Who am I? (Part 1)

During the annual summer tensions in NI this year a relative asked me why I was so “against [my] own people.” That is, why so critical of the protestant/unionist population that I ostensibly hail from? The answer at its most basic is simply because I don’t feel that the so-called representatives and leaders of unionist, loyalist or protestant people actually do speak for me and my views. The more comprehensive response is probably based in a tortured sense of identity.

Symbol of protestant resistance in Northern Ireland – a statue of William III in Carrickfergus. Photo © 2016 Robert JE Simpson. All Rights Reserved.

The exposure to ideology I had growing up was almost exclusively protestant/unionist. The rhetoric of ‘Ulster says No’ and ‘1, 2, 3, DUP’. Orange bands on 12th July. My father worked for Bill Henderson, the owner of the Belfast Newsletter and former Ulster Unionist politician. My grandfather’s shop in Derry had been firebombed by the IRA and left a lasting impression on the family. This was the world I knew.

But I was also removed from much of what went on. We lived at the foot of the Craigantlet hills during my formative years in a fairly isolated house. Trips into town weren’t overly frequent, and I only recall a couple of instances of evacuation owing to bomb scares. My bit of East Belfast wasn’t known for its tension.

Once the quiet lane behind our house was on the news as someone was shot in his car. I remember the police coming to the door asking questions, telling him we’d heard nothing then telling mum we’d heard all sorts of things. I’ve no idea if we actually heard the shooting or not.

By the 1990s we had moved into the Garnerville housing estate right beside the RUC training barracks. A mighty wall of green corrugated iron with cameras all round faced our living room. The sound of their band woke us many a Saturday morning. I took it all for granted that this was how things were.

Somebody else was shot in the alleys behind the new house. An internal loyalist affair.

I accepted security checks in shops – the queues outside Debenhams as bags were searched. I didn’t think twice about the presence of soldiers on the streets, or the fact that the police carried guns. They scared me, but I wasn’t a law breaker so I didn’t worry excessively.

At some point in my teenage years my attitude shifted. I questioned the assumed unionism I had been brought up in. I watched nightly news reports of tit-for-tat attacks between Catholics and Protestants and knew none of us were safe. If I was stopped in the street by thugs I was screwed either way. I couldn’t sing any tribal anthems. I felt unsafe watching the bonfires. I didn’t like the hatred of Catholics expressed by many.

My Christian development changed how I thought. I became wary as I devoured Jack Chick publications and attended a Brethren church. Both fountains of intolerance and hate. But I also had a Methodist minister at school. My BB and youth club was at a large pentecostal church. Our Scripture Union group at school was a real mix of backgrounds.

Photo © 2016 Robert JE Simpson. All Rights Reserved.

I began working with a peace group – the Horizon Project. A cross-boarder, cross-community group aimed at bringing different young people together. I made friends for life here. I saw an alternative future. We were basically all the same. No thoughts of violence. Plenty of hormones.

I read Augustine. I refused to join the school’s Combined Cadet Force (CCF), a way of preparing school boys for the British military. Instead I ended up head of our Social Services unit, working with disabled kids, elderly folk and the like. I outed myself as a pacifist, a conscientious objector.

I am working class protestant by birth. As a child of the 80s we had the upper hand. The population majority. The majority representation in government. Historically unionism had maintained control through gerrymandering. Internment had targeted republicans almost exclusively, ignoring crimes committed by loyalists. While I couldn’t fault the police chasing bombers and gunmen I still cannot condone the prejudiced persecution of the wider republican community and the comparative lack of pursuit of the loyalist bombers and gunmen.

I am a Northern Irishman. I hold a British passport but I am not British. I am happy to be called Irish because that’s more like what I feel. But given the option (and this should be widely recognised officially) I am Northern Irish. This country is heavily influenced by cultures of Ireland and Britain. Since before partition NI has felt different from either parent nation- but with overlaps. Ideology means many here refuse to accept the impact that that heritage has had on shaping them, how much they carry, to the point where they shout you down when you speak up for that inheritance.

I’m a modern day mudblood. In my veins courses Irish catholic heritage, and Ulster-Scot protestant heritage. I’ve recently taken a DNA test as part of my genealogy research, and I’ll be interested to see what the science says about my family’s make-up. Most of my Scottish line I’ve traced back to Ireland. My grandfather used to joke (at my grandmother’s expense) about her having Spanish forefathers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the results lean very heavily towards an Irish ancestry, with perhaps a little Scottish. I’ll share the results in the new year when they come back. Maybe they’ll suggest something else, but right now I feel it would be disingenuous to disown my Irishness.

