BELFAST: MADNESS MEETS THE UVF
WORDS: SAMUEL WEAVER
Madness speaks with a disgruntled former UVF volunteer who had fallen victim to the oldest of beefs; drummer vs. flutist. Madness is in attendance at Belfast's commemoration of the 336th anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne. You can access this in LONG READS. Madness encourages you to do so.
During the Parade, Madness met Ross. Ross claimed to have formerly taken an active stance against Irish Republicanism. Ross is not the same name as the name that Ross had given to Madness. All of Ross’ opinions are those of Ross. Madness does not take any responsibility for any offence caused by the opinions of Ross. If you wish to raise a complaint, please visit the Lisburn Road on 12th July 2027, and look for someone not called Ross.
Madness had made it through the Shankill, the City Centre, Sandy Row. Having paused for a cigarette break under the shade of a large tree outside a respectful Inbetweeners prop of a middle class residence, we met Ross. Ross was friendly, enthusiastic, and keen to speak to Madness. Ross had been camped here with his modest belongings; a Tesco bag of Stella Artois, approximately eight remaining, a 750ml bottle of Buckfast, 80% remaining, a half-smoked joint behind his ear, and a Scooby Doo smile that begot a surprisingly well-maintained set of teeth. Ross had been camped out at this spot since 10am. The first band had not left the City Centre until the completion of the Orange Order’s wreath laying process at City Hall at 1040am. Ross was well oiled, game for a chat, game for a song, game for a fight, game for anything really.
Ross was glad that Madness was there.
About taim fucking shewed the truth man - ye kant trust tha BeeBayCee fucking conts.
Ross was born and raised in the Shankill, a loyalist stronghold in East Belfast, sandwiched between the New Lodge to the north and the Falls Road to the south. Ross had grown up there, but had since moved to East Belfast.
Ma famlees still dare, but a had te move, lot of me pals all abart sniffing nowdays, a wee drink an a smakes enuf for me, you know, you see? I stell go up now and den but it’s better ware a am now.
Ross interviews like a young Spaniel with ADHD. The blistering sun, multiple lagