Two big days in the calender and some history for you.

Hello again and I do realise it is a few days since I last posted so I thought I had better catch up as I do not want to get too far behind. Although it was not the reason for my visit, as previously explained, I am here in the middle of what is generally known as the “marching season” which has been the cause of much contention and violence in recent decades although thankfully it seems to be relatively peaceful in the last couple of years, but I am getting slightly ahead of myself here.

Whilst I may be getting ahead of myself there is little to report as my life continued in a very regular way that will be of absolutely no interest to the reader. Daily visits to see my Father, occasional laundry, cooking for myself which I love but I confess has amounted to not much more than big “fry ups” as is my wont here and ready meals from a local supermarket. This is not something I usually do too often but I have to say that we are very well served here in Northern Ireland as there are several local companies producing such meals that are of a far higher quality than the comparable products churned out by the huge multi-nationals and sold just about everywhere in England. A couple of additional benefits are that these companies tend to use very local ingredients which are excellent and this keeps local farmers in business as well as cutting down on food miles if that is a concern for you.

On now to yesterday, Friday 12th July which is the largest of the marching days where members of the Orange Order parade to commemorate the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. If you are not too well up on Irish history, and believe me it is a fairly complex area of study, I shall attempt to give you a very brief rundown. After a falling out with the Pope in the 16th century, King Henry VIII had broken away from the Catholic church and formed his own religion, the Church of England aka Anglican church. It was effectively part of the beginning of what we now know as Protestantism.

Protestantism had mostly held sway throughout the 17th century but there were still many who would have had a Roman Catholic monarch in England (and by default Ireland as well) and it eventually came to a showdown between the Dutch Protestant Prince William of Orange (hence the Orange Order) and the Roman Catholic King James. For various reasons, this confrontation happened in Ireland rather than mainland Britain.

William had landed in Carrickfergus, quite close to Belfast, in 1689 and there had been a series of indecisive battles at Derry, Aughrim and Enniskillen. The decisive conflict was at the River Boyne, now in the Irish Republic, where William defeated James and subsequently ascended the throne of England. This is seen as being the beginning of a Protestant monarchy in what is now the United Kingdom where Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is not only Sovereign but also the titular head of the Anglican Church. To this day all British coinage carries the legend “ELIZABETH II DEI GRATIA REGINA FIDEI DEFENSATRIX, meaning “Elizabeth II, by the grace of God, Queen and Defender of the Faith” reflecting her position in relation to the official religion of the country.

The 12th of July is a very big deal in Northern Ireland to the extent that it is a Bank (public) holiday. There are a number of parades all over the country with Orangemen marching, all wearing their sashes to denote their membership of the Order and accompanied by bands and a specific type of drummer of whom more in a moment. The largest parade is in Belfast as you might expect and then each county has it’s own parade. Whilst the Belfast route is the same every year, in the counties the location rotates round the various Districts of the Lodges in the County. In Co. Armagh, which is where Tandragee is, the rotation is an 11 year cycle and this year it happened to be in the town so I didn’t have to go far to see the festivities. It took me my usual 15 minutes to walk to my local, the Montagu Arms, which had very helpfully opened early so I took myself there, grabbed a seat at the bar with a couple of friends and awaited the parade which was going right past the door.

One of the bands which did rather catch the eye and was the subject of much subsequent discussion was Latery Fife and Drum LOL #222. who were all attired in tweed flat caps. I do not know if this is a tradition of theirs or if it is a nod to a massively popular UK television drama series called “Peaky Blinders” which, for the benefit of people who do not have access to it, is about a criminal gang in the English Midlands in the interwar period. The rather unusual title derives from the fact that they sewed razor blades into the peaks of their flat caps which they then used in fights to slash opponents across the bridge of the nose and eyes thereby blinding them – charming! I am quite sure Latery only have them as a fashion statement.

I was surprised how quiet the bar was initially as they had lot of extra staff on, they had constructed a beer garden complete with mobile bar in the back carpark and my mate Scoot was running a burger / hotdog stall in the archway beside the bar. I need not have worried with the place soon filling up as the parade approached and the first part of the parade began.

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The local Lodges assemble at the War Memorial at the top of the town (I shall provide a full history of the Memorial in due course) and then they do a circuit of the town before returning to the top to “greet” the visiting Districts. The other Districts had previously assembled in a field a little way out of town and then processed into the town before going all the way to the bottom end (Tandragee stands on a hill) and the to “the Field” where there is a religious service and a few speeches before everyone processes back up the hill. At the top of the town the local Lodges disperse to their Lodge buildings and the visitors return to the assembly field before being bussed back to their respective towns and villages.

It was a great family day out and I was surprised by the very light police presence, at least overt police presence although I was told by friends that there were plenty of plain clothes officers about the place, everybody knows all the local cops in Northern Ireland as it is such a small place. When I left Northern Ireland in 1988 the 12th was one of the major policing operations of the year with all police leave cancelled and a huge Army backup in support. Yesterday, in what was the second biggest parade after Belfast I saw four officers on traffic duty at the top of the town, one motor cyclist at the conclusion of the march and another two pedalling slowly on bicycles in the middle of the parade which struck me as an eminently sensible method of policing. The Ambulance Service had the same idea and there were two paramedics on bicycles as well. The only problem I could see with it was that pedalling that slow they were all having difficulty staying upright! Have a look at the photo.

It is perhaps no surprise that the Armagh parade is always so big as it was in this County that the Orange Order started in 1795 in the cottage of one Dan Winter at the Diamond just outside Loughgall which is about seven or eight miles away from where I am writing this and where Loyal Orange Lodge (LOL) #1 was formed. All Lodges have numbers and names and I was chatting to a guy yesterday from LOL #3 which is obviously a fairly early Lodge.

The Orange Order is easily the largest of the Protestant fraternal groups but they are not the only one. There is also the Royal Black Preceptory (RBP) which was formed two years after the Orange Order in 1797 and is generally regarded as being the more exclusive “senior” arm of the whole grouping. To quote from their XXX attached website they were formed “with its foundations based firmly on scriptural truths and the propagation of the Christian Reformed Faith”.

They were parading today in Tandragee although I did not go to see it prior to everyone decamping to Scarva, which is about three miles distant, for another annual tradition called the “Sham Fight” which takes place every 13th of July. People dress up in costume to re-enact the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 and it is always massively attended even though the weather is anything but summery today. Overcast and not too warm would best describe it. I am not a huge fan of large crowds, less still a six mile round trip walk with the very real possibility of rain. The RBP hold their main marches on the last Saturday of August.

I have mentioned the two major Orders but there is yet another one known as the Apprentice Boys of Derry, a somewhat odd name which probably needs a bit of explanation and so here it is.