We are products of the society we are born into. We don’t make a choice in that – nature does that for us. Most of us inherit the politics and religion of our parents. Some of us will move away from that faith, mostly into atheism, but few will shake their politics. As a nation we need to learn to move past this original sin mentality that keeps us fighting each other, dividing us up into ‘us’ and ‘them’. We cannot keep brow-beating this generation for the mistakes of their parents and grandparents. We cannot treat every republican or unionist as if they are militant with a grudge to spend. We cannot repeat the errors of the past.

Twelfth bonfire, Newtownards. Photo © 2016 Robert JE Simpson. All Rights Reserved.

I acknowledge the injustices perpetrated by my perceived community in the past. I understand the feeling of disenfranchisement by the perceived other community. I understand why people on both sides got caught up in militant struggles, defence and retaliation. I understand we are not a healed society. But we cannot continue like that. I’ve heard such anger and bitterness from both protestants and catholics this last year – the fears of the other haven’t gone away, with both firmly believing themselves to be right and the others bitter and vengeful. Its scary to listen to. If only they could hear themselves.

I listen to lines about how the Twelfth celebrations are an example of pageantry and aren’t sectarian. Then I see the bonfires becoming adorned with flags, election posters and other weighted symbols and they become totems of hate once again and I cannot be a part of that. Tribalism and sectarianism only cement division and mistrust. They weaken us. They allow us to be manipulated by those in power. For a Christian order, Orangeism stands out against Jesus’ command to love our enemies (Matthew ch5 v44).

I believe in dialogue. Listening. Trying to understand. When someone tells me I’m wrong I’ll listen to their argument, I’ll try and research the areas I’m faulty in. And either I’ll reaffirm my position or it will change. Being able to stand up and say, ‘Yup, I was wrong’ is important. I want to understand, to move forward. I’ll listen to any politics, any religious exchange, and I’ll stand and ask questions of myself and others. Testing one’s faith, one’s understanding, is important. I have broken my own rules, my own prejudices repeatedly, and been happier for it. I’m not betraying my ‘people’ because tribalism is something imposed on us by societies and the xenophobic. I’m being true to myself.

My Future Family?

Baby on Scales – image from Flickr commons

I’ve been thinking about kids again recently – probably due to the recent arrival of my niece. I now have one of each – a niece and a nephew, and with that there is a strange sort of completion in the family unit.

I’m fast approaching my mid-30s, and the eldest of the family, and yet its my younger siblings who are responsible for the next generation. Life of course doesn’t follow strict rules of chronology. This first born son of a first born son of a first born son has no offspring of his own. And finding myself resolutely single, I’m quite content with that fact.

There was a time, perhaps, in my teenage years, where I assumed the thing to do would be to settle down, marry and have kids, just like my parents did, and all before I reached 25. But as time grew on, real life interactions bring about a rethink.

I wouldn’t even blame it on bad relationships, because while not meeting the right person to have a family with is no doubt part of it (or not the right person at the right time), other things – education, work etc. – also play a part.

I’m sure many of us looking to our next event birthday as 40 (still some way off thank goodness, but a scary prospect all the same) begin to panic about a seeming lack of direction. No steady job, excessive debt, no partner, no children, no hope?! And as friends start to pair off, settle down, buy houses and have families one begins to feel left out. On the shelf. Alone.

Curiously while most of my male friends and relatives have settled down, I have acquired a select few female friends who find themselves in a similar boat to me. They’re all in their early to mid 30s, unattached, and unburdened. It is reassuring for the moment, at least until they too start to find new partners and families (yes, I’m assuming they’ll do it before me) and then like my male friends, we end up speaking maybe twice a year – at children’s birthday parties which I’m tokenistically invited to, only to feel awkward in the corner.

Do I sound prematurely jealous? Perhaps. Somewhat selfishly I appreciate being part of a wee club – bucking the tribal trends that dictate our domestic existence. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t aspects which I can appreciate and to some extent aspire towards. There remains a misconception in our society that children equals happiness. While I have no doubt for some individuals that is the case, I’ve witnessed too many couples for whom children have aggravated relationship sores, leaving wounds open to further infection.

Being a man I’m aware that I have considerably longer than women (in theory) in which to reproduce – providing of course I can find a suitable female willing to take on the task with me. But as I get older, finding a suitable other will prove more difficult. With the advances in our technology I’m assuming children are an option for me at least for another decade, after which I’ll be on the way to 50 and less willing to take on such a task.

