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Right Wing Watch 👀 Joel Webbon and Dale Partridge are two pastor-pundits for what they call the New Christian Right. 

They share the hyper-patriarchal worldview of Christian nationalist Doug Wilson, who has distanced himself from Webbon over the latter’s overt racism and antisemitism, but shares their belief that the 19th Amendment to the Constitution, which gave women the right to vote, was a mistake that should be reversed.

In the July 13 episode of the "Christian Nationalist Weekly" podcast, Webbon made an explicit connection between nativism, racism, antisemitism, and opposition to feminism as he stoked the grievance of his white Christian American male audience. He told them that feminism—and what he called a “monstrous regiment of women”—is partly to blame for their being enslaved and exploited by the rest of the world:

You are a battery. You energize the world. You are a tax farm. You are a slave. You are living in some degree, some measure of comfort and placation, right? Sitting in front of Netflix, living in your pod, your condo or whatever it is, working, producing, being over-taxed, in order to fund the entire world…Part of it is Jewish supremacy.


Continue @ Right Wing Watch.

The Monstrous Misogyny Of The Theobros

Lynx By Ten To The Power Of Two Thousand And Forty Nine

 

Pastords @ 55

 

A Morning Thought @ 3221

Remembering Kieran Doherty On The 45th Anniversary Of His Death On Hunger Strike In The H Blocks Of Long Kesh.


Kieran Doherty🏴 45 🏴 Eternal Dreamless Sleep

Ronan McSherry ⚽ "...and then all Heaven broke loose" was a phrase sports writer colossus Con Houlihan used.

Although a proud Castleisland man, he too would have watched in awe the outpouring of emotion when the hooter sounded at Croke Park on Sunday, ending a 75 year Mayo drought and years of final heartbreak.

I didn't go to the final as it was obvious Mayo would capitulate, and watching their supporters crying in Croke Park again was not an attractive proposition.

There was a flood of tears, this time however, from a well of sheer joy and memories of years of pain with thoughts of loved ones who yearned to see this day but departed, their dream unfulfilled. The country cried with them.

While it wasn't Mayo's first All Ireland win, 75 years is a long time and twelve intervening final defeats was, as a priest from the West said to me walking up Jones Road about 5pm on the afternoon of such a loss (there were so many I can't remember the year) "that's our purgatory here on earth".

It was wonderful. The scenes on the screen of supporters sobbing, embracing, praying, dropping to their knees in thanksgiving brought back special memories of 28th September 2003, when Tyrone reached the Holy Grail for the first time.

It's not that long ago but in two years they will be the aul lads being wheeled out as the 25 year Jubilee Team.

They used to say, whoever they are, that you hadn't won an All Ireland if you didn’t beat Kerry along the way. Tyrone did just that in the semi-final. They took it badly.

Of all things, the current Mayo coach, Paddy Tally from Galbally, had them tackling in swarms. These days it's called tactical genius or a high press.

Yearning

In the final, Tyrone met the neighbours Armagh, who had won their first All Ireland title a year earlier, amid similar scenes of unbounded rejoicing.

Current GAA President Jarlath Burns captured the mood in the pundits' studio when he spoke of the great poets and singers and footballers from the Orchard County but until then, there was a void, something missing, before giving a rendition of The Boys of the County Armagh. (Jarlath! Where did it all go wrong?).

We too had that yearning, and while it was not a plethora of All Ireland defeats, losing from a seven point lead to Kerry in '86 and by one point after a dubious refereeing decision gave Dublin victory in 1995, had taken its toll.

Watching Donegal then Derry and of all things Armagh winning their first titles added to that sense of loss and yearning. Ache.

In his first edition of the History of Tyrone GAA penned in 1984 (The GAA Centenary Year) the late Joseph Martin wrote of the great Gaels and visionaries down the years, the concluding sentence of the last chapter titled, 'The Cherished Dream' read:

Tyrone GAA, proud of its past and inspired by an awareness of its present potential and a total belief in itself, can aspire to and attain the ultimate success - the winning of the Sam Maguire Cup.


At Last

The final whistle sounded and Brian Dooher held the ball and ran off like he was going to eat it. Grown men and women openly wept in the stands as the Croke Park pitch turned into a sea of red and white.



I left my seat in the Cusack Stand and galloped across the hallowed turf, the electricity coursing through me. The stewards made little to no effort to stop the jubilant invasion. I recall about a dozen clamouring over Cormac McAnallen. Of all things, I planted a kiss on his cheek!