I know there is considerable contention about the name of the second city of Northern Ireland as in Londonderry / Derry (or even Doire in the Gaelic) but in the days to which this story refers it was known in English as Derry before the London prefix appeared. In 1688 at the beginning of the Williamite wars the city was strategically important and was walled for purposes of defence and, indeed, the walls are still in good order and walkable for the full distance. A Catholic Jacobite force tried to attack the city by way of a surprise attack on the 7th of December of that year and very nearly succeeded but for the actions of a group of 13 apprentice boys who charged down to the gate and barred it just ahead of the invaders. Tere were subsequent attacks including one where James himself appeared and was commanded by French officers.

The initial attack had been thwarted but there then ensued a 105 day long siege from 18th April to 1st August 1689 which led to appalling starvation and death. Rats were changing hands for huge amounts of money as sources of food. To prevent any sort of relief force sailing up the River Foyle the besiegers erected a boom across the river a couple of miles downstream. As a child (I lived there until I was 11) I remember playing with my younger brother and local friends round the remains of an old semi-derelict manor house which probably wasn’t the safest thing to be doing as it was just about falling down even back then in the 1960’s. The name of this crumbling edifice was Boom Hall as it was where the boom had been sited. Today, Boom Hall is long gone and the whole grounds are now a rather salubrious housing development. Eventually the siege was relieved without the town capitulating and the event is commemorated every August with the Apprentice Boys parade through the city. Of all the various parades in the “marching season” this one probably has the greatest potential for violence as the Cityside (as opposed to the Waterside across the river) is predominantly Roman Catholic / Nationalist / Republican and the route goes very close to some extremely hardcore Republican areas. I suspect the PSNI (local police) will not get away with two bicycles, one motorcycle and a few foot officers on traffic point for that one.

 

I realise that anyone writing about Irish history and politics, specifically those of Northern Ireland, runs the risk of allegations of bias one way or another and so I have been at great pains to be as objective as possible. I do hope I have succeeded as the last thing Northern Ireland needs is more rubbish talked about it.

There are a couple of other things to mention in relation to the images you can see here and the first is the banners. Nearly every Lodge has a large banner of the type you can see which will have generally have the LOL number, Lodge name and two artworks on front and back. Some of the smaller Lodges make do with a smaller bannerette but that is not usual. The banners range from religious scenes to historical events to depictions of the people for whom memorial Lodges are named. In this category I noticed Stronge Memorial a lodge named for Sir Norman Stronge who was murdered along with his son by the IRA in 1981 at his home in Tynan Abbey in Co. Armagh. I worked for a while in nearby Caledon and revisited Tynan a few years ago with my Canadian friend Lynne.  I wrote a piece for the Virtual Tourist website at the time and I shall reproduce part of it here to explain about Sir Norman.

“Although I had lived in Northern Ireland all my life I don’t believe I had ever even heard of Tynan until an event in January 1981 which, even by the standards of a country that had witnessed so much brutality in the previous 12 years, shocked most people and it is this incident that people probably most associate with the place.

On that date, eight heavily armed IRA terrorists attacked Tynan Abbey, murdered Sir Norman Stronge and his son James. Sir Norman was 86, a decorated veteran of both World Wars, having fought in the Battle of the Somme in the First before pursuing a career in politics where he rose to be Speaker of the Northern Ireland House of Commons. James, his 48 year old son was also a retired Army officer who had taken up politics on leaving the Forces and actually succeeded his Father as Speaker when the former retired due to ill-health. He was also a part-time volunteer RUC (police) officer. After murdering the occupants the terrorists fire-bombed the 230 year old building leaving it irreparable. It eventually had to be demolished on safety grounds in the late 1990’s”.  Interestingly, the IRA Active Service Unit (ASU) who perpetrated this atrocity, led by a mass murderer called James Lynagh were effectively wiped out in a joint SAS / RUC operation in 1987 in nearby Loughgall as they set out to perform another act of mass murder.

 

Regarding the banners of historical events, one which particularly caught my eye was the “Drowning of the Protestants” in the River Bann in nearby Portadown in November 1641 during the Irish Rebellion of that year. It was fairly graphic with naked women standing waist deep in water and protecting their modesty with their arms whilst surrounded by leering armed men. Whilst it is a representation of an actual historical event, it is hardly likely to engender cordial community relations.

 

Basically what happened was that the “plantation” of Ireland had begun in the very early 17th century whereby Protestant English and Scots were given grants of land, predominantly in the North of the island. This created much resentment amongst the indigenous population and there were many instances of armed Irish rounding up “planters” and marching them to boats on the coast to be forcibly repatriated to mainland Britain. One of these “roundups” happened in Co. Armagh and the prospective deportees were imprisoned overnight in a church in Loughgall which set me to thinking how many momentous events have occurred in what is still little more than a village there over centuries and right up into my lifetime.

The next day the prisoners were marched out and it became clear that there was no intention to repatriate them. At the River Bann they were stripped and herded into the water. I can personally attest to how brutally cold an Ulster November can be and most perished by drowning or exposure with those that remarkably did not immediately perish being dispatched by musket fire. It is now believed that approximately 1,250 Protestants were murdered in Co. Armagh, just another sorry episode in the history of this part of the world which never seems to end.

 

Speaking of cordial relations as I was above before my dissertation on the massacre, I should note that my local is a mixed bar and whilst there is some good-humoured banter loosely regarding religion and politics, it never gets nasty and several of my Roman Catholic friends, at least one of whom I know is very Nationalist minded although not violently so, were in and happily drinking with men in suits who had obviously been marching.  Orangemen are not allowed to wear their sashes in places serving alcohol and there are even temperance lodges although I think this is merely nominal nowadays but it was obvious who they were, most of them were locals in the bar anyway. Even as the night wore on and with a considerable amount of drink consumed everything remained very convivial which is exactly as it should be.  Would that it had always been thus.

The second thing of note are the large bass drums played with long pliable malacca sticks and are generically known as “Lambeg drums” after the village of Lambeg in Co. Antrim, perhaps 25 miles away from here. I have also heard them referred to as Killyman Wreckers for the townland of that name near Dungannon which straddles the Armagh / Tyrone border. They do not accompany bands as would a standard bass drum but beat out unusual rhythms unaccompanied.  Part of the reason for this is that they are, along with bagpipes, one of the loudest acoustic instruments on the planet and can easily reach volumes of 120db thereby effectively drowning out completely the melodic instruments they are meant to be accompanying.

 

During the summer months there are often drumming competitions in various towns and villages across Northern Ireland. These consist of a number of drummers standing about in a circle and are not so much a musical contest as an endurance test. The drummers batter away until they drop out and last man (it is always men) standing is the winner, a process which can literally go on for hours. I have personally lifted one of the drums off the ground and they are very heavy so it really is a tough business as the drum is generally held in place by a single leather strap around the neck. As you can see from one of the images, they do start them young and you will sometimes see quite young lads drumming pretty competently on appropriately downsized drums.