In the meantime I can rebuild my life after the mistakes and emotional turmoil of the last few years, and maybe even do some of the things I’d always talked about doing. If somewhere along the way I find myself acquiring a girlfriend then I might consider settling down and building a family, but it isn’t a priority.

As the family genealogist I’m very aware of the various genetic lines and the constant cycle of reproduction that is human existence; that position also leaves me feeling slightly guilty that my own branch of the family tree looks set (at present) to come to a stop. Is that an ironic state of affairs?

My life would have been very different if I’d had children by now I’m sure – I look at my siblings and friends with some slight envy as they embrace parenthood and bring up their own tiny terrors. I sit down and I play with their kids, feed them, put them to bed and chill, and a little part of me is in awe at their existence. But I don’t envy the responsibility, the commitment, the unending protectiveness. I can’t see that it would have been a viable option for me in the past, and as far as I am able to control it I refuse to reproduce simply for the sake of it.

That is of course the real risk as we get older. The body clock starts ticking, and as we find ourselves in a shrinking minority we panic. We make ourselves parents through some brief encounter that fizzles out either just before or soon after the birth, satisfying the ‘family’ need in a lacklustre manner. Or we make the decision and settle down in a mundane relationship with a partner we sort of care about a bit, but would rather not have bothered with. We form families because we feel we have to.

Maybe that’ll be me in ten years. Tired of being alone I find someone in a similar situation and we make a pact to end our respective solitude and form a relationship – warm but not sizzling – and build a safe family. When all is said and done, that does sound slightly more appealing than spending the rest of my days in isolation.

Grieving

I’m not exactly a stranger to death. I recall the funeral for my great-grandmother Sarah (Sadie) Simpson back in August 1992. She’d made it to 91, and while I was fairly young (11), I felt a loss at her passing. We were too late, and probably too small, to be allowed inside to see her body, which left a strange sensation of something unfinished that took years to shake off.

Around the same time a young friend of mine called David, who I knew from the Boys Brigade, died suddenly of a heart condition. While I we weren’t bosom buddies, I looked forward to chatting with him on Wednesday nights up in Glenmachan, and I cried a little at his funeral, packed with friends and loved ones. A year or two later and another David died, this one a boy in my 3rd year class. I was one of the contingent of school mates that went to the funeral, though I had barely gotten to know him at the time. I was upset, but not as much as his proper friends who I recall being in floods of tears at the funeral. All in all it was very strange.

But it has taken until now for me to feel a personal tragedy so close to home, the demise of someone I didn’t just know a little, or admire, but one who I can say with all honesty I loved unconditionally.

Two years ago when it was first suggested that granda had cancer, we were told the doctors wanted to speak to the family. Naturally we assumed that the prognosis was probably only going to be a couple of months at best. I phoned round my brothers and sister with the information and the recommendation that we make our goodbye visits as soon as possible. Those phonecalls were incredibly difficult and I could scarcely hold back the tears as I talked.

But he pulled through, came home, and details on prognosis were sketchy. We’d effectively said our goodbyes, so each and every visit and conversation subsequently was a bonus. Further hospital stays occurred, and at home he grew gradually bed-bound. Always talking about getting up and doing something, but not able to act upon those words.

The second week of September has been the emotionally fraught in my entire life to date. Aware that things had taken a turn for the worst, already prepped for the news, once we were given a prognosis in the hospital all manner of emotions took over.

Sitting in the hospital room with him was difficult. Without the least bit of warning my eyes filled with water which seeped across my cheeks without any hesitation.

The emotional minefield that is death is something which I hadn’t really anticipated. Seeing someone you know and care about before you, knowing that your time with them is limited in days or hours (and eventually minutes), shakes you to the core. One drifts off on a tumultuous sea of conflicting thoughts. Happy stories and memories clash with the imminent ending of a life, promise clashes with finality, regrets and sorry lift their bold head high. One must try and savour every moment left while dealing with the build up of sadness.

People talk about grief in the wake of a death, but what doesn’t get mentioned is the pre-grief. The sorry one has while the person lives. While one still feels as if they should have the power to act, to make changes, to say things.

I wandered around the corridors of Altnagelvin hospital in the middle of the night, sustained on vending machine coffee. In something of a daze, I stumbled blindly into the cold outside air. I tried to stifle my sobs, not quite ready to let go completely. How can one weep when the person one weeps for remains alive?

Once again I made the phonecalls. Only this time they were daily, if not multiple times each day. Keeping the close knit family aware of developments as the day grew into an unexpected week. Glad for each additional moment with him, and yet aware that we were well into borrowed time.

