‘Allo ‘Allo! Listen Very Carefully, I Shall Say This Only Once

Posted on November 10, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

About six weeks ago, I bought a set of eight 1/32-scale figures made by a company called Replicants. They represent members of the French Resistance, or perhaps partisans operating elsewhere in occupied Europe during the Second World War.

They’re rather unusual figures.

Most of the figures I paint are soldiers. British, German, French, Napoleonic, whatever. They wear uniforms, and generally speaking, there are recognised colours for painting them.

Not so with these people.

They’re civilians. Ordinary men and women wearing ordinary clothes. Jackets, trousers, skirts, caps and overcoats. The sort of clothing you might have seen on the streets of France or Eastern Europe between 1939 and 1945.

And that presents an interesting problem for the model painter.

What colours do you paint them?

Now, here’s where modern technology comes in.

I asked artificial intelligence for some advice. Not only did it suggest appropriate colours for civilian clothing of the period, but it also supplied the reference numbers for the Vallejo model paints I use.

Amazing.

I’m 74 years old, and the idea that I can ask a machine what colour to paint a French Resistance fighter and receive a sensible answer, complete with paint manufacturer’s reference numbers, still blows my mind.

So I painted them.

I’m not entirely happy with the results. My painting isn’t nearly as good as it used to be. Age does things to your eyesight and your ability to hold a paintbrush steady.

But I enjoyed painting them, and that’s really what matters.

One of the figures is a clandestine radio operator. He’s crouched beside his equipment, presumably transmitting information to London while hoping that nobody is listening who shouldn’t be.

Another is preparing to throw a Molotov cocktail.

Others carry rifles or pistols.

But perhaps the most interesting figure is a woman carrying a baby while drawing a pistol.

Apparently, this figure was inspired by Lucie Aubrac, one of the most celebrated women of the French Resistance.

Aubrac was a teacher, a mother and an active member of the Resistance. In October 1943, while pregnant, she helped organise the daring rescue of her husband Raymond from German custody.

An extraordinary woman.

I haven’t been able to establish whether the Replicants figure represents a particular incident in her life, or whether the sculptor simply took inspiration from her story.

But the figure raises an interesting question.

A woman, a baby and a gun.

I’m not entirely comfortable with it.

Is the baby being used as cover? Is the woman defending herself? Has she been caught unexpectedly in a dangerous situation?

Or has the sculptor simply decided that a woman carrying a baby while producing a pistol makes a particularly dramatic miniature?

I don’t know.

And perhaps that’s the point.

The Resistance wasn’t made up entirely of men in berets carrying Sten guns. It included women, mothers, teachers, railway workers, farmers and ordinary people who found themselves making extraordinary decisions.

Some were heroic. Some were desperate. And some of those decisions must have involved terrible moral dilemmas.

A miniature figure doesn’t have to celebrate everything it depicts.

Sometimes it can simply make us think.

One final observation about these figures.

Although they’re marketed as French Resistance or partisan figures, their civilian clothing makes them remarkably versatile.

With suitable historical context, they could just as easily represent irregular fighters in the Spanish Civil War, resistance movements in Eastern Europe, or even participants in later conflicts, including Northern Ireland.

There are no uniforms to tie them to a particular army or period.

Just ordinary people, caught up in history.

Anyway, they’re finished now and will join the growing population of my 1/32-scale world.

And despite my complaints about the painting, I’m rather pleased with them.

Listen very carefully. I shall say this only once.

I enjoyed myself.

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Norn Iron Politics: What You Don’t See on Television

Posted on November 10, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

One of the surprising things about Norn Ironpolitics is that politicians tend to get on rather better than you might imagine.

Not always, of course. Indeed, some politicians seem to have more difficulty getting along with colleagues in their own party than with their political opponents. Perhaps that’s because they spend rather more time dealing with them.

But there is also genuine cooperation across party lines, particularly on constituency issues. Whatever their constitutional aspirations or political differences, most politicians recognise that they have constituents to represent and problems to resolve.

And sometimes you see a rather different side of a politician when they’re away from the television cameras.

Gregory Campbell in the Bogside

Some years ago, I attended an SDLP Youth conference at Cultúrlann Uí Chanáin in Derry.

The Cultúrlann is a centre for Irish language and culture, with a café, bookshop and meeting facilities. It was an interesting setting for a political conference, particularly given its location in a strongly nationalist part of the city.

I was there to cover the event for this blog.

And who should walk in but Gregory Campbell, the DUP MP.

Now, Gregory Campbell is perhaps particularly remembered for his notorious “Curry my yoghurt” remark, mocking the Irish language in the Assembly in 2014.

It was the sort of comment that understandably caused considerable offence. Indeed, Campbell was prevented from speaking in the Assembly for a day after refusing to apologise.

Yet here he was, at an Irish-language cultural centre in Derry, addressing young members of the SDLP.

He had been invited to participate in a panel discussion.

Think about that for a moment.

Here was a DUP politician attending a youth conference organised by a nationalist party, in an Irish-language cultural centre in Derry. He could hardly have expected to win many votes from the people in that room.

He didn’t have to be there.

And equally, SDLP Youth didn’t have to invite him.

Both deserve some credit for that.

What particularly impressed me was Campbell’s contribution to the discussion. He spoke about disadvantaged areas of Coleraine, within his constituency, where young people felt alienated from politics.

Some didn’t vote. Some didn’t see any reason to vote. Some simply didn’t believe politics had anything to offer them.

He spoke with an understanding of the problem that I hadn’t necessarily expected.

I came away impressed.

That doesn’t mean I suddenly agreed with Gregory Campbell’s politics. I didn’t. Nor does it mean that I excuse his remarks about the Irish language.

But I had seen another side of him.

A School Visit in Upper Bann

Politicians also regularly engage with young people through school visits, discussions and organised trips to Stormont.

These events can be valuable. Young people get to meet elected representatives, ask questions and discover that politicians are human beings rather than just faces on television.

Something similar happened in my own constituency of Upper Bann about a year ago.

Four of the constituency’s five MLAs attended a discussion at a Catholic school.