 

Whenever I work out how to do it I shall post a collage of the several film clips I took of the event on Youtube and post a link here as it will give a much better general idea of what the whole event is about than any amount of my prose.

 

After the parade had been and gone, I retired to the bar to avail myself of the internet and have a couple of pints but the early start meant that I was just about exhausted and was home and in bed shortly after 2200 which is ludicrously early for me but it did have the knockon effect of causing me to rise at the equally ludicrous hour of 0600, oh dear. A few hours, a bit of offline writing of this piece and a breakfast and it was time for a rather early version of my customary afternoon dozette. I should point out a couple of things here in relation to this, a) I took breakfast which is a thing I rarely do and b) despite the Montagu being open I am writing this at home at 1740 having consumed  nothing stronger than green tea and coffee all day. I must be getting sensible in my old age but I am considering a move imminently so I will hopefully get this posted when I get down to the pub this evening. There will be live music and it is generally good fun.

 

I have another ten days here and in the meantime I shall content myself with trying to get my Malta series finished, a situation that actually looks vaguely possible now.  There will obviously be other things to report on from this trip so stay tuned and spread the word.

The image tells you everything.

 

 

IMG_7364.JPGOK, OK I know, it has been a while and quite a long while in fact since I posted anything here on the contemporary entries although I have been posting certain historical posts regarding a 2013 trip to Malta which you can read about here. Again, I like to be honest in my reporting here and I must admit that even this has tailed off recently. I fully appreciate that this is no big deal as I have such a limited readership but to those who do keep up with my meagre scribblings I apologise.

In my last entry I mentioned that I was going to try to get to Sri Lanka last November to see my friend and catch some of the cricket series with England as the visitors. For reasons far too mundane to bore you with, that did not happen and the date got pushed back to Xmas, then the New Year and still awaits although it is the wrong time of year to visit now so that looks like another few months before that may become reality.

Unusually for an inveterate traveller like me I had been nowhere since last November until last weekend when I returned to Northern Ireland and hence the slightly odd title of this entry and accompanying image. Those of you who have read my previous entries will know that when I am in the Province I stay in my Father’s house in Tandragee, Co. Armagh and tend to have a daily “Ulster Fry” which is near enough the national dish and which I love. I hope I do not sound conceited but I reckon I make a fairly reasonable version a “fry up” and I have not poisoned anyone with my cooking yet to the best of my knowledge. The offering pictured above is from Sunday, 7th July and it was very tasty if I do say so myself.

So what am I doing back home in the land of my birth? A couple of reasons actually. I had been invited to my cousin’s wedding (of which more in a moment) and also I wanted to come home to see my Father who sadly had a bit of a tumble a while ago and spent some time in hospital with a broken leg which has now thankfully healed nicely but he is still not able to look after himself at home and is in a nursing home at present and so I had decided to spend a few weeks at home. Here is a quick precis of what has happened so far.

I left home on Friday, 28th June to make it to the wedding on the Saturday. As is my wont I had decided to go train and ferry via Holyhead and Dublin which would have got me home at about 2200 that evening and I knew my brother and sister-in-law would give me a lift to the wedding the next day. Those who have followed this blog from the beginning will know that last year the ferry company let me down badly by sailing 90 minutes late which caused me to miss the last train to Northern Ireland from Dublin and led to an enforced night in the Irish capital after having trudged round several establishments trying to find a bed. I must be jinxed on this route now although this time the railway / ferry company were not to blame but rather a taxi firm which I have been using for over 30 years with excellent results. I really did not fancy lugging a suitcase on the Tube (Underground / Metro) and so I had ordered a minicab in plenty of time to get me to Euston for a train which would be the first leg of a journey getting me back to Tandragee that night.

The appointed hour arrived and no sign of the minicab. I told you I must be jinxed on this route and I must be as my mobile (cell) ‘phone had died and, indeed, I have had to replace it now so I could not call the cab office. I left it for a while and then bit the bullet and dragged my kit up to the cab office where they denied any knowledge of my booking which is very unusual as thy have never failed me before. I was still in good time and asked if they could get me a cab then but “no can do” and it would be up to a couple of hours as they were busy with contract jobs and were short-staffed. They told me I would be quicker getting the Tube which I did, arriving at Euston in time to narrowly miss my train. That train was my last chance to get back to Northern Ireland that night and it was now rattling North through Watford Junction with me standing on the concourse in London. Brilliant but not disastrous as I knew I would have to spend the night in Dublin but I could get an early train to Belfast and go straight to the wedding, luggage and all.

The journey was totally uneventful and, despite my logistical problems I still prefer this to the hassle of flying short haul nowadays. I got as far as Dublin and headed straight for the hostel I had stayed in last year which is near Connolly Station where I would depart from and which I had found perfectly comfortable on my previous visit. It is called Jacob’s Inn and you can check it out here.  I was a little concerned about the availability of beds as it was the day before the Dublin Pride march and I knew that large crowds were expected. I had no problem thankfully and I scored a “pod” (for which read coffin) in a 10 person room which cost me over €40. I honestly believe that Dublin is far more expensive than London which is historically supposed to be one of the dearest cities in the world. I didn’t sleep much but that is just down to my slightly crazy sleep patterns and nothing to do with the surroundings.

Come the Saturday morning and I was up early, scrubbed and dressed in my finery and in good time for the Enterprise train to Belfast where I arrived several hours before the festivities were due to begin. It was way too early to go to the hotel where the wedding was scheduled for 1500 so I mooched about drinking coffee and checking e-mails before grabbing a cab to the venue for about 1300. I went to the reception, named my cousin the groom and asked where the ceremony would be. She gave me directions to a suite and I said I would wait in the bar where I unusually only had a soft drink as I didn’t really feel like a pint, strange times indeed! About ten minutes later, another lady from the reception desk approached me and asked me if I was there for the X wedding to which I replied in the affirmative. Looking slightly embarrassed she dropped the bombshell that it had been the previous day! What? I pulled the invite out of my pocket and indeed it had been on the Friday. I still do not realise how the lady on the reception had made the same mistake as me and not spotted that the wedding had been and gone. How I had managed to do this I have no idea as I must have looked at the thing dozens of times but I had presumably established some mental block and was aiming all along for the Saturday.