I’m not convinced we human beings are prepared for death. Even with advance warning of the inevitable it still comes as a shock. There is endless talk of regret, sorrow, abandoned conversation. We can’t just flick a switch and move from “person alive” to “person not alive” in our understanding. Seeing them in pain brings us frustration, anger, sorrow. But seeing them peaceful arouses similar sensations. We cry for their presence. We mourn their departure.

I’m still going through the process now. The last few days have been a little easier. Possibly a disconnect caused by seeing his body. I didn’t feel his presence there in the side room at the funeral home, and so I cannot connect it to him as a person – even though the figure in the coffin looks like him. But there have been moments, bits of conversations, images, which have stirred the emotions once more. I’m looking at photographs and cannot fathom there being no more to come. Perhaps it is the continued presence of my grandmother that makes it okay. I’ve seen her without him before, so it doesn’t totally register yet.

I don’t think anyone goes through this sort of thing and not feel something. I continue to reach out for an embrace, a comforter to help me through. Someone to listen to my stories, my memories, my grief.

Adventures in Dating: Bobs Ideal Woman

As the months tick by I’m growing more and more used to being alone (again). I’ve thrown myself back into my work and making progress with a number of projects that have effectively lain dormant the last couple of years. And my social life has improved considerably. I’m based in Belfast for my course, which means I’m back in the heart of the city most days, and with that comes the increase in opportunity to attend events, meet people, and reconnect with old chums (though a few remain disappointingly off the radar). And while I’m enjoying living off a micro-budget and still engaging with the world (Late Night Art offers opportunities for an inexpensive night out and both social and professional intercourse), every now and then I do think it would be nice to be sharing some of my time with someone else that I was, well, a bit more personal with.

Taking the plunge…
[Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/state-records-nsw/%5D

I’ve spoken previously about Tinder on here, and I continue to be disengaged by it. Three months of use sparked four ‘matches’, two of which promptly deleted their profiles, and the other two of which, well I think they may have been errors. I’ve reset my account anyway, so get to start again. I’m still fussy though, I resist the temptation to swipe right for everyone and just see if anyone matches. I come across those profiles full of matching interests and as much as they sound like they might work, the reality is the app is based on a visual connection and I just don’t feel it most of the time. Mind you, judging by the dearth of responses they feel the same way.

Early on when I explored the dating sites and apps for the first time I sent messages to those people who both visually attracted me, and who had a profile to stimulate – though frustratingly perhaps many of them lived far away. I have little doubt that I came across as a complete tool. I was still going through that ‘my gosh, there are women out there who like the same things as me’ phase. If I could take each of those messages back I would. Its why I’ve been more passive since.

Occasionally a considered message does come through, and I find myself agonising over how to say to the sender ‘thanks, but no thanks, I’m simply not attracted to you visually’. I’m too nice you see. It appears that when a man sends a message to a woman who isn’t interested she simply ignores him.

And there are those profiles I end up looking at repeatedly (often they’ve changed a photo and I hadn’t realised). I’m evidently attracted by something, some combination of words and images, but the prospect of the blank response should I drum up the courage to email is a little soul-destroying. Occasionally I will chance my arm. Perhaps because I expect nothing more than a possible friendship it never goes anywhere. I doom myself from the start. Or maybe they just read ‘separated’ and think “too messy”. Well, at least I’m honest about that bit. Many aren’t.

And then there are the few people who make it through my filters and who I start having conversations with. Only a couple of them have spilled over into the real world so far, but they’ve become friends. Let’s be honest, its not like I’m difficult to locate, or my contact info isn’t available. So there’s no point hiding things.

So, while I concede I’m fussy, what am I looking for in a partner?

Rummaging through my Twitter archive I found a set of guidelines I’d posted back in March 2010 under the #bobsidealwoman tag. Its a useful reminder and I stand by it. As an ideal at least. I found myself breaking several of the rules in the subsequent 12 months, so am aware that this isn’t a set of hard guidelines. Still, lest a potential partner has taken the initiative to google me and is looking for some pointers, here’s a refresher.

#BobsIdealWoman
[I advised one commentator at the time that the list is about balance, and that the list is not concrete. My new 2014 annotations in square brackets – each number in the list hyperlinks to the original Twitter posts for clarity]

1) Smokers are a complete turn off. Sorry. I can just about deal with my friends smoking, but not significant other. Uggh.
[my conflicting responses to pipes and cigars are taken as read]

2) also no drug users please. Occasional herbal use passable, but no pills (legal or otherwise) or chemicals.