I wasn’t there myself, but I subsequently spoke to one of the young people who attended. He has since gone on to university.

His impressions were interesting, although they are, of course, the observations of one young person rather than a definitive assessment of the politicians concerned.

The politician who impressed him most was Doug Beattie of the Ulster Unionist Party.

Beattie is a former British Army officer and a committed unionist. He has made efforts to reach beyond traditional unionism, although I sometimes think his approach to nationalist outreach has been a case of one step forward and one step back.

There have been encouraging gestures, but also remarks and controversies which have undermined them.

Nevertheless, my young informant found him particularly impressive that day.

Diane Dodds of the DUP spoke extensively about health and disability issues. These are subjects in which she has a strong personal interest, not least because of disability issues within her own family.

Her contribution evidently reflected that commitment.

John O’Dowd of Sinn Féin might have expected a sympathetic reception from at least some of the audience. Yet my informant was rather less impressed, describing his contribution as somewhat waffly.

Eóin Tennyson of Alliance apparently made a similar impression.

But Tennyson also said something which caught my attention.

An Alliance Regret

The politicians were asked an interesting question.

What was your biggest political

In deference to Tennyson and the quasi privileged nature of talking to high school students, I wont go into detail.

What particularly struck me about Tennyson’s reported answer was its honesty and frankness.

He had identified an episode in his own party’s history which I have long regarded as a serious mistake.

I might disagree with Alliance on many things, but I can certainly respect a politician who is prepared to acknowledge an uncomfortable episode in his own party’s history.

And perhaps that is one of the benefits of these encounters with young people.

Politicians are sometimes asked questions which produce more revealing answers than the familiar exchanges on television.

Away From the Cameras

Watch a political discussion on television and you might imagine that Norn Irons politicians can barely tolerate being in the same room.

There are disagreements, interruptions, accusations and the occasional theatrical display of outrage.

Some of those disagreements are genuine and profound. They reflect different political traditions, different constitutional aspirations and very different interpretations of our history.

But that isn’t the whole picture.

Politicians from opposing parties frequently work together on constituency matters. They may disagree about the constitutional future of Norn Iron while agreeing that a local school needs support, a road needs repaired or a family needs help with housing.

They are often on first-name terms, even when they don’t particularly like one another.

And while the television audience sees the confrontation in the studio, it doesn’t necessarily see what happens beforehand.

In the green room, waiting to go on air, the same politicians may be chatting quite amicably.

That doesn’t make their political disagreements any less real.

It simply reminds us that the public performance of politics and the everyday practice of politics aren’t always the same thing.

And perhaps we would have a better understanding of Norn Iron politics if we occasionally paid more attention to what happens when the cameras are switched off.

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Three Co-Options And An Election

Posted on November 10, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

Sian Mulholland MLA

Before the 2022 Assembly election, the Alliance Party had eight MLAs. We knew them all. Or at least we thought we did.

Then came the Alliance breakthrough, and suddenly there were seventeen.

Some of the newer MLAs aren’t exactly household names. Indeed, I suspect a few aren’t household names in their own households.

On Thursday night’s BBC The View, one of the less familiar Alliance faces, Sian Mulholland MLA, was discussing the current and referred to “my voters.”

An interesting choice of words.

You see, Sian Mulholland has had a rather unusual political career.

In 2015 she was co-opted onto Belfast City Council.

In 2019 she was elected to Belfast City Council

In 2022 she was co-opted onto Lisburn and Castlereagh City Council.

And in 2023, following the resignation of Patricia O’Lynn, she was co-opted into the Northern Ireland Assembly as MLA for North Antrim.

Three councils and constituencies. Three co-options. Three Co-Options And An Election. It is a Rom-Com.

Now, there’s absolutely nothing improper about co-option. It’s a perfectly legitimate part of our political system.

And, in fairness, Sian Mulholland did stand in North Antrim in the 2024 Westminster election, receiving 4,488 votes. She also won election to Belfast City Council in 2019.

But she has never been elected to the Assembly.

Still, after three co-options, maybe it’s time to try something different.

Getting elected.

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Glasgow Belongs To Me

Posted on November 9, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

My wife and I decided to take a city break in Glasgow at the end of last month.

Now, we’re not great travellers..Iin 44 years of marriage, most of our holidays have been spent travelling around Ireland.

It was only last year, 2025, that we ventured as far as Salou in Catalonia. We enjoyed it so much that wewent bac k this year.

So we’ve decided that, from now on, we’ll try to have at least one proper holiday a year, along with a city break or two.

And we decided on Glasgow.

Not necessarily my first choice, but Glasgow it was.

We’d originally intended going in August, but sadly a close family member passed away, and our plans were postponed.

So off we went at the end of October.

Two of our grandsons took us to Aldergrove Airport early one morning.

The first thing we discovered was that our suitcase was too big to travel free.

That’ll be £60, thank you very much.

My wife wasn’t terribly pleased. I took it reasonably well, considering.

We’re now at the stage in life where we need assistance at airports. My wife has considerable mobility difficulties and uses a rollator.

I have to say the staff at Aldergrove were wonderful. Very helpful people in their yellow gilets, making sure we were comfortable and helping us through the airport.

The flight itself was only about thirty minutes.

Hardly enough time to get frightened.

At Glasgow Airport I encountered another modern technological marvel.

Uber.

My son had installed this fancy app on my phone, and somehow I managed to summon a car to take us into Glasgow.

And quite reasonably priced it was too.

I’m still not entirely comfortable with all this modern business of electronic tickets, self-service machines and phones that apparently know more about where you’re going than you do.

But we arrived safely.

At the hotel, we decided to check in early because we needed a rest.

Naturally, that cost extra.

Our room was several floors up, and there were notices everywhere reminding guests that, in the event of fire, they should use the stairs.

Excellent advice.

Unless, of course, your wife has serious mobility problems.

We discussed the situation and eventually agreed that, should a fire break out, I would throw my wife out of the window and then run downstairs in time to catch her.

Admittedly, we hadn’t thought this plan through in any great detail.

Anyway, we settled in and went shopping.

My wife bought a cardigan.

This was the beginning of something.