It was a strange sensation, a mixture of feeling extremely stupid, very regretful I had missed the event and slightly terrified of my Aunt’s reaction after I had promised her faithfully I would be there “come Hell or high water” to use the exact phrase I used in my reply to her e-mail. The gates of Hell had not opened, there was no Biblical flood and it was merely my total stupidity that had tripped me up. I felt awful but was cheered up slightly when I was approached by a middle aged man who introduced himself as the father of the bride and was charm itself and not in the least reproachful about my “no show”. I was later to discover that he is a minister of religion and had actually conducted the wedding service himself. He took his leave and I was not feeling quite so bad when I was approached by my cousin who I took a moment to recognise as I have not seen him for many, many years. With him was his new bride, an utterly charming young lady whom I had never met before and a young girl who is her daughter from a previous relationship. The child was terribly well behaved and polite and we got on like a house on fire. There is also apparently a younger child but I did not get to meet him. It is a source of constant amazement to me that people tell me I am really good with children and I suspect that it is a fair assessment although I cannot for the life of me work out why as I have no offspring of my own. Perhaps they sense a similar type of mind, who knows?

We chatted away for a while and they were most graceful about my failure to appear, correctly ascribing it to the genuine error it was. I would hardly have turned up in all my finery a day late had I just wanted to avoid the entire event. At least I had the opportunity to give them my gift which was much better than having to post it. I still had to face the potential wrath of my Aunt but at least the main protagonists did not seem to bear a grudge towards me. There was not much point in me staying there any longer so I made my way back to Tandragee and went to my brother’s house but he was not in so I went to my Dad’s, let myself in, got changed into some half sensible clothes and settled down for the evening.

What happened next was that life quickly moved into a very quiet and domesticated routine that actually suits me very well as it did last year. For some reason, I manage to sleep at vaguely civilised hours and I eat much more regularly than I do in my own place. I have no explanation for this but it seems to be a fact. Every day my brother and sister-in-law pick me up in the afternoon and we go to the Nursing Home to visit Father. The weather has been normal Northern Ireland standard i.e. rubbish and not at all like the unseasonal but very welcome heatwave I enjoyed at this time last year but Sunday was a reasonable day between the showers and we took Father for a walk in the fresh air in his wheelchair to the end of the drive (the Nursing Home was formerly a large country mansion complete with mews) to see the horse which is there. Sadly you can no longer feed the animal as it has laminitis and is on limited grass but my Father seemed to enjoy petting him as he was quite a good horseman in his younger days.

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I realise it will be of very limited interest to most readers but I am back to my earlier principle that this is as much for my remembrance as it is hopefully a valid travel entity and so you will see above (l. to r.) your humble narrator, my new best friend the very placid horse, my Father and my younger brother. Thanks to my sister-in-law for doing the needfuls with the camera.

Other than these daily excursions I have done very little and have not even been going to the pub which is my usual habit when at home. Those that know me well will find the next statement surprising to say the least but I didn’t have a drink for over a week and one packet of cigarettes lasted me four days, both of which are unheard of situations. I popped into my local pub on Saturday for two reasons. Firstly, I wanted to catch up with my friends round the town, having been home for a week and not spoken to any of them and also because I have no internet at home and need to go to the wonderful Montague Arms to do what I need to do, including posting this. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Other than that I had a quick run into Portadown and a couple of hours in Armagh, both of which were quick trips down memory lane as I had lived in both places many years ago.

The day I went to Portadown, I had arranged to meet my brother at the train station as he was collecting my Auntie (mother of the groom at the missed wedding) to take her down to see my Father. I was dreading it but I need not have worried. My Aunt appeared with her friend in tow who she grew up with in the ’50’s and who has lived in Canada for decades, returning for one of her infrequent visits. Again I was reduced to grovelling apology for my total stupidity but I need not have worried. I have no idea why but I suspect I have always been a bit of a favourite of this particular Auntie and she seemed rather more concerned that I had missed out on what was by all accounts a great day rather than castigating me for my absence. Phew!

I think that is me fairly well up to date here now so what does the immediate future hold for me and this site? The simple truth is that I do not know. Being at home undoubtedly does me good and I do actually enjoy it here albeit I do nothing of note except my daily visits to visit my Father. I have a dental appointment in London towards the end of the month which I can alter but the big kicker in the whole affair is the Broadstairs Folk Week (BFW) which I have played for 29 of the last 30 years, only missing 2016 as I was travelling and playing occasionally in Canada. Eventually, this will form the basis of another travelogue when I ever get round to it but I have ruled myself out of being formally booked now for that gig as my fairly unconventional lifestyle means I am never sure where I might be come the second week in August.

I really should explain the situation regarding my position with BFW as it may appear a little confusing. Over the 30 year period mentioned I have attended in various guises from roadie through troubadour (one man and his guitar) to duos, trios and full bands. I will bore you some other time about me sitting in a bar 40 minutes before a gig making ‘phone calls to try to find someone to play with me or being dragged (physically by the arm!) by the Artistic Director to play a gig when I had never even met my fellow musician before to cover a band who had broken down on the motorway. Tony Brown, take a bow here.

I suspect that this is why they tolerate me as I am certainly no great shakes as a musician but I would like to think I am a fairly steady accompanist and can manage to follow most things even if I have not heard them. In one very “honest debrief” the aforementioned Artistic Director (now retired after 18 years of very hard work) I asked her why the Hell she ever booked me as I personally knew at least a dozen guitar / vocal “sidemen” that were far better than me. Kim looked me straight in the eye which was only possible as we were both sitting as I am 6’5″ and she is about 5’4″ and said, in all sincerity, “I like having you round Fergy as I know you are always here, I can get the crew to find you by trawling the pubs and I know you’ll just step in and do anything. I have any amount of brilliant musicians here (she did book some great acts) and you are not one of them (I told you it was an honest debrief) but you are my insurance policy. You are a showman and you’ll either do it yourself or get someone with you because you know everybody. I know when you are here, I’m covered”. The reader might consider this to be somewhat of a backhanded compliment but it is absolutely true and I was so chuffed when she said it. It was one of the nicest htings anyone has ever said to me.

My main thing at BFW however, when not playing my own gigs is the daily playaround currently being held in fantastic George pub, a mere 120 yards door to door from where I stay with my friends which is handy. For those of you not aware of the nuances of the folk music world and, let’s be honest in saying that, for most people it ranks somewhere between alchemy and necromancy a playaround is an open music session where anyone of any musical ability can turn up and join in and I love them. Singarounds are the same for songs rather than tunes. For playarounds there are usually one or more “leaders” to keep the thing from degenerating into mayhem which it can do. The leader goes round the room in order and calls upon everyone to “lead” a tune although there is no stigma attached if you do not feel confident enough, the baton passes to the next player. I’ll tell you about the specifics of the BFW playaround now.