2a) its different if you have a genuine medical problem, I’m talking ‘recreational’ here…

3) I can’t do cats. I love em, but am allergic. They make me real sick. If you can’t live without em, I can live without you.
[No indoor only cats. Tried it and ended up hyperventilating.]

4) Must be tolerant of my old man interests – history, ancient film and television, Edwardian dresscode.

4a) which means, they must understand why for three months a year I have to be sat in on a Saturday night watching BBC1
[well, three months *most* years. Its not the same on iPlayer]

4b) and can tell me what’s wrong with the statement ‘Vincent Price was great in all them Hammer horror films’

Ladies – I’m not complaining if you want to watch Strictly, but I’m not going to sit in EVERY week for it!
[Insert programme of your choice if you don’t like Strictly]

5) I have no intelligence restrictions, but academics be warned – don’t take your work too seriously.

6) must be prepared to be quizzed on thoughts/beliefs/ideas. I may even disagree. In fact I will over some of them.

7) Must have own teeth. No falsies please. Must also have own breasts.

8) should not be married to someone else whilst we are romancing. That’s a whole heap of potential trouble I’d rather avoid
[erm… well, yes, I appreciate right now I’m legally married… what I mean is illicit affairs while you are still living with someone as husband and wife]

9) should be prepared for my lengthy sojourns in the bath (weeks at a time), and occasional insomnia

9a) in return I wont complain about your monthly mood swings and wasted hours in TopShop
[Or whatever other shop you insist on living in]

10) I don’t drive. If you do, you may need to provide transport. I’m a modern man. I believe in equality. I also hoover.
[I come equipped with my own Dyson]

11) I’m undecided about vegetarians. I eat meat & will continue to do so. If meat is murder we have a problem.

11a) I’m also very fond of leather. [stop it!]. And other animal based products. See 11)

12) Fake tan is seldom appropriate. If you can’t be seen without it, I’ll be seen without you

13) The only clubs I can do are 1940s/jazz clubs. If you want someone to ‘large it’ through the night, keep looking

14) are you a vinyl or a leather girl? Leather is for shoes, troos and armchairs. Vinyl is for records, not for wearing

14a) You will be expected to tell the difference between an LP an EP and a 7″ single by sight.

14b) you may also be tested on the difference between Betamax and VHS, Laserdisc and DVD and other antique formats

14c) and you’ll need to be patient when I get annoyed at poor projection in the cinema

15) I don’t expect you to do all the cleaning, but you will have to take the bin out every other week.

15a) and rinse the bath out after you’ve dyed your hair/shaved legs/gone ape shit with the Mr Sheen

16) I believe in treats, but I believe in economy. If we’re on a joint holiday, you’re paying your way.
[I’m sure that should have read ‘equality’ not economy… I believe in that too]

16a) If you like, you can pay for me to join you somewhere nice. As there will be no sex, that isn’t prostitution.

16b) Be prepared to accompany me to nerdish events. This includes 1 trip to Bradford and 1 to London annually.
[sadly both these regular events are no more… However, I forsee new events in the future, and you need to brace yourself]

17) I don’t do water sports. Piss on me and I’m switching on the electric blanket. Mwah ha ha.

17a) I don’t have an electric blanket. But I will go and buy one just to turn it on should things take this turn

18) I am partial to Coco-Pops and Shreddies. This is not kiddy food. This is a normal adult breakfast. OK?
[mmm, haven’t had coco-pops in months…]

19) Have you ever seen a film with subtitles? How did it make you feel? What, it makes you uncomfortable? Oh dear! my dear

19a) I would subtitle this to help you understand, but I fear your attention has already wandered…

20) No tramp stamps

20a) I’m divided when it comes to tattoos generally. If its an all-over-body-experience its probably a no.

21) Piercings I’m not against generally. Volume and location and size may be taken into consideration though.

Any takers?

Hitting the fan

There are all kinds of reasons folk get married – it isn’t all about love – and all kinds of reasons that folk get divorced. Ultimately, in the latter the situation (almost) inevitably becomes fraught, tense and leads to all manner of stresses, anger and accusations.

Here in Northern Ireland divorce is only granted as a result of ‘blame’, and blame itself can lead to all kinds of additional stresses and tensions and anger. But unless your partner will admit to adultery, or you’ve been separated 5 years (2 years with their consent) your sole option is to apportion blame under unreasonable behaviour. And no matter how valid your reasons, there are few folk out there who will take it lying down. (Why can’t we be more like Australia where they insist on a no-fault divorce – that’s so much more civil).

I’m facing these stresses right now, following the demise of my marriage – the troughs of which have frequently found their way onto my various blogs and social networking sites. Right now, the excrement is whizzing its way through the fan as the wheels of law turn their slow path.