Armagh supporters knew the feeling. They held out an open hand and said 'enjoy it'. They really did! It was the Tyrone community as one. Even the Mammy was there.

Tears flowed and hard men and the reserved were hugging their neighbours. It was finally done.

I thought of my father who departed in 1994. He'd have loved this. He dreamt of this day, as he told me stories of going to headquarters in 1947 when Tyrone won their first All Ireland minor title and the great men of 1956 who came so close to reaching an All Ireland final, only to be denied by Jack Mangan of Galway who turned in mid-air to miraculously claw away the ball that was goal bound from Iggy Jones, and 1960 with bonfires across the North when Sam came over the border for the first time. The great men of Down.

Then he took us to those Ulster finals in Clones and for a while thought the day had arrived in 1986 but it was not to be. Afterwards you discover many were having similar emotions on the Croke Park field, remembering those who went before.

On Sunday a Mayo woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, told RTÉ that her father signed her jersey before he died, and told her he'd be with her on the journey to bring home the Sam Maguire Cup. No doubt he was.

It was an incredible afternoon that brought back so many memories of that day in 2003.

Sam has been here three times since, including a fantastic day I spent with my daughters five years ago and our clubman Paudie the captain.

However, there will never be another first time.

For that day I will be eternally grateful. It is a privilege not everyone gets to experience.

Enjoy the win, people of Mayo!

* After the second All Ireland win in 2005, pI interviewed Joseph Martin who wrote that inspiring paragraph. Indeed he signed it in my book. 

I asked him how it felt when Tyrone finally won the Sam Maguire Cup... he paused and reflected and finally tears welled up in his eyes... No words were needed.

⏩Ronan McSherry from Tyrone is a life-time GAA member and former newspaper columnist.

The Cherished Dream

Geordie Morrow 🖌 with a painting from his collection of art work. 


⏩Geordie Morrow is a Belfast artist.

Shankill Sketches

Remembering Kevin Lynch On The 45th Anniversary Of His Death On Hunger Strike In The H Blocks Of Long Kesh.


Kevin Lynch🏴 45 🏴 Eternal Dreamless Sleep

Kate Rice ✍ On another day in the city, I accidentally wandered into the remains of an Orange march, with another one promised on the horizon. 

I didn’t see the actual march. I didn’t want to. I had no desire to witness more of the spectacle that had made my dad so passionate, and ultimately, so small-minded. The march that had passed through earlier had left urban chaos in its wake - the street choked with rubbish and empty plastic bottles. Despite it, the air was tense with anticipation for the next. People lined the pavements, settling into folding camping chairs like they were preparing for Glastonbury.

I watched a crowd dressed in bright orange t-shirts, the Red Hand of Ulster plastered boldly across their chests. One woman stood out, completely smothered in the Union Jack - right down to a sparkling red white and blue bowler hat.

I know I am supposed to be here to learn. I know I am supposed to lean away from my inherent biases and view every side of this fractured city with an open mind. But as I looked at them, I realized my capacity for open-mindedness had a strict and painful boundary. I cannot look at the culture my dad came from with the same generous, seeking eyes I gave to West Belfast.

To me, Loyalism isn’t an abstract political identity or a different perspective on history. It is inextricably linked to my father’s alcoholism. It is the quiet backdrop to the violence of my childhood. The flags and the far away pattering of drums didn't feel like a cultural celebration, but the visual language of the beast that had lived in my own home. Standing on that littered street, trying to force myself to understand a culture that hurt me felt less like learning, and more like rubbing salt an old wound I had long thought healed. I had to walk away.

It makes me feel bad to write this down. I came here wanting to learn, wanting to be entirely equal and fair, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It feels selfish, in a way, to wilfully look away from an entire half of this city's culture.

But how can I look at a celebration of his identity and not see him? All I have ever learned or heard from my dad is bigoted rhetoric and pure, unadulterated hatefulness. When I see their flags and hear their songs, I don't see a community. I see my dad’s pride in being a British soldier, I hear his visceral hatred toward Republicanism, towards immigrants, towards Other.

My mind instantly flashes back to my developmental years - years spent in a perpetual state of terror, walking on eggshells just to appease a volatile man. I did everything I could to make sure he wouldn't abandon me, or worse, raise a hand to me the way he so easily did to my mum. The people lining the streets for the march might see a proud tradition, but to me, that pride is stained. It is the language of the man whose born history ruled my childhood. To ask myself to look at Loyalism with open, objective eyes isn't just a historical exercise, it's asking myself to forgive the violence in my own history before I am ready. For now, my open eyes are reserved for the places that don't look like him - though I hope with time, I can view the North in its entirety without my personal feelings covering my eyes.