Any good playaround depends completely upon a good “leader” and in Paul Lucas we have one of the best in the business. I have been playing with the guy for 30 years now and he is a genius. He plays banjo (very occasionally other instruments) and has a great singing voice. He has a repertiore of songs and tunes that must easily reach four figures and can follow just about anything he has never even heard before. They guy was well-established through his lovely wife Sue who had something to do with organising the Folk Week in times that mostof the current crop of artists would consider to be pre-history but we have had some wonderful sessions over the years. When we are finished there, he normally has something else set up for the afternoon, quite often in the excellent 39 Steps micropub where we are not even officially booked but we drag a few mates up and play and they look after us very well there. That is the joy of what we do, we just hang out and play and, thankfully, people seem to enjoy it.

The other main featrure of the BFW playaround is that one of the booked “proper” artists turns up every day as advertised in the programme and sits at Paul’s left side, I have possibly ridiculously done it myself in my heyday there. Last year (2018) for some reason the Thursday was still TBC (to be confirmed) and Paul asked me if I’d cover it. Of course I would and be happy to do so and so for that day I had to shift seats to Paul’s left side and do effectively what I had been doing on his right side all week although my newly conferred status as “booked guest” (albeit I was not even on the programme anywhere else) meant that I had to sing a couple of songs. Whilst it is very predominantly tunes, “booked guests” like me who are primarily accompanists are allowed to sing so I knocked out a few of my old standards which seemed to go down well.

Oh dear, it has happened again. I only intended a brief diversion into why I might be going back to mainland UK and ended up in a dissertation about the organisation and musical etiquette of Folk Festivals. I do hope I have not bored the reader too much. It is getting about time I was getting back home to make my dinner as I do not want to sit here all night drinking can you believe I just said that?). I’ll get this posted now with appropriate links hopefully and do a bit more offline tonight in relation to my Malta trip although I am totally reliant on having properly researched it all first time around but I shall still check all the links etc.

One way or another it seems like I shall be going back to mainland UK in a couple of weeks to start another little adventure, it has been far too long and I miss being on the road.

There is much more to come and I have a little time to write it up now, albeit under internet zero conditions but I’ll try to get my Malta trip finished asap so stay tuned and spread the word.

Same old, same old.

There are going to be a few days rolled into one here, as appears to be turning into a habit on my little site as, barring a day out in Belfast, mot much of note happened before I returned “home” to London on 10th August and which begged the question was I leaving “home” or going “home”. The facts of the matter are that I lived in Northern Ireland for the first 28 years of my life and have now lived in London (when I am not on my seemingly endless travels) in London for 30 now. As always, any comments would be most welcome on the subject of what you define as home?

I was helping to look after my Dad a little although his care programme, between some wonderful carers who attend him at home, and my brother and sister-in-law who live about 500 yards round the corner ensure that there is nothing to worry about on that score. I was just doing some little tasks and trying to help out where I could. In truth, I think he enjoyed the company, and I know for a fact that he was well pleased on one day when my S-i-L had arranged not to cook for him (she is a brilliant cook) and I knocked him up an Ulster Fry, the dish which has featured so much in this series of blogs and which he declared to be very tasty so that was good enough for me.

I had fallen into a bit of a routine which, on the evidence or previous visits home, had the potential to bore me to tears and yet it didn’t. I was quite happy pottering about the house during the day, taking the odd day trip to Portadown or once to Belfast for reasons which shall be explained later, going to the local pub in the evening for a few drinks with friends and jamming occasionally. I was eating regularly (as the images show and which is not necessarily the case at other times) and reading a lot of good books (my Dad has no internet access). Leaving aside my Father’s health for a moment, it appeared to be doing mine a power of good.

I do realise that this is all a bit heavy reading for the occasional visitor to the site who does not know me, and let’s be honest, I have a meagre bunch of followers here who I thank for their support but, as I said in one of my opening pieces here, this is my last shot at blogging. I am not going to risk another commercial site being pulled from under me and so this is, at times, going to be pretty brutally honest. At some point this site, such as it is and may eventually become, will eventually float about the ether and provide my epitaph to some degree. At least hopefully you’ll be able to read it online as a diary of mine would be totally illegible due to my utterly appalling handwriting!

Yes, this started off as a travel orientated site and it remains so although not exclusively. For the first time I have complete editorial control albeit I still cannot free myself of the mindset of travel sites but I am getting there. I have all sorts of odd ideas like daily limericks and who knows what else.

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Proper cheese on toast, Tandragee style.

So back to Northern Ireland on what had turned out, yet again in my case (a very small case as it happens) on what was intended to be a five or six day trip and I was two months down the road. If you have read some of my other exploits and if you read any of the many that are still to come then you will know that this is the way I am and, frankly, it suits me. My idea of travel Hell would be an organised trip as in breakfast at 0730 sharp, on the coach at 0800 sharp, famous museum at 0900 sharp, you get the idea.

I might as well start with one of my usual subjects i.e. the fry-up or ( often not so) healthy alternatives to it. The image above shows a little variant which is probably marginally less unhealthy than the Ulster Fry which has featured so prominently here. Let’s be honest, everyone loves cheese on toast but I love making it with soda bread. The effort pictured above features the said bread, Branston pickle, and a decent Red Leicester cheese I had picked up on offer at the little local supermarket. A quick crack of freshly ground pepper completes the dish. Again, I will digress here so I warn you in advance.

I am all in favour of a bargain in my food shopping and hunt out special offers in the same way I will go to a fresh produce market late in the day as they are virtually giving the stuff away. Also, I will mostly buy “own brands” from supermarkets for many things as they are every bit as good and often produced in the same factories as name brands but there are a few things I will not compromise on. Pickle of that type has to be Branston, English mustard has to be Colman’s and Worcestershire sauce has to be Lea & Perrins. Just about anything else is negotiable but these are not. Certainly there are a thousand other pickles and chutnies available and some of them very good, but this type has to be Branston.

I will certainly buy other styles of mustard (you can read in my European jaunt of 2017 on this site of how I went to Dijon in France purely to buy mustard for a foodie mate) but there is only one English mustard although the multinational Unilever, apart from their failed bit to Eurify to a single base in Rotterdam recently in September 2018 are moving from Norwich, it’s original home to two sites in Burton (Staffordshire, UK) and Germany. No surprise there and I wonder how that will play out when, or if, given the spineless nature of our alleged leaders, we eventually actually escape the mendacious clutches of the Federal States of E.
As for The Worcestershire sauce (which my Canadian friends call “W” sauce as they cannot get their tongues round the pronunciation, which admittedly is odd. I doubt I could cook without it (not that I can really cook anyway) to the extent that when I go to visit my friend in Sri Lanka I take a bottle of it with me as it costs a fortune when imported there for the expats. As a further digression off a digression, if such a thing be possible, why are there two pronunciations of the word pronunciation? Answers on a postcard please, as they say!