I don’t really want to go into the ins and outs of my own situation just now, as public discussion will probably be regarded as me being insensitive, or antagonistic, but I have publicly declared my having started the process for some time. But I do want to vent about the ridiculous system we have in this country.

You can, believe it or not, get married in NI with just two weeks notice at a civil registry office. And a fee of about £80. While the impatient impetuous lovers may think this is great, the consequences of a rash rushed job may be felt for many months and years later. Nobody will stop you to ask if you are doing the right thing, merely that you are legally able to enter into the marriage, and nobody will offer you counselling during the whole build up process.

The Catholic church, as I understand it, has something right when it comes to marriage – they insist on taking weeks and pre-marriage classes. And the longer you have to talk things through the better.

Disgustingly, while one can be married in a fortnight, Northern Irish law says you must be married a minimum of two years before you divorce. Particularly in an expedited marriage situation (and indeed my own), problems may arise much quicker than in a longer-term engagement, and one is then psychologically bound for a minimum period. Sure, this might allow negotiations and compromises to be made, and I’m sure saves many relationships. But in other instances it allows the problems to grow and fester and utterly ruin a situation.

I was threatened with divorce within weeks of my marriage as our problems overwhelmed us. And repeatedly over the next few months until I had the first of my mental breakdowns which took me out of work on long-term sick for the first time in my professional life. If the law permitted I probably would have walked sooner, and on reflection I should have. My email records, journal entries and text logs are full of unhappiness. There are those who witnessed me on the receiving end of allegations and spats which are without foundation and who know how low I actually reached. My breakdowns were inextricably linked to my marital state and were probably the surest sign  I had that all was not as it should be in my life. But I was living 25 miles away from family and friends, four miles from the nearest bus-stop, in a huge house we couldn’t afford to maintain long-term, struggling to keep my start-up business on track, and without independent mode of transport. I was isolated, and what time I had with my wife was not on the whole, good. As a result I stuck with the life that made me miserable, hoping that things would chance, but it couldn’t.

If the bad days outnumber the good, your relationship isn’t working. If more than 75% of the days are bad, not only is your marriage not working, it is positively unhealthy and should be abandoned immediately.

Of course, we also now enter the awful scenario where claims for maintenance etc. come into play, and it is this which can cause most upset. Those who are left often feel wronged. And those who make the decision to leave may also feel a sense of injustice. I’ve made no secret, I want nothing but a clean break and the chance to move on with my life without having to think about my domestic situation over the last three years. My failed marriage doesn’t define me, but it informs decisions I make in the future. It has shown me at my lowest, and I am ashamed of the depths to which I personally sunk. It has confirmed to me multiple truths about my nature and living with other people – I’m quite a selfish and solitary person on the whole, partners are welcome but at my choice of time. Partner’s children from other relationships bring acres of guilt, confusion and their own stresses.

I have also learned to trust my own judgement more, and my suspicions. And not to date exes. Exes are exes for a reason on the whole, and unless you split because of a practicality one should steer well clear.

I am sorry that my marriage failed. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the strength and courage to leave when I thought I should. But most of all I’m sorry I didn’t speak out when I ought.

I have no doubt that things will get worse before they get better, and that there will be things said about me which are not true. There is much anger all round. But I know that putting the relationship into the past and moving on with our lives is the only option left that has any validity. One shouldn’t be afraid to say ‘it doesn’t work’. One shouldn’t be afraid to say ‘I don’t love you’. And one shouldn’t have to lie in order to proceed with the end.

Bear with me in the coming weeks and months.

March to what exactly?

“Orange March”
image © 2013 Robert J.E. Simpson. All Rights Reserved

I try and avoid discussing my perceived political background and my personal religious and political beliefs in public. Why? Well, a) because they’re rather personal, and b) because I live in Northern Ireland, a country which has a terrible reputation when it comes to tolerance. Have you seen the news during the last few months? We went from that insane violence surrounding the flag issue in December and following (ruining business for many of the little players), and then in the last week, the riots have started again allegedly because some folk were told they couldn’t host a parade on the periphery of a sensitive community.

I’m not stupid, I’m well aware that both sides of this supposed debate are perfectly adept at playing dirty, winding each other up, insisting on respective rights while completely negating those of the other. Not even the presence of Ross Kemp and his documentary crew were able to diminish tensions last Friday.