Following Charlie’s advice, I dropped into the Rock Bar. The moment I crossed the threshold, the bartender caught my eye and smiled. The immediate ease of the place washed over me. I ordered a Coke and asked him where else I should visit. Without hesitation, he suggested the Felons Club. He told me it was a place where people who had lived right through the heart of the conflict gathered, and that many of them, on occasion, were happy to share a few words of their own personal history.

Buoyed by the welcome, I walked back to the house to collect my partner. I asked the woman at the bar if there was anyone who might be kind enough to talk me through the history of the photos dotted around the place. A man named Gerard, wearing a Celtic shirt, generously offered to show me the history lining the walls. He walked us through a gallery of memory and respect. There were pictures of famous rebels, the hunger strikers, the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising, and the tragic story of Tom Williams, a young man executed in prison whose body was later secured by the IRA just so he could be buried alongside his mammy, as he had wished. There was art depicting the coffin boats of the Great Famine, and then, upstairs, the most delicate testament to human endurance: harps, crosses, and chairs painstakingly carved and crafted by the prisoners of Long Kesh.

I’ll confess, I got a bit teary eyed. The woman behind the bar caught sight of my tears and looked genuinely surprised by my emotion. I realized then the vast distance between us. To her, this raw, heavy history was an everyday reality she had long learned to respect and live beside. To me, stepping into it with fresh eyes, the visual evidence of so much collective grief was a visceral, overwhelming shock to the system.

The ideas I’d had about it being a conflict of ideals and politics was sort of slapped straight out of my head. Just crosses and harps, carved by the hands of ordinary men in cells, often dressed only with a blanket as part of their humanitarian protest to be treated as prisoners of war.

On another day, I visited the Falls exhibit at an old primary school and listened to an audio archive of the curfew implemented on the Falls. How Belfast had started as a small town, the linen mills, and the inequality in job and housing allocation between the Catholic and Protestant communities. Inevitably, I cried again. There’s this bit where they show you a ten minute film of footage from the curfew, and other events including when police broke into a Sinn Fein office in 1964 and confiscated the tricolour from the window, and the burning of homes in the area. You can see families just carrying their furniture through the street while these great big orange flames burst through window frames and lick up the brick sides.

On the 15th, we travelled to Drogheda by train and met with Christopher Owens and TPQ’s patriarch himself, Anthony McIntyre. We sat in a gorgeous little pub garden and spoke the world. I gave my thoughts on some things but it was an honour to sit back and listen to these two men who had both experienced the conflict in some regard speak of their personal history - and their taste in music, books, and drinking spirits. For this I must give my thanks to both gentlemen for their welcoming hospitality, their endless patience for my naive questions, and Christopher’s suggestion of a pre-pub Dominoes.

I fly home on the 17th, and already the thought of leaving is saddening me. There’s still so much I wish to see and hear and listen to. I am both pleased and embarrassed to say that my naive optimism and view of a complicated history remains intact - I hold hope for a United Ireland, a peaceful future, and many more such naked conversations about the burden of heritage. Belfast, you have been a dream to me. No longer will I imagine a shadowed beast and whispered history, inaccessible to those who didn’t live through the days of gunfire and fear. Thank you for your patience with me. One day I will come back with both eyes open, unburdened by personal history so that I might properly appreciate yours.

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Belfast 🪶 The Tale Of The Pope In The Pub Garden 🪶 Act Ⅱ

Christopher Owens 🎵 with the 65th in his Predominance series.

“Guitar seems so fucking loud. People walking on the crowd. Diving off the P.A. stacks. Breaking ankles, necks and backs. Then the circle begins In the thrashing pit/Fists are flying/People getting hit/Tooth chippers left and right/Skinheads in another fight/Banging heads and broken jaws Because there are no laws/ In the pit!” - D.R.I

Horns up 

New Horizons


Butthole Surfers – After the Astronaut

Although some songs on here form the basis of 2001’s poor ‘Weird Revolution’, this record should have predated it. ‘After the Astronaut’ actually sounds like it was a fun album to make and still has high-quality production values and just enough weirdness to tempt back those fans who switched off thanks to ‘Electriclarryland’ and their bullshit lawsuit with Touch and Go.

The album can be streamed and purchased here.