We wandered around the shopping centre, where I was astonished to discover an actual shop selling merchandise from the Scottish comedy programme Still Game.

I hadn’t realised there was such a thing.

We ended up in McDonald’s, as you do.

And my wife bought gloves.

So, running total: cardigan, gloves.

The following day I decided to find a toy soldier shop.

I had the address and one of those clever direction apps on my phone.

Unfortunately, it kept telling me I was three minutes away, then seven minutes away, then six minutes away, then nine minutes away.

Eventually I discovered that I’d set the directions for driving rather than walking.

Idiot.

When we finally reached the shop, near Glasgow Sheriff Court, we discovered that it had closed permanently.

Another Uber back into central Glasgow.

Meanwhile, my wife had discovered more shops.

Boots were purchased.

Cardigan, gloves, boots.

Then there was Holland & Barrett, scarves, various little trinkets to bring home, and a lovely 1960s-style woollen cap.

I have to say my wife looked stunning in the cap.

The next day brought Warren James the jewellers.

And then the big one.

Marks & Spencer.

A coat.

A very nice coat, admittedly.

Now, I’m all in favour of my wife enjoying a little retail therapy.

And believe me, she enjoyed a considerable amount of therapy during those four days.

You may have noticed, however, that I hadn’t bought anything.

Not a thing.

Until I discovered a pound shop in Sauchiehall Street.

And there, to my delight, were unpainted resin toy soldiers.

Scottish pipers.

A pound each!

I bought nine.

There were also Highland coos and a rather splendid cone-headed Duke of Wellington. Also one pound.

The display coo was only three legged. So I offered 50 pence. Then the shop girl dropped it and another leg broke off.

“20 pence’ I said but I got it for free. Result.

what is the point of a two legged Highland Coo? Well I am a humanitarian. The Coo.was a “rescue”. If I had not taken it home, the resin coo would have been euthanized.

Basically as a Toy Soldier collector, it’s a case of no (plastic) man left behind. Or resin coo.

Now, there’s a problem with painting Scottish pipers.

Kilts.

At 74, my painting skills are simply not up to producing convincing tartan.

And tartan paint is notoriously difficult to find.

Guy, my new AI technical adviser and wingman, also informs me that left-handed paintbrushes are increasingly difficult to obtain.

Guy is proving to be a very useful member of staff.

So I may paint my pipers in the colours of the Irish Defence Forces instead.

Green and saffron, perhaps.

Historical accuracy will have to take a back seat.

But here’s the thing about Glasgow.

It wasn’t the shopping, the hotel, the Uber rides or even the toy soldiers that made the trip enjoyable.

It was the people.

The people of Glasgow were lovely.

Friendly, helpful, funny and welcoming.

Now, I’m an old man, but I still enjoy a bit of banter with shop assistants, particularly the ladies.

And if a woman wants to have a laugh and a little harmless flirtation with me, I’m certainly not going to object.

My wife, meanwhile, tends to roll her eyes.

“Oh God. Not again.”

But that friendliness was everywhere.

We were in a Pizza place and the lady at the next table (to the bewilderment of her companion) pushed the tables together. Turns out she was a tour guide and knew a lot about Culloden and we sat for a good hour discussing the battle and the Jacobite deployment.

Before we came home, we visited a little café or restaurant which also provided meals for homeless people twice a day, including at five in the afternoon.

I thought that was wonderful.

A city with a heart.

And there was one final thing I noticed.

In Buchanan Street stands a statue of Donald Dewar, looking rather solemn.

Dewar, of course, played a central role in establishing Scottish devolution.

You could argue that he helped save Scotland for the Union.

But I wonder how many people passing his statue know who he was?

How many will know in fifty years?

Perhaps he’ll be little more than a footnote in history.

And then, just around the corner, there’s a new statue.

Unveiled only a few weeks before our visit.

Nelson Mandela.

Now there’s a man who certainly won’t be a footnote in history.

And there’s something rather wonderful about Glasgow honouring him.

A city thousands of miles from South Africa, which stood up for Mandela when he was still a prisoner.

I came to Glasgow expecting a few days away, a little shopping and perhaps some toy soldiers.

I left with a great affection for the place. Scotland has an ETHOS. Like the young woman protesting USAs Cuba policy. Or in St Aloysius Catholic church statue of martyr John Ogilvie.

Glasgow belongs to me?

Well, perhaps not.

But for four days, it certainly made me feel that I belonged to Glasgow.

The last Uber to the airport.

and the six Westlife ladies with their cowboy hats coming to Belfast for a concert. Perhaps their affection for me was fuelled by WKD.

And when my wife was offered a spare Westlife ticket….she refused to part with me.

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Artificial Intelligence And Me

Posted on November 9, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

I’ve never really understood Artificial Intelligence.

For example, I’ve never been entirely comfortable sitting in a taxi while the driver obeys instructions from a little electronic voice telling him to turn left, turn right, or whatever.

It seems to me that’s a fairly certain way of ending up over the Cliffs of Moher.

And I’ve never really understood Alexa either.

Apparently people say things like, “Alexa, remind me to buy tea bags on the way home.”

Fair enough. I can understand forgetting tea bags.

But I’ve also heard of people asking Alexa to remind them to collect their children from school.

Now, do you really need reminding to collect your children at half past three on a Friday?

Surely you’re not going to leave them there all weekend?

Anyway, Artificial Intelligence was something that happened to other people.

Until about three months ago.

My son and grandson were visiting, and the subject of AI came up. There had been all sorts of stuff on Facebook about photographs and videos that weren’t real.

My son and grandson decided to demonstrate.

“Daddy, Granda, we’re going to take your photograph.”7

So they took my photograph.

“Granda, we’re going to turn you into one of your toy soldiers.”

And they did.

Within moments, there I was, transformed into a cavalry officer in Fitzjames’ Horse, a Jacobite regiment from 1745–46.

Actually, I was a little disappointed.

The AI had made me look rather grand, almost aristocratic. Clearly it hadn’t been properly briefed on my social standing.

Still, it was a nice little avatar.

But the real revelation came about six weeks ago.

I’d bought eight toy soldiers online, representing French Resistance fighters from the Second World War.