Considering that the negotiations didn’t start until very late in the day, I personally thought the Parades Commission made a perfectly sensible compromise in agreeing that the Orange Order could march along the route (Ardoyne/Crumlin Road area of Belfast) in the morning, but would not be allowed to do the same coming home. I also thought that the nationalist residents made the right voices when they said, in light of this, they would be calling off their planned counter-demonstrations. That m’dears is compromise.

“Hatred Of Orange Cult” – Orange Order parade, Dublin Road
image © 2013 Robert J.E. Simpson. All Rights Reserved

I also think its pretty shitty when the Orange Order stands back while one of the bands marching under its banner stops outside a Roman Catholic church (St. Patricks – where there has been trouble before), and plays the Sash (a song, played to a traditional tune, which is perceived by many Nationalists and Catholics as deeply sectarian and thus offensive) in a triumphant manner, when the compromise instructed by the Parades Commission was to play only hymns (which as universal Christian songs are offensive to neither side). But then we all know that the problem here isn’t really about religion, it is simply intolerance. Much better was those bands who instigated a gap either side of the church when the march got held up, allowing the bands to respect the space.

I also find it somewhat sad that a tune which originates in a song about sadness in failing to bring two communities together (Scots and Irish as Irish Molly O – http://ballads.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/view/image/7421/0) has become a symbol for emphasizing divide.

Let me avoid for now, getting into the flag debate too deeply, but I do find the idea of burning flags of the other community/nation on bonfires rather repulsive. It isn’t just disrespecting the Irish community when you do that, dear protestant brethren, it is also disrespecting this entire island and our ancestors. Need I remind you that the green is meant to represent the catholic population, the orange represents the protestants, and the white the hope for peace between the two. Unionists should embrace the tricolour alongside the UK flag… after all, you are at least represented on it, which is more than can be said about some of the alternatives.

To lay my cards on the table – I myself am from a largely protestant/unionist background. However, I spent a good deal of time in my youth in cross-community work, and with friends and work experience on all sides of the community (North and South), I’m far too liberal to be a bigot. Should I be ashamed of my ‘heritage’? I’m not sure – but I’m certainly ashamed of some of those who claim to represent me and who influence others’ perception of me.

I think there’s a place for the Hibernians AND the Orange Order in our society, but they need radical overhauling if they want to be accepted by us all. The PR around these organisations is a disaster. You CAN be pro-protestant or pro-catholic WITHOUT being sectarian – they should learn how to do that.

Unfortunately there are always going to be idiots – and they are probably the minority – who make things very complicated and unpleasant for the rest of us. But whatever I feel personally, nothing will change without proper dialogue and discussion with ground members.

I spent several days this last couple of weeks photographing various scenes relating to the Orange Order demonstrations. Unlit bonfires, bonfires, parades, riot squads, flags, debris… trying always to be an objective observer, and yet looking for images which intrigues or speaks in its own right.

There are some who will see the publication of these images as being a pro-Orange Order move. However I hope that the images of drunkeness, police forces, and loyalist troublemakers go some way to establishing my near-neutral stance.  For balance, I will have to photograph a companion set from a Hibernian march, or even some of the St Patrick’s day parades (which do get out of hand).

The images are available on my Flickr profile, with a few more to follow.

A specific album for the 11th night is here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/avalard/sets/72157634603919194/

and from the 12th July parades in Belfast: http://www.flickr.com/photos/avalard/sets/72157634616143544/

In closing, an addendum… The Orange Order isn’t just a protestant organisation, it is a (supposedly) Christian one. With Christians on both sides (Roman Catholics and Protestants), perhaps they should listen more closely to the teachings of Christ – didn’t Jesus tell us to turn the other cheek? Does violence and taunting really sit comfortably alongside that?

Altercation II. (Loyalists come face to face with the riot squad near Belfast City Hall).
image © 2013 Robert J.E. Simpson. All Rights Reserved

More of me… Day 07: I’ve never seen one of those before…

Day 07- A picture of someone/something that has the biggest impact on you

This one’s tricky. So many things and people have influenced me over the years, and so many decisions have been butterfly effected. Where do I take it from? Family? Friends? Professionally, I’ve been so caught up with all things horror and Hammer that it would be very easy to suggest that. Too easy.

But there was a time before Hammer films when my tastes were being influenced. When knock-on decisions were being made. The stars aligned and a domino was pushed.

 

Out of the Darkness. (c) 2012.

Yes, the humble Police Box – for me an eternal symbol of hope and escapism. You probably know if from Doctor Who. Actually that’s where I knew it from too, but long before the TARDIS arrived in Totters Lane, the Police Box was an actual physical object to be found on the streets of Britain (though not in Northern Ireland) as a point of contact for police officers. The arrival of short wave radios saw them fall into disuse, and by the time I was born, they were basically a neglected memory, defunct and now immortalised as a time machine.

