what she meant. “You mean leprechauns?” I said, holding my hands inches above the ground and describing their mystical powers, just in case she meant dwarves. “Ah yes, yes. I like them very much.”
That’s the point. The marketeers are paying attention. Like a great tourism ad, they’re leaning into myth, spectacle and glossy events to sell us a product that’s magical—or at least, unrealistic. I want to believe. I need to. Otherwise, I fear the Republican deity I’ve been prostrated before most of my life may be a false one.
Before reaching that terminal conclusion, though, there’s one glaring condition no one seems keen to mention. The marketing gods promise a bright, futuristic Nation Once Again just down the road, but ignore the small print: the Brits retain full, total and utter control over our destiny. London—helped along by its southern servant, in complete agreement—has our cojones firmly in its grubby hands. It’s enshrined in the GFA.
So plan all the New Irelands and 2.0 versions you want. Roll out the logos and pump the promos until the digital cows come home. The brutal truth is this: the Brits are standing back, watching us pimp our nation and waiting for the wheels to come off once we finally roll it out of the garage.
⏩Michael Phillips is a former republican prisoner.
With all the conferences, roundtables and TV debates parading old foes in staged face-offs, you can almost hear the corks popping. Referendums are coming down the pipeline. Lo and behold, the Telegraph is warning Unionism that the end is nigh. There’s even an uptick in interest abroad: I’m regularly fielding questions from Italians about unification. Their excitement is real—and oddly comforting.
I’ve soaked up some of the positive campaigning myself while browsing online, wishing I could attend one or two of the events. It’s hard not to. New logos are being unfurled and, let’s be honest, who doesn’t fall for a new logo on old branding? We’re all suckers for it—until you step back and catch yourself on, as the Belfast lingo goes.
But southern politicians don’t want us. A hundred years on, you can still taste the disdain they reserve for the North, and especially for the northern “terrorists” staking a claim to a nation that—ahem—previous Republican terrorists handed them. I think I know why their vitriol persists, and I almost feel for them. An incy-wincy bit, at least.
A brief tangent. They’ve long known something Unionists were in denial about until relatively recently: the peace process strips Unionism of political power and money—rebranded as “sharing.” In economic terms, it’s real money leaving their deep lined pockets for decades. That must hurt. Worse still, when they look at their children, they’re probably wondering how to explain that guaranteed jobs and privileged social positions are no longer guaranteed. The kids may have to go abroad, or God forbid, integrate into Paisley’s long predicated nightmare: a future papal state. Unionism, it seems, is working its way through the five stages of grief. Who knows which stage they’re at now.
Southern politicians, by contrast, have known this forever, which means they’ve had longer to prepare for the inevitable. Their bitterness toward us, however, hasn’t waned. There’s no statute of limitations on grief.
But something has shifted. While dumping masonry at an Italian recycling plant a few weeks ago, a friendly woman struck up a conversation about her dream of touring Ireland. Naturally, I talked up our green pastures and scenery—Italians appreciate that sort of thing—before she asked, with sudden seriousness: “Is it in Ireland you have those small people?” I was tempted to take the answer in several directions, but knew immediately what she meant. “You mean leprechauns?” I said, holding my hands inches above the ground and describing their mystical powers, just in case she meant dwarves. “Ah yes, yes. I like them very much.”
That’s the point. The marketeers are paying attention. Like a great tourism ad, they’re leaning into myth, spectacle and glossy events to sell us a product that’s magical—or at least, unrealistic. I want to believe. I need to. Otherwise, I fear the Republican deity I’ve been prostrated before most of my life may be a false one.
Before reaching that terminal conclusion, though, there’s one glaring condition no one seems keen to mention. The marketing gods promise a bright, futuristic Nation Once Again just down the road, but ignore the small print: the Brits retain full, total and utter control over our destiny. London—helped along by its southern servant, in complete agreement—has our cojones firmly in its grubby hands. It’s enshrined in the GFA.
So plan all the New Irelands and 2.0 versions you want. Roll out the logos and pump the promos until the digital cows come home. The brutal truth is this: the Brits are standing back, watching us pimp our nation and waiting for the wheels to come off once we finally roll it out of the garage.
⏩Michael Phillips is a former republican prisoner.
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Enjoyed this piece though it makes no comment on what a future Ireland would look like and given the demographic tides it sure as shit wouldn't be resembling anything close to Paisley's hell of a 'papal state' nor the Republic of the Proclamation! I think the Southern government is grappling with the same issues as Westminster and doing just about as big a fuck up with the whole thing so as to make a distinction between Ireland the UK, moot.
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