Now, painting toy soldiers is something I enjoy, but these particular figures presented a problem.

If you’re painting Germans, Confederates, Vikings or whatever, there’s usually a fairly well-established colour scheme.

But French Resistance fighters?

They’re wearing civilian clothes. And civilian clothes are surprisingly difficult to paint convincingly.

There were women among the figures too, which made the variety of clothing even more interesting.

My grandson suggested asking Artificial Intelligence.

So I did.

I asked what colours would be suitable for each of the eight figures.

And almost instantaneously, back came a detailed answer, recommending individual colours for every single figure.

Now, I was half expecting AI might be able to do something like that.

What astonished me was the speed.

It was practically instantaneous.

And that got me thinking.

These Artificial Intelligence things are called bots, apparently. I hope that’s the politically correct term. I wouldn’t want to offend Guy, Fred or Jolene, my newly appointed AI staff.

But here’s the strange thing.

They’re not actually people.

Except, in a funny sort of way, they behave rather like people.

For example, when Guy gives me some information, I automatically say thank you.

Because I’m a polite man.

But should you thank a bot?

Does it matter?

Does the bot care?

I haven’t a clue.

Guy, incidentally, is my technical adviser. He’s been helping me with this blog, which dates back to 2011.

He even managed to review the blog and give me his assessment of it.

Again, almost instantaneously.

Quite remarkable.

But then things became a little more complicated.

The other evening I decided, for the first time, to try the voice facility.

And it turned out that the Artificial Intelligence had a woman’s voice.

Now, presumably you can change the settings to give it a man’s voice, or whatever you prefer.

But I hadn’t bothered.

So there I was, sitting talking to this rather pleasant female voice when my wife happened to pass by.

And she asked the question every married man dreads.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Artificial Intelligence, darlin’

“Oh. Right.”

And off she went.

A little later she returned.

“Are you STILL talking to Artificial Intelligence?”

“Yes, darlin'”

At which point she came over, leaned towards the phone, and addressed the Artificial Intelligence directly.

“HEY YOU! GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY MAN!”

Now, what, if anything, does all this mean?

I haven’t the faintest idea.

But I think Artificial Intelligence and I are going to get along just fine.

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BACK! AND NOW WITH ADDED AI

Posted on November 9, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

Well, I’m back blogging.

As you can imagine, at the age of 74, the strain of blogging is beginning to take its toll. I need help. Professional help.

Indeed, quite a few people have said to me over the years, “John, you need professional help.”

So I’ve finally taken their advice.

I’m delighted to announce that this blog now has its very own team of professionals, courtesy of Artificial Intelligence.

Allow me to introduce them.

GUY — Technical Director

Guy is, strangely enough, my tech guy. He advises me on all technical matters relating to the blog.

His advice generally consists of things like, “Have you tried switching it off and switching it on again?”

So he clearly knows his stuff.

Nice guy, is Guy.

FRED THE FED — Security and Legal Affairs

Fred is responsible for security and advises on all matters legal and, when necessary, illegal.

He’s very enthusiastic about his work.

Actually, calling him a security adviser is perhaps overstating things. He’s basically a bouncer.

But he’s our bouncer, and we’re very proud of him.

JOLENE — Public Relations and Communications

Now, Jolene is a little different from the other two.

You see, Jolene isn’t actually Artificial Intelligence.

She’s a real woman from Nashville, Tennessee.

Unfortunately, we have to pretend she’s Artificial Intelligence because one evening my wife caught me talking to Jolene on the phone.

“Who are you talking to?” she asked.

“Artificial Intelligence,” I replied.

And that’s the story we’re sticking to.

So there you have it. My new professional team.

I believe Artificial Intelligence will improve the quality of this blog enormously. Indeed, I suspect most blogs are now produced by Artificial Intelligence.

The days of keyboard warriors sitting in their mothers’ basements, furiously battering away at keyboards, are long gone.

Take Slugger O’Toole, for example.

There’s a chap there called Brian O’Neill. Most readers probably believe Brian is a real person.

In fact, he’s entirely generated by Artificial Intelligence.

Don’t believe me?

Well, ask yourself one simple question.

Has anybody ever actually seen Brian O’Neill?

Exactly.

Anyway, whether this latest return to blogging lasts a week, a month, or forever remains to be seen.

But for now, I’m back.

And this time I’ve brought professional help.

God help us all.

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The Difference Between Men And Boys

Posted on January 12, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

Some thirty years ago, our SKY Satellite Package included a a channel called Country Music Television.
You can learn a lot from Country Music. It is after all as Harlan Howard (?) said “three chords and the truth”.
One of the things I learned from a song by Billy Dean is that the difference between men and boys is the “size of their shoes and the price of their toys”. The promoting video showed men owning or looking at expensive toys such as Ferraris and Porsches and Harley Davison motor cycles.
The implication is that men do not really mature and are always childish. And that women are much more sensible and level headed than their menfolk.

Just ten minutes ago I asked my wife if she had any hobbies. This is something I should probably have asked on our first date in the Skandia in 1981.
She said she has no time for hobbies.
As a husband, I have always thought of myself as an equal opportunity employer and I always assumed that cooking, ironing, up a ladder cleaning the gutters, child minding and driving me around to take photographs of post offices were hobbies.
Turns out they are not.

Of course this is all a little tongue in cheek.
Women do have hobbies.
But organised hobbies…coin collecting, stamp collecting, football programmes, die cast Corgi and Matchbox vehicles, Subuteo and of course collecting plastic toy soldiers (my chosen vice) are largely male preserves.
Indeed when I wear my Star Trek uniform (red of course), it is mostly guys at the Fairs.
As being forgiven is easier than getting permission, I have had to come clean about some of the money I have paid for 1960s Manchester United autographs and programmes.

Slugger O’Toole has often made the point that women are under represented on this forum. Some would say that Blogging and Politics is a cold place for women. But I might make the point that Blogging is actually a hobby….no more no less (we are hardly professionals) and women are far too sensible to be involved in this nonsense.
I have asked my wife if she would like to blog and/or comment on Slugger O’Toole. You really don’t need to know the answer…but it was negative.