How can I write so much about a couple of pieces of cheese on toast? Very easily actually and I have just edited the above paragraph fairly seriously before I took off into a further digression about the origins of these fine British firms. Then again, I do have to keep reminding myself that this is MY site and I can do what I like.
I know opinion is very much divided about my writing style, if it can be called that, but on other commercial sites I have written for before more people seemed to like it than disliked it. In truth, I can only write in one style although I am trying to rein myself in a little bit. Being naturally inquisitive (for which read nosy if you like) I simply have to research everything I mention even tangentially in a blog entry and then include it in whatever I am writing. I reckon I’d have made a Hell of an intelligence officer in some field or another.

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What, no fry again?

Right, back to the narrative. That was brekkie on the 2nd of August, and the 3rd was equally subdued with a toasted sandwich and some tomato soup for the morning meal. What was I thinking?

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That’s better.

Thankfully, normal service appears to have resumed on the 4th as you can see above. A friend of mine who is a real foodie speaks of “food porn” which I used to scoff at a little but I reckon this is full on XXX rated. I am actually salivating now just looking at this image even if I did cook it myself. I swear this is turning into an Ulster Fry site!

I’ve rambled enough here so I’ll break off for another entry where I finally get back to Belfast so stay tuned and spread the word.

Time to catch up.

For those few of you that may have been following my little excursion back to the place of my birth I thank you and I do realise that it is getting on for three weeks since I posted here. As we have now entered another new month I thought I had better bring you up to date a bit once I have finished wondering where this year has gone to. Like so many clichés the old one about time moving quicker as you get older does indeed have a basis in truth and I really have no idea how the last seven months have slipped by.

I am still in Northern Ireland and enjoying myself although doing nothing worth writing about which is the first reason for the long absence here. I have not been at all idle on the blog front though despite my very limited internet access as I have been concentrating on constructing pages about my rather crazy ramble about Europe last year and have been quite pleased with my progress although it is time-consuming. The only way I can hope to keep myself vaguely organised here is to back publish entries to the dates to which they refer which means that you may not have seen them as they are buried away at the bottom of the homepage. If you would like to have a look you can click on the link here and see what you think. Believe me, it was a pretty mad journey one way and another.

There are a few bits and pieces for me to share with you and I shall start with the World Cup which was in full swing the last time I posted in this section. Despite the increasing hype in the British media football didn’t “come home” as England did very well but eventually fell short losing to Croatia in the semis. They are a young side who should get much better especially if manager Gareth Southgate remains in charge as he seems to know how to get the best out of them. They certainly did not disgrace themselves by getting to the semis.

When I saw the way the semis had worked out I actually managed to predict what would happen although in truth it was not too difficult. The fixtures were France vs. Belgium and England vs. Croatia and I said that either team in the first match would beat either in the second and so it was to prove. France beat Belgium and then an ageing Croatian side who are probably just about over as a group defeated the considerably younger English team.

In the game that I never see the point of i.e. the third and fourth place playoff a very decent Belgian team saw off England fairly comfortably. I didn’t think England looked that good in the game.

On to the Sunday and the Final and naturally, with the odd things that happen to me something a little strange took place. I was going to the pub quite early as I knew it would be crowded for the game and I wanted to get a seat. I popped into my local supermarket and saw a middle-aged guy wearing a Croatian football (soccer) shirt accompanied by a teenage lad who was almost as tall as me. I know that number of Eastern Europeans have moved into the village of late but I had not heard of any Croatians and I was intrigued as they seemed to be poring over a computer printout of a map with the young lad who works in the shop.

All soon became clear and it transpired they were a Father and son, the Father indeed being Croatian but they were now resident in the USA where they had flown from into Dublin airport that morning. They were heading for Limavady in the Northwest of the country as the son was playing in a large international youth football competition in that area. Almost unbelievably, the shop assistant did not know where it was which surprised me as Northern Ireland is such a small place and Limavady is a comparatively large town. How they had managed to deviate off the A1 and ended up in Tandragee is something of a mystery to me but here they were and in a bit of a bind as their hire car had no satnav and the guy could not get his American mobile (cell) ‘phone to work here. I told them the place was the best part of two hours drive and had formulated a route for them but when I told them that they would be struggling to get there in time for kickoff they asked if there was somewhere local that they could watch the game. No better man to ask and I told them to come with me for the 100 yard walk to the Montagu Arms of which I have spoken often.

In I walked with the two Croatians and announced to the assembled company that as it was the biggest day in Croatian footballing history I had arranged a couple of my own fans to help interpret the finer details of their team. Utter nonsense of course but my mates looked incredulous until the situation was explained and I bought the guys a drink (Cokes all round for them), introduced them and we all began to chat. As you probably know by now I am a great believer in the “interconnectedness of all things” as the late Douglas Adams so wonderfully termed it and also “what goes round comes round” as they say. Some years ago I had been in Zagreb during a major football tournament and I was staying in an obscure local area as usual. It was my practice every evening to go to a particular little locals bar to watch the games and I was treated brilliantly despite not a single word of a common language and here was I returning the favour to a couple of Croatians all these years later.

There still remained the problem of getting them to their ultimate destination after the match and fortunately my mate Ritchie was on hand. When Ritchie is not entertaining people with one of his selection of excellent guitars he is by trade a lorry driver and knows every road in the country. I had picked my route not because it was the shortest but because I thought it was the simplest involving mostly motorway driving but Ritchie came up with a shorter and apparently equally simple alternative which he managed to get printed off on the bar computer and explained in detail to our new Croatian friend who seemed well pleased.

When we are not slaughtering each other the people of Northern Ireland are the friendliest you will ever hope to meet and I am hope the man and his son will take home happy memories of their brief unplanned stop in a tiny village they had undoubtedly never heard of. What are the odds of such a thing happening? If I had been five minutes earlier I would never have run into those lovely people but, as the late Terry Pratchett once very intelligently remarked, “Million to one chances happen nine times out of 10”!

Whilst they may have been happy with the hospitality the result of the game was less to their liking with their home nation going down to a very talented French side who had played some stunning football throughout. Still, for a nation of a shade over four million people they had done remarkably well. For those of you who do not love “the beautiful game” that is the end of that although the domestic season is merely days away now.

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An unusual departure for me.

My other two staples of blog entries are breakfast and the weather so I’ll do breakfast first and it rarely changes although, in an unusual departure it was bacon sarnies (Brit slang for sandwiches), orange juice and coffee today which is not usual but I do like a bacon buttie (more Brit slang) now and again. I have posted photographic evidence of same here! I did hear once that the majority of vegetarians who go back to being carnivores do so because they want to eat bacon. This was borne out as one of my Father’s carers came round when I was “slaving over a hot stove” and the incomparable smell of bacon wafting about the kitchen. She told me that although she had eaten recently that her mouth was watering with the smell. I genuinely feel sorry for those that for religious or dietary reasons cannot enjoy this quintessentially British item that has kept armies of builders and the like going since time immemorial.

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Hard to beat.

Other than that it has been fries all the way so I’ll include another image here of one of my better efforts. This really is causing my poor Father some bemusement as he regularly sees me photographing whatever I am about to eat and, on the odd occasions my sister-in-law does not cook for him, what I have prepared to eat for him. I suppose he has a point but I reckon I shall have enough for a decent gallery of “Fry-ups of Northern Ireland” when this little jaunt comes to an end. I promise to post a warning at the top of it so you can pass quickly on if you do not want to induce a heart attack at the mere sight of my cholesterol-laden offerings.

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Normal Northern Ireland weather service is resumed.

The third part of my unholy triumvirate of topics here is the weather, that perennial staple of conversation here, and I really do not know where to start. I have been telling you about the record-breaking heatwave we had been having but, with it being Northern Ireland, that didn’t last. We had been hearing horror stories on the TV news from farmers (are they ever happy) that there would be no carrots for Xmas dinner as the crops were failing, we had a hosepipe ban and so on and everyone was praying for rain. Be careful what you wish for as last weekend not ten miles from here in Lurgan there were homes and businesses destroyed by flash floods. Today was absolutely awful with rain all day being driven by a blustery and none too warm wind.

In due course I shall get round to writing a series of entries here about my wonderful trip to Sri Lanka earlier this year where I had enjoyed 30 degree temperatures every day and watched TV images of Western Europe gripped by blizzards and battered by Atlantic storms. Six months later and we are having a heatwave and flooding in the space of a few days. What is going on with this weather?

In local news (as they say on TV) we have had what they refer to as “the marching season” in Northern Ireland which can be a lively time of year to say the least. Without boring you it revolves around a series of marches by the Orange Order which is a Loyalist organisation and which have caused (the marches, that is) untold trouble in years past for reasons mired in centuries of history in this all too volatile country.

Traditionally, the “11th night” i.e. the eve of the marches was a time when huge “bonies” (bonfires) were lit and when I say huge I mean huge. Vast pyres of wooden pallets and tyres were constructed over a period of weeks if not months and usually dwarfed the surrounding buildings leading to all sorts of issues for the Fire Brigade. There were some problems this year when contractors, who had to wear ski masks to avoid reprisals. were brought in to dismantle some of them. Yes, when I say that things have changed out of all recognition since when I left, there is still an undercurrent of fear which I think will last for many generations. I should be clear here and say that the visitor has absolutely nothing to fear because, as I mentioned, we are the friendliest people imaginable towards outsiders, it is purely an internal friction.

With the bonfires done, the marches themselves passed relatively quietly but all things are relative, especially here. In the lead-up to the marches there had been all sorts of trouble in the City side of Londonderry / Derry (they cannot even agree on the name) at the interface between the Nationalist and Loyalist areas with shooting incidents and so on. They have been roundly condemned, and rightly so, by community leaders on all sides and seem to have calmed down and yet again I must stress to the potential visitor that they have nothing to fear from this as they would need to be Hellishly unlucky to stumble upon it accidentally.

I have some more observations to make about the last few weeks but, as usual here, time is against me and the delightful Sam is going to kick me out of the bar shortly so that is my internet done until tomorrow. I think that if I work quickly I can get this posted and the further observations will wait so stay tuned and spread the word.

Football’s coming home? Probably not.

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My egg has grown horns!

Up early again on the morning of 3rd of July and I probably don’t need to tell you that it was another gloriously sunny morning with apparently much more to come. There is even talk that this good weather might last for the whole month. I know the farmers are complaining but I love it. I also probably don’t need to tell you what I had for breakfast as shown in the image above. No, I do not ever get tired of eating fries.

The morning was spent in the usual fashion of watching documentaries on TV, occasional forays into the back garden for a read whilst slowly roasting myself and doing some offline writing for this website. Hopefully I shall have my Lundy Island piece ready for uploading next time I have internet access.
I prepared lunch for Father and then some more of the same routine before the first game of the day between Switzerland and Sweden. The winners of this match will face the winners of the England game and again I am writing in real-time whilst watching the match. I am beginning to feel more like a sports journalist rather than a travel blogger.
The first half is not nearly as good as some of the football we have seen at this stage and both sides seem to be cancelling each other out. the Swedes are having the better of it but their best effort on 27 minutes came to nothing. It was 35 minutes before the first corner of the game which must tell you something. Switzerland had a good move on 38 minutes but blazed it over the bar and Sweden have just skied a wonderful opportunity on 41 minutes. At least it is livening up. Half-time now and no score yet. I hope it gets better in the second period.
The second half has started a bit livelier with decent chances at each end, both squandered. 65 minutes now and the deadlock is broken with a Swedish goal which was heading straight for Jan Sommer, the Swiss keeper, until it took a serious deflection off a defender. Having gone a goal down, Switzerland have to really go for it and they have but with a minute of normal time remaining they have not broken through. Three minutes of added time and in the first the Swedish ‘keeper has just made a fine save form a Swiss header. High drama now. Five seconds to go in extra time and a penalty to Sweden with the Swiss player sent off. Hold on, VAR review to see whether it was inside or outside the penalty area. Result, a free kick on the edge of the box. An excellent free kick was matched by an equally good save which was the last kick of the game and Sweden go through 1- 0.
I am becoming increasingly aware that this blog is getting very repetitive so I shall try to liven it up a bit with items that are not perhaps strictly related to the events of the day in question. I am going to share a brief overview of Northern Ireland with you which I wrote for Virtual Tourist a few years ago and which I have edited slightly to make it read correctly.

A quick history lesson.

I suppose that if you are not from there, your opinions about Northern Ireland depend a lot on your age. If you are of a certain generation (i.e. mine) you will probably conjure up images of riots, bombs, soldiers on street corners and so on, and that was the sad reality of life for over 30 years in the country of my birth.
I left in 1988 to live in London and do not actually return that much. Every time I do it seems as if so much has changed. I know this would be a normal situation anywhere in the world but it seems much more pronounced in Northern Ireland now that there is a semblance of normality there.
When I wrote this piece for VT I knew they strongly opposes political discussion, and rightly so, but it is difficult to speak of Northern Ireland without at least touching on history, religion and politics and this brief piece must, of necessity, only vaguely scratch the surface.
Without going too far back in time all of Ireland had been ruled by Britain from the Middle Ages until 1922. The “indigenous” population of the island tended to be (although not exclusively) Roman Catholic. Certain parts of the island, predominantly in the North and East had been settled by what were known as “Plantation Stock”, mostly Scots and Northern English, who tended to be (again not exclusively) Protestant.
Fast forward then to 1922 when, after several uprisings and a guerrilla war waged by Republicans, the island was to be divided. The six counties of Fermanagh, Down, Armagh, Londonderry, Tyrone and Antrim remained as part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the remaining 26 countries became a Republic which has been variously known as Eire and the Irish Free State over the years. It’s correct title now is the Republic of Ireland. If you want to remember the counties of N.I. FAT LAD is a useful acronym!
Fast forward again to the 1960’s when certain Nationalist groupings were involved in demonstrations etc. in relation to civil rights matters, either real or imagined depending on your point of view. Large marches degenerated into rioting and in 1969 the British Army was deployed in support of the civil power to restore order on the streets. They were to remain for over 30 years.
Rioting (although it continued sporadically over the years) in its turn gave way to either a guerrilla war or terrorist campaign, again depending on your political stance. Groups like the PIRA, INLA, CIRA and RIRA were on the nationalist side, basically demanding a complete British withdrawal from Northern Ireland, although the last two mentioned are more recent additions. On the Loyalist side, i.e. those that wanted to remain in the UK, were groups like the UVF, UDA, OV, RHC and LVF. I mentioned before that Northern Ireland lives (and too often dies) on acronyms.
Over the next 30 or so years over 3,000 people lost their lives and many many more were permanently maimed. It is a fairly appalling toll in a country with a population of less than two million.

Back to the present.

In 1998, after protracted and often acrimonious discussions, leaders from the British and Irish governments and the major political groupings signed what is known as the Good Friday Agreement which effectively put an end to terrorist activity and led to the situation that exists today. I won’t mislead the reader, there are still very occasional incidents, mostly carried out by dissident Republicans who did not want the agreement, but the visitor would be extremely unlucky to ever be caught up in one of these.
So having painted this picture of recent death and destruction, what would possibly bring the visitor to Northern Ireland (or “Norn Irn” as it is rendered in the local dialect)? Well, any number of things.
Firstly, the hospitality, which is legendary. For a people who seemed hell-bent on annihilating each other within living memory, the Northern Irish really are the friendliest people going and visitors from all over the globe will attest to the welcome here. Then there is the scenery which is beautiful. From the natural wonder that is the Giants Causeway to the wildness of the Sperrin Mountains, the Mournes, the Glens of Antrim and the wonderful Fermanagh Lakes which are home to some of the best coarse fishing in Europe.

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Party time, Belfast style.

Belfast is now one of THE party towns of the world and the craic, as they call it, has to be seen, heard and survived to be believed. We’re back to the hospitality thing again. And then there is the food. People in this part of the world just love to eat, it is like a national pastime. From the haute cuisine of chefs like Paul Rankin through some excellent gastropubs and all the way to the ubiquitous “Ulster Fry” (as featured prominently in this blog). You really have to try one of those, just don’t tell your Doctor!
I’ll stop this now before I start sounding like a Tourist Board advertisement.
All I can say to you is that if you haven’t been, what’s keeping you?”

Right, that is the Northern Ireland very brief briefing over so on to the second football match of the day which is England vs. Colombia and which has understandably been getting so much media hype here. As usual I am trying to report on this in real-time but it is now half-time and there is not very much in a footballing sense to tell you about. England started well at a high tempo but there have been virtually no chances of note bar one very difficult chance which Harry Kane put onto the roof of the net.

What there has been is niggle aplenty including an incident where a Colombian player head-butted an English player in the chest and in the same movement went on to “nut” him on the chin. Clearly a red card for violent conduct but inexplicably the American referee only issued a yellow even after a review from that awful VAR. Even as they were running off for half-time one of the Colombian technical staff elbowed an English player prompting the fourth official to admonish him. It really has been that sort of game.
Into the second half now and let’s hope we see some football and less messing about as thus far it is far from thrilling and a long way short of some of the other games we have seen in this round.
51 minutes and another yellow card for Colombia. 53 minutes and a penalty to England for pushing in the box at a corner. Sanchez yellow carded and rightly so, it was virtually a judo throw he used to put Kane down. The Colombians are really messing about to delay the pen., not to mention scuffing up the penalty spot. It took over three minutes from the award of the kick to it being taken but Harry Kane is totally unflappable and hammers it straight down the middle to put England 1 – 0 up and pulls him further away in the Golden Boot competition which he already leads.
England are falling into the trap Colombia have set for them and are getting involved in all the shennanigans rather than just walking away. Two thirds of the way through now and Colombia have brought on a striker for a holding midfielder. Two minutes later and another Colombian booked for dissent. Frankly, the ref is losing control here. 63 minutes and Colombia get their fifth yellow card. This really is a very poor spectacle indeed.
If the football is poor then Harry Kane is breaking records left right and centre. Six goals in a single major Finals to equal Gary Linekers record and has scored eight in 12 starts as captain.
Fifteen minutes of normal time and Colombia are starting to press a bit but I suppose they have to. 80 minutes and Kyle Walker gifts the ball to the opposition who break away and then hammer the ball high, wide and not very handsome. England survive but they were lucky. Another good chance for the South Americans on 85 but could not finish with a header. Into injury time now with five minutes added. 92 minutes and Colombia equalise from a corner after a superb save by Pickford from an excellent long-range shot. Extra time here we come again. What is the betting on penalties and you know England’s record in that department!
Five minutes into the additional period and Pickford smothers a good cross from the left. Colombia are definitely looking the more likely now with more of the possession and more attacks.England are showing no urgency to get forward and are messing about at the back and then giving it away in midfield (Lingard has just been guilty of this) leading to a Colombian corner. They really need to liven up again. 13 minutes in and Falcao has just directed a header wide of the post.
Half-time in extra time and still deadlocked. Penalties coming ever closer which is probably the best England can hope for as they don’t look like winning through open play. Having said that on 21 minutes of extra-time the substitute Danny Rose has just slid one right across the face of the Colombian goal. Seven minutes to the dreaded shootout and Rashford on for Kyle Walker. 27 minutes and yet another yellow card for Colombia for a seriously reckless challenge. One minute of extra-time in extra-time and then you know what.
Here we go, another shootout and I know who my money is on. Colombia shoot first and Falcao scores. Captain Harry Kane buries his effort and then Colombia score equally emphatically. Marcus Rashford slots his home in the same spot as his skipper did. Muriel sends Pickford the wrong way to score. Jordan Henderson up next and the ‘keeper palms it round his left hand post. History is surely repeating itself but then Uribe hits the underside of the crossbar and back out. One miss apiece and Trippier up next. He scores well. Bacca takes one which Pickford saves brilliantly with his left hand and then Eric Dier goes to the ‘keepers right and beats him despite him getting a fingertip to it. England through to face Sweden on Saturday in only the second penalty shootout they have won at majors in eight attempts and I dread to think what level the media hype is going to ratchet itself up to now.

 

Off to bed for a read so stay tuned and spread the word.