It was an important part of my childhood, and I had a Denys Fisher TARDIS and 4th Doctor/Mike Gambit doll at home in the 80s. I played with that to the point where it was damaged (bad me). You never quite knew if Doctor Gambit would get stuck in the back of the box as your swiveled the knob. I watched the stories on tv, and later on VHS with my aunt and uncle in my uncle’s attic room in Derry/Londonderry. I read Terrence Dicks’ novelisations for stories I’d never seen – I remember Genesis of the Daleks was in my primary school, and reading it long before watching it in the attic.

It was part of the expansion of my imagination. It offered a chance to escape the humdrum life of being a kid in the country in NI, with few friends. Going to big school, it was a show that wasn’t aired any more. But my brother and I loved it. It became an ‘other’ and that otherness was something to set us apart. Unlike my brother, I wasn’t sporty, so this became even more important as the years went by.

I started a Doctor Who Society in school. Eternally labelled a geek as a result. But it gave me some confidence (ie. dealing with more bullies) and something on which to hang out with some of the older/posher boys improving my social skills. I grew to be good at organising. I tried writing a magazine – the Galifreyan Time Warp we called it, somehow abbreviated to GFTW (which one wag assumed was ‘Geeks For The World’). That was my first attempt at independent publishing – something which I now do professionally.  I also wrote for it, and did a bit of design work –  a good foundation for my later work.

I wrote a film script which basically ripped off Barry Lett’s The Daemons. Effectively a sequel which used the basic framework, but centred around a mysterious dolmen rather than a barrow. We had a sneaky Doctor Who allusion in there with a Police Box which came into shot behind the dolmen and from which someone looking like William Hartnell would retreat – there was an old gent at my church that looked uncanilly like him without the wig, and I hoped would indulge us. I wrote to Barry asking for permission to make it. He said – unofficially, non-commercially, fine.  It was very sweet of him to reply. I also wrote to Jon Pertwee and he became our patron. I was in the middle of writing a letter to him the day he died. That was my first proper contact with celebrity, again, something which I now do fairly regularly as part of my work.

That script spent ages being developed. I grew friends over it. One of whom became the first gay person I knew – still vividly recall the evening he came out to me – the first of many. I lost some of the same friends. And developed new ones – my friendship with Niall, which continues today, was cemented over rows about that damn script.

Through it we met girls. At an all-boys school, girls were something I was used to seeing only through the glass of the Mr Hunter’s chemistry lab, or from a distance as visiting girls’ schools would walk across the parade ground to use the school pool. Well, there and in church. There wasn’t many girls in our church, and I don’t think any of them ever took to me.

We set up auditions with several groups of girls over a one or two year period. There was some dating. I met my first proper girlfriend through those auditions. Several other crushes. More girlfriends. Shit, I even met my (now estranged) wife through those. Didn’t see that coming. I learnt a bit about how to deal with the opposite sex, and most of my actual sexual knowledge directly through that bloody script.

That script blossomed into several. And we lost the Doctor Who connection. And at 17 I made my first film from one of the original scripts I’d written. I directed, acted and photographed. Along with all my chums. Over a decade later and several of us still work together intermittently. And I’m still toying with those stories I first conceived when I was 16. I’ve tried pitching various projects directly as a result of that creative zeal which began in school.

Through those scripts I got a real taste for the film industry and after taking some time out after A-levels set off to study drama at university, only it became film studies. I got two degrees in that, with a PhD being worked on. I made a few short films, and ended up doing a little broadcasting work. Somewhere along the line it became Hammer that was my public focus, not Doctor Who, but every now and then I’ll come back to my old friend. I’m no super-expert, but it is part of my life and something I’m very fond of.

I finally saw a real Police Box when I visited my brother in Edinburgh after he started uni there. I must have seen them when I was in Edinburgh as a kid. but they don’t stick out in the memory. At any rate, they weren’t right. It was only later I went looking for them in Glasgow, and stumbled upon one I didn’t know about in Earl’s Court. And so began a photographic project, of which the image above is part.

You see, that humble Police Box – a conspicuous object out of time and place, which has the ability to take you anywhere  – really has been the foundation stone for so much of my life. It has been an inspiration – and now that I’ve seen and touched one in the flesh, it isn’t just a fantasy object. It is tangible. If you see me near a Police Box you will witness a transformation. My eyes light up and I become recharged. Its no Eye of Harmony doing it, it is the power of the ages, the opening up of my eyes and mind and potential.