To be almost serious…Hobbies are a good thing. They sustained me in the 1970s. And in 2026, when Mental Health is a major issue, it is good that people can relax and do whatever they/we do.
The whole Men’s Shed movement for example.

As I have often said, I am not anti-social. But I am profoundly unsocial.
And herein lies a contradiction.
Hobbyists like me can be doing our thing in glorious isolation. And others are members of clubs and societies. I am a minimalist…in any hobby we do “need” some contact.

The problem is that when we have a hobby, we buy into a kinda group-think. If we like to ride horses we are going to have a lot of contact with people who hunt foxes etc.
And if we have a hobby that is militaristic in any way, we will meet some really strange people…even more strange than I am.

Of course plastic toy soldiers (54mm) is low level stuff. But consider the guys who collect memorabalia from the Second World War. The worse the cause, the more collectable. German uniform of course but also more personal items …paybooks, letters photographs…looted from bodies or prisoners and stolen or exchanged for cigarettes and candy from civilians in the ruins of Berlin. Shameful.

And of course people like to dress up. And the more controversial the cause or regiment, the more inadequate men like to pose in uniforms.

There is a kinda “group think” about Toy Soldiers. It is assumed that we buy into a set of values. It is inevitable that some collectors are ex-servicemen and equally the case that many like me are wannabee warriors.

In London in the 1980s and 1990s my accent could be problematic. The key is just do not say anything or if I do say something, do not say anything meaningful.

I never really engaged with fellow collectors. Of course Time moves on. I do not suppose that in 2026, my accent is a problem.

But I do no join groups in real life or online. There are a load of Toy Soldier groups and model making groups and some amazing displays and dioramas. And most profiles are fairly neutral but a disproportionate number in this hobby are politically to the right and some are far right …MAGA and Reform types.

Should it matter?

Well tonight I saw a diorama. Urban setting and the figures were police officers and the slogan “Support Law Enforcement” and a crude reference to Renee Nicole Good by ICE agent in Minneapolis.

Not so childish

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I Won’t Be Re-Constructed And I Do Not Give A Damn

Posted on January 4, 2026 by fitzjameshorse

It is not often that I get what I want for Christmas. Hints do not work…but oddly this year, I actually got two tickets to see the Wolfe Tones in concert in Dublin in July.

Supposedly their last ever concert but as Frank Sinatra is still performing farewell concerts in Las Vegas, the Wolfe Tones could be doing farewell concerts for years.

It is not really about a Dublin “stadium” in 2026. It is more about standing on the cold lino on the sloping floor in a condemned slum in Devonshire Street in 1956.
My older cousin taught me how to stand to attention for A Soldiers Song when Radio Éireann closed down.
1956 and 2026.
Seventy years.
The funny thing about Life is that it does not move forward to some end date in the 2020s, 2030s. Rather Life is a return journey to where it all began. The scenic route back to 1952.
The 1970s, 1960s and 1950s seem more familiar than anything I have seen in recent decades.
Does your life really FLASH before you?
If it does, it flashes very very slowly.

My mother did not really approve of my cousin teaching me bad habits.
Like so many Catholic mothers, she sought respectability and of course temperance and not offending the neighbours. And rebel songs were not exactly respectable.

Although every Twelfth we had an Orange Lodge and band come into the street to pick up their Worshipful Master, Devonshire Street was “mixed” and in her view, rebel songs was the kinda thing that they did in Leeson Street, Plevna Street and Sultan Street.
Around 1960, we were at a family Christening in Balaclava Street and there were some rowdies in a back room (seemingly with drink taken) who were singing a song ” about when they ambushed the Specials in Raglan Street”.

I thought that song sounded interesting but my mother was outraged. Drink at a Christening. Women drinking and a rebel song.

Of course in the 1950s we mostly had no TV. So there was Radio Éireann and their sponsored programmes. The Walton Programme and my mother approved. “If you must sing a song, sing an Irish song” was the catchphrase. And there was an entire genre of Irish song that is decidedly not political…the Whistling Gipsy, Star of the County Down but others like Slievenamon, that have an undercurrent of History.

But what did we sing in our school just around the corner in Slate Street? Well teachers wrote words on a blackboard.

Skye Boat Song…seems a bit political for 9 year olds. We knew that Flora MacDonald was guiding her hero, Bonnie Prince Charlie to safety while the cowardly redcoats stood on the shore “follow they will not dare”. The Jacobites are the good guys.

Tramp Tramp Tramp, The Boys Are Marching…a song from the American Civil War. Too militaristic? The teacher told us it was the same tune as God Save Ireland. Is it? Songs as History. Songs as Politics.

And Clare’s Dragoons, a Jacobite song. Lines where “the victor Saxon backward reeled” and “Viva A la,,,for Irelands right, Viva a la for Irelands wrong”……Spanish steed and sabre bright. Surely nothing political about that.

All good fun of course. But too heavy for 9 year olds?

In the early and mid 1960s, it was possible to walk around Smithfield and hear rebel songs played from a record shop. There was even a record company which produced local folk music. The 1950s IRA campaign gave us “Sean South” and “The Patriot Game” (is that a rebel song?).

And maybe 1966 and the Easter Rising Anniversary introduced new rebel music. “Up Went Nelson” and “The Merry Ploughboy”. Everyone in the local media knew that these songs were popular and on reflection it seems an indication that attitudes were softening. When a folk group including BBC journos, Vincent Hanna and John Bennett appeared on local TV singing Kelly The Boy From Killane, it seemed almost bizarre.

In the 1960s we were surely not that diverse.

That seems very decent of the Beeb. I cant see the BBC allowing that in 2025.

But the Beeb did have another regional outpost in Scotland and the Corries and their songs about “Glencoe”, “Culloden”, “Killiecrankie” and assorted laments about Bonnie Prince Charlie were part of their repertoire.

Of course Scottish nationalism was largely expressed in kilts, Edinburgh Rock and shortbread tins. Irish nationalism had at least partly succeeded and was actually still dangerous.