Mau Maus – The Battle Scars of Human Debris

The cult UK hardcore band return with their first album in five years. Now sporting Nick Wynch (Unholy Alliance, English Dogs) on guitar, the end result is a ferociously angry record that updates the UK82 sound for the 21st century. Songs like ‘Genocide’, ‘Memento Mori’ and ‘Poppy Day’ will get moshpits going in no time.

The album can be streamed and purchased here.

Deafkids – Cicatrizes Do Futuro

Sao Palo’s Deafkids remain one of the most esoteric, forward-thinking acts of today. Focusing on rhythm as opposed to riffing, we get a suitable follow up to 2019’s ‘Metaprogramação’. Tracks like ‘Cicatrizes’ and ‘Possessao Coletiva’ are the aural equivalent of being trapped in a crumbling mental hospital: danger lurks everywhere but it’s well worth the risk.

The album can be streamed and purchased here.

Maquina – Body Transmission

Two years on from their last LP, Portugal’s Maquina return with another record that takes the drive of krautrock and the mechanical rhythms of industrial rock but have turned up the volume on the guitar amp. It takes a while to get used to but songs like ‘collapsing’ groove like a bastard while the likes of ‘bizarro’ is the sort of track that HEALTH should be making.

The album can be streamed and purchased here.

Golden Oldies


Terrorizer – Hoardes of Zombies

Pete Sandoval sounds surprisingly good for someone who couldn’t play on Morbid Angel’s disastrous “Illud Divinum Insanus” because of back trouble. Musically, it’s certainly a lot more brutal than ‘Darker Days Ahead.’ Tracks like ‘Flesh to Dust’ and ‘Evolving Era’ are particular stand outs for drumming and guitar work.


Vektor – Outer Isolation

It’s clear that the group worship Voivod (note the sci-fi influenced artwork and a logo that borders on plagiarism), but that’s no bad thing, is it? The well-timed melodic break on ‘Venus Project’ is strong evidence that they know exactly what they’re doing and there’s enough punch throughout the LP to make you realise that Vektor stand on their own.

 

Orange Goblin – A Eulogy for the Damned

On this record, Orange Goblin left the stoner tag behind them and began to aim to elevate themselves to rock elders status. While it didn’t quite succeed, this is still a riff packed album, with a thick sound and bass and guitar locking impressively. Opener ‘Red Tide Rising’ is a surprisingly full and pulsating track while ‘The Filthy And The Few’ has an 80s cock rock drive.


Laibach – Spectre

The 2008 financial crisis, European austerity crisis and reemergence of Russia as a provocative state inspired Laibach no end. Although not an album where you can pick stand out tracks, as they don’t jump out at the listener the way they should. Taken as an album, it’s an exciting and dark electro/industrial piece that urges us to take up arms and join the state of NSK.

 


⏩ Christopher Owens was a reviewer for Metal Ireland and finds time to study the history and inherent contradictions of Ireland. He is currently the TPQ Friday columnist and is the author of A Vortex of Securocrats and “dethrone god”.

Predominance 65

 

Religious Derangement Syndrome @ 9

Frankie Quinn with a poem from his expansive body of work. 

Oppression
Oppression Scream. 
Is this life a fucking dream?
My body, it’s being crushed 
Open up, take out this burning wrath 
My arms are open wide 
Give me love and fuck the pride 
I need to see and feel my face 
Not this hard stone front. 
Come give me love, 
And in return I’ll give you mine

⏩ Frankie Quinn is a former republican prisoner who is now a community activist. He is the author of Open Gates, a book of poetry.   

Oppression

Heartlands Tribune ☭ Written by Paul Knaggs.

On This Day In History . . . 
Paris 1889: The Second International’s Founding Principle

On 14 July 1889, socialist delegates from across the world gathered in Paris to form the Second International. Their principle was simple: “The worker’s struggle has no borders.” because capital crossed them too.

Modern liberals have spent decades twisting that principle into an argument for the unrestricted movement of cheap labour. They are wrong.

Ask them what internationalism means today and you will hear about open borders, labour mobility and the free movement of people as an unquestionable good. What you will rarely hear is the word that mattered most to the socialists who met in Paris: capital.

Nearly 400 delegates from around 20 countries attended the founding congress. They did not meet to abolish nations. They met to stop capital using nations, and the workers within them, as weapons against one another.

That distinction has been buried. The left has paid dearly for it.

Modern internationalism asks workers to celebrate a system in which corporations move money, factories and labour wherever wages are lowest. When that movement drives down pay and weakens unions, we are told the resulting competition is solidarity.

Continue @ Heartlands.

Internationalism Was Never About Open Borders

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