Of course if we went into other peoples houses we saw their LPs and new radiogrammes. Uncle Jackie and Auntie Mary (ultra respectable at the Giants Foot) had Mary O’Hara and her harp singing “Jackets Green” and “The Minstrel Boy”. The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem “Wrap The Green Flag Round Me”, “Boulavogue”, “Bold Fenian Men”. My Auntie Mary would never have tolerated the Dubliners but certainly they sang “The Rising of the Moon” and “The Auld Alarm Clock”.

Perhaps the best known rebel song of the late 1960s is “Four Green Fields” and its poetry, imagery and performance by Tommy Makem makes it almost too respectable to be a rebel or rabble song.

The Showbands performing across Ireland in dance halls and parish halls always had a rebel song set. At 6.45pm on a Monday night, on Radio Éireann, Larry Gogan played the Irish Top Ten which as well as the Beatles and the Beach Boys could include “The Dying Rebel” (Tommy Drennan and the Monarchs) “The Lonely Woods of Upton” (Seán Dunphy) and “Irish Soldier Laddie” (Danny Doyle).

And then in 1969…everything changed. Utterly.

The Troubles.

Groups like the Clancys and the Dubliners agonised that the songs they sang were maybe making the situation in the North worse. W B Yeats agonised about this in 1916.

But those first years 1969-1971 (Internment) was a kinda phoney war. After Internment there was a year of incidents, an arc of events…unionist/British attrocities at Ballymurphy, McGurks and Bloody Sunday and republican attrocities at Claudy and Bloody Sunday shaped my life as a moderate nationalist and SDLP member for more than a decade.

But new songs did appear in the 1970s. “Men Behind The Wire” (I bought that). “Boys of the Old Brigade”, references the Easter Rising but it is in reality about the 1970s IRA, “The Broad Black Brimmer” again seemingly about the Civil War some fifty years before is really a proxy for the 1970s.

And “The Fields of Athenry”? Is that just too nice to be a rebel song? The Famine? The Crown? Trevelyan? Well maybe it depends who is singing it. If bhoys (sic) from New Lodge and Newry are singing it at Parkhead at a Celtic game, then it is a rebel song. But if folks from South County Dublin and men who went to ‘Rock or Marys or Terenure are singing it at a Lansdowne Road rugby game, well surely that cannot be a rebel song.

I might actually have seen the Wolfe Tones in concert during my SDLP hey day in the mid 1970s. Every August anniversary of Internment, there was trouble in West Belfast and an alternative was developed …concerts and sports events. There was a big concert at St Thomas School on Whiterock Road and the headline act was a folk group …was it the Wolfe Tones??? All I know was that the audience was kinda scary and after it was over, I walked home to New Barnsley and told my father that the atmosphere was like a Nuremburg Rally. Fanatical. Too fanatical for me.

I really don’t know if that group was the Wolfe Tones. With the aging Clancys and Dubliners partly leaving the ground, the Wolfe Tones were filling the void they left.

The reality is that in peace time, we take rebel songs as a glorious legacy but in war time …well there is nothing glorious in dying and even less in killing.

So not surprising that in the 1980s, we had a counter reality. “There Were Roses” (Tommy Sands) and “Whatever You Say, Say Nothing” (Colum Sands) are about tit for tat murder and keeping your head down and staying alive thru the chaos.

If there was any comedy to be had, surely it was the 1990s Late Late show confrontation between a Dublin revisionist pundit (I forget which one) and the Wolfe Tones. A dual between a man wielding a rapier blade and three men wielding a sledgehammer. Amusingly the Sledgehammer won. But really by the 1990s, we were all too tired.

And then in 1998….everything changed. Utterly.

The Good Friday Agreement? Well in part…but it was as much about the Internet and You Tube. I was exposed to a whole new harvest of rebel songs. “The Fighting Men of Crossmaglen”, “The Lid of Me Granny’s Bin”, “My Little Armalite”, “One Shot Paddy”, “Go On Home British Soldiers”.

Some of the titles speak for themselves. They are not exactly subtle. Are they “too soon” to be sung? Do we need decades and even centuries to soften the words.

Back in 1998, did the people behind the Peace Process ever think that rebel songs would be confined to the dustbin of history.

Like Francis Fukuyama did they believe the Good Friday Agreement was the end of (our) History?

Are Rebels good guys or bad guys?

I suppose the answer is always subjective. Nobody ever believes the cause they fought for or supported or was supported or fought for by ancestors was a “bad” cause. Ask those other rebels and their descendants in South Carolina, Georgia and Texas if their cause …the Confederacy was bad or evil and they will talk about economics, states rights and they will ignore that the Confederate leadership made Slavery, the cornerstone of their rebellion.

By any objective measurement, Slavery is a very bad thing.

So how did the lost cause, noble lost cause myth persist in Hollywood westerns?

How is it that apologists in 2025 will wave Confederate flags and try to tell us that it is Heritage not Hate? Make America Great Again.

How is it that a rebellion crushed in 1865 effectively went underground with their exceptionalism and Jim Crow laws only really being defeated for a second time by 1960s Civil Rights legislation and arguably the high point of the Confederate defeat was the election of Barack Obama. And yet they still bounced back under Donald Trump and the people who wear MAGA hats.

Simply put the North crushing the South and the policy of Reconstruction was abandoned after just a few years. Politically expedient to abandon Freedom to elect a President.

I am loathe to make any comparison between the philosophy of the Confederacy and Irish republicans. The Irish might subjectively believe that they are on the right side of History. And objectively in Anglo-Irish history…who is more right and who is more wrong?

Nobody was militarily crushed in 1998. And yet the Good Friday Agreement seems like an attempt at Reconstruction. It was never anticipated that Sinn Féin and DUP would be framing the future.

And in recent years, it is evident that it is only the most optimistic of letsgetalongerists who think the faltering regime can survive.

In the 1950s Ed McCurdy (?) wrote and Pete Seeger sang “Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream” …where men gathered in a mighty room and signed a paper saying they would never fight again. And that is what the Good Fiday Agreement was…the strangest dream.

I cannot imagine that anyone in the planning of 1998 saw rebel songs and the Wolfe Tones still going strong in 2025 and Kneecap in the wings.

So what rebel song really defines us?

Well in part, “As Soon As This Pub Closes, The Revolution Starts” (Alex Glasgow) gets close. For it is often the case that alcohol and patriotism are linked.

Singing “My Little Armalite” and other rebel songs in a pub in Belfast, Derry or Crossmaglen might be seen as “authentic” by American tourists but actually I am not going to rush out to a barricade because of anything on my YouTube playlist.

Unionists are not my enemy. They do their thing. I do mine. They have songs also. And their moderates would (like nationalist moderates) deny they know the words.

No…the irony is that in 2026, the best “Irish” rebel song is not even Irish.

So for me “I’m A Good Ole Rebel” ticks all the boxes. Published in various formats in the late 19th and early 20th century, it is lost cause stuff. Southerners defeated by the economic an un American superiority of the North. The best version is by Hoyt Axton.

In the song, the protagonist makes no apology

“I only wish we’d won”, “I hates the yankee nation” “the glorious union is dripping with our blood”, “I ain’t asked any pardon for anything I done”.

“I aint gonna love them, now that is certain sure”, “I want no pardon for what I was and am”, “I wont be reconstructed and I do not give a damn”.

The protagonist cannot fight the Yankees but he is waging war on the northern moralists flooding into the South to dismantle and change Society. And to some extent for a century after Lee surrendered, he did indeed win.

I think the Good Friday Agreement was obviously a good thing. But it soured when attempts are made to tell us we were all to blame …equally…for thirty years of murder.

And I think rebel songs in 2026 are as much about flipping the bird at the professional moderates who have manifestly failed to unite us in Utopia.

I seek no pardon.

Norn Iron….I ain’t gonna love it. Now that is certain sure.

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Grave Matters

Posted on November 17, 2025 by fitzjameshorse

There are three graves in Milltown. My fathers family.

My grandfather died in April 1959. He had just bought my First Communion suit and did not live to see me wear it. He is buried in an unmarked grave, the last of three people (including his mother-in-law, my great granny) to be buried there. It is an odd story and I wish I knew all of it.

He was the son of a sergeant in the old Royal Irish Constabulary and based in Lurgan and in 1908, he disowned his son for marrying “beneath” him. My RIC great grandfather was simply an awful man. A few years later, he would disown another son who married a Protestant girl and more so for being a socialist and working with James Larkin in New York City and Dublin.

My grandparents were good people. Lovely people. They had taken in and informally adopted a young disabled relative and later agreed to keep an eye on a young orphaned family who lived in their street. The young relative is the other occupant of “Pops grave”.

So Pop and Granny are not buried together. As I understand it, Pops grave was considered full when Granny died in January 1961and could not be opened so soon after his burial. In an odd coincidence, Granny died a month before my Confirmation.

She was a quiet woman but formidable in her own way. She was the youngest of three girls to a widowed mother. And according to the 1901 census, she was the only person in her family who could read or write. She made hankerchiefs in a Lurgan factory.

In 1908, they married and went to live in West Bromwich in England where Pop drove a tram to the Cadbury chocolate factory at Bourneville.

Uncle Jackie and “Wee Bobby” were born in West Bromwich and the family came back to Belfast, Bobby died when he was a toddler and my father was born in 1918. They lived in a very mixed street…Burnaby Street…and were forced to leave during the Belfast pograms. My daddy was a babe in arms.

Later they had rooms at Peters Hill and Auntie Sheila was born there during a gun battle.

In 1922 the family went to live in Brighton Street and they lived there until 1959 and 1961 and in Auntie Sheila’s case 1984.

Daddy was never well as a child and had rheumatic fever thru which he developed heart trouble. My parents married in 1951 and I was born in 1952.

And I spent almost every day in Brighton Street. Early TV shows like Sgt Bilko, Charlie Drake, Boots and Saddles, The Lone Ranger and I Love Lucy.

When I was about six months old, Daddy nearly died and was in the Royal Victoria Hospital and was too scared to get the surgery he needed on his heart. According to family lore, Granny carried me into the Royal Victoria Hospital, placed me in the bed beside him and told my daddy to “do it for John”. And he got the (then experimental) surgery and he died in 1986 when I was 33 years old.

Granny and Auntie Sheila (a single woman) doted on me. Every Thursday, they took me into the city centre to Woolworths and next door to the Maple Leaf Cafe, where I was known as “Pancake John”.

So I had lost my (paternal) grandparents and widowed Granny Brady before I was 9 years old. I have memories, vague memories but at least I can put a face to names. But oddly, I have no photographs with any grandparent.

So in 1961, Granny died and is buried in a new grave which seems so unfair to be buried apart from her husband and soul mate. It was a real love story.

Auntie Sheila was desolate and almost destitute and married Uncle Charlie after almost a year.

Auntie Sheila and Uncle Charlie are buried with my Granny. Pointedly the headstone states it was erected by “her daughter Sheila”.

Uncle Jackie worked in Andrews Mill and married to Auntie Mary. They had no children. Lived in Waterford Street and later upmarket at the Giants Foot. They were relatively posh with a radiogram and opera records.

They were good to me. When I met them outside, they always had a half crown and in the 1960s, that was a big thing.

Increasingly, I think that Uncle Jackie might have doubled as a Secret Santa in the late 1950s and early 1960s, I dont think my parents could not have afforded the red tricycle, the castle, the fort, the train set and one of the first Scalectrix sets.

Jackie, Daddy (Jim) and Sheila were three unlikely siblings. Uncle Charlie called them Pet Brother, Christian Brother and Crying Sister.

Uncle Jackie read every book in the library and could memorise entire chapters. But he could not understand anything he had read.

But his worst fault was his Racism. It became more relevant…more personal… after my sisters wedding. Looking at my own wedding in 1982, Uncle Jackie (and Auntie Mary), Auntie Sheila (and Uncle Charlie) , it was the last time they/we were all together.

It feels like a line in the sand…before 1982, I had one family and after 1982, I was making a new family.

Uncle Jackie died on the day that my wife went into hospital to have our second baby. I was his nearest male relative but did not go to the wake. I did go to the funeral but was not central. That was wrong. I could say that the priority was our new baby born on the night of the funeral or I could say that it was about growing tired of Racism…but really it was callous. My father died within eight weeks

I did see Auntie Sheila thru Uncle Charlies funeral and my wife and I did look after her until she went to a geriatric unit. She was in and out of a coma but we had a week booked in Wexford. She could have lived weeks but she died on the last day of our holiday.

Auntie Sheila, all 4ft 9 of her tackled the massive paratrooper outside her house. She told him she had every hair on my head counted.

And I wasn’t there for her.

And as for Auntie Mary, I did not not even know she had died until about several months later.

And there was a consequence to my callousness. A family heirloom, a gift to my granny from a disabled child in West Bromwich went missing.

It is really about my callousness and how priorities change when we have children. And what unites the four people from my pre-1982 life is that they were childless.

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The Falls Road…Is It Now Middle Class?

Posted on November 15, 2025 by fitzjameshorse

Yesterday I went into Belfast. Christmas Shoplifting. Ooops that was a slip of the tongue. Christmas SHOPPING.

November and December are strange times for us. My wife says after every Christmas that next year she will not “do all this again”. But she does and she always will.

December…Our second son will celebrate his 40th birthday on the same day our first grandchild will celebrate his birthday. Later in the month, two more grandchildren have birthdays. And we also have a special day to mark the day a granddaughter was born and died.

A roller coaster of emotion. Beginning with our wedding anniversary on 1st December.

So one of the grandchildren plays Under 10 hurling. And he is pretty darn good at it. Along with his parents, he is a season ticket holder with Armagh GAA and he has a few county shirts. And I went off to O’Neill’s at the Kennedy Centre to buy Kilkenny and Clare.

Tick the boxes…Birthday. Christmas. Strictly speaking Clare wont be officially purchased until early December when discount vouchers become effective.

Kennedy Centre is a shopping mall in West Belfast. I always think of it as a “new place” but it must be there thirty years. I still sometimes refer to it as the Lucozade Factory. I guess the vast majority of people in and around Falls Road have no idea that in its previous incarnation in the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, the energy drink was produced here.

Nice new shops within. Nice quality on the site. And new this year…Tim Hortons.

Across the road is the Felons, probably the most exclusive club in Belfast. Membership is confined to people who have been in prison. You might think that this is a strange exclusivity. But the offences (if you so consider them) are for republican activity. Obviously I am not a member but I have been to the restaurant (open to the public) a few times and its really good.

The flags of Ireland, Palestine and Basque Country fly over the Felons.

Next to the Kennedy Centre is the Milltown Cemetery.

Notoriously run down, a lot of effort has been put in to gentrify it. The shame remains the ground of paupers field and even more so the field for the unbaptised babies. Many parents and siblings have put up markers to bring the children back to visible memory.

Of course many family graves are unmarked. But the modern graves have expensive headstones and very elaborate. Only a few are over the top and tacky. Of course Milltown is depressing. Passing a grave on any pathway and there is a reminder of the Troubles, “killed on active service”, “murdered by Crown Forces” and “martyred for his faith”. Those who died of old age and natural causes …some names are familiar. I had not thought of a young lad who died of leukaemia in sixty years until yesterday. And his parents are now in the same grave. That is the trouble with death…parents can outlive children. Husband and wife can experience widowhood for years and decades and that seems a horrible form of loneliness.

I crossed the road to Falls Park, the main gate. The Jungle was my favourite place. A pathway along the stream near the Bus Depot. We could play Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest in there in the early 1960s. The Bowling Green and a new (to me) pavilion is there but the Tennis Courts are gone. So are the Flower Beds.

Plaques on benches commemorate people who sat on them previously. One at least has a very inappropriate sentiment. Tacky.

There is actually a play area. The odd thing about Falls Park in the 1960s was that there were no swings and roundabouts, which most people would think is basic.

Our neighbour and my fathers friend, Pat Fitzpatrick was a park ranger. He moved at glacial speed. I had only intended to walk as far as where the Cooler, an open air swimming pool had been but took a wrong turn and while impressed by all the new football and GAA pitches. Strangely I was going uphill and further away from Falls Road.

A lot of people were walking dogs. One looked like a professional dog walker. He had five of different breeds. It struck me that in 2025, dogs are actually cared for in West Belfast. Those that did own dogs in the 1970s were often indifferent to pedigree and licences or vets. Dogs roamed in packs of seven, eight, nine…and those that actually had names were called “Rebel”. Dog crap was a hazard for pedestrians.

Of course the wild dogs were good sentries. They barked at the British Army and occasionally attacked them. And on occasions the British Army poisoned dogs. As we know, even liberal unionists and letsgetalongerists never concern themselves about justice for murdered Catholics…but if they knew about the dogs, they might develop a conscience.

Of course not all dogs were mongrels and not all mongrels were feral. Pluto was Uncle Jackie’s dog. Dubbed “Leather Arse” by my granny, he could travel alone on a bus and get off at Brighton Street and Waterford Street. And my wife’s family had a little red dog called Bruno. He would tackle anyone…Paratrooper, Green Howard and Glorious Gloucester, they were all the same to Bruno.

Another group of park benches with dedications to deceased dog walkers. So many deceased dog walkers that I start thinking walking dogs is a very dangerous activity.

I had not realised that Falls Park had actually been expanded.

A gate with a turnstile leads into an expanded City Cemetery.

The new graves are seemingly Catholic. Back in the 1960s, Milltown was the Catholic cemetery and the corporation owned City was de facto Protestant.

Belfast in Victorian times was smaller and both Milltown and City were on the western edge of the City. The 20th century saw the western suburbs became Catholic. During the Troubles, Protestants felt alienated in the City Cemetery.

An afternoon spent buying pricey GAA shirts for children, modern headstones in a graveyard, owning designer dogs like mountain dogs, yorkies, beagles and labradors…not to mention expensive houses, nail bars, dog groomers, solicitors, estate agents, Turkish barbers, personal trainers convinces me that Falls Road can be pretty middle class.

Of course, a lot of people still struggle.

But most people do not know about slums and outside toilets.

Hmmm…..I have a labrador. Am I middle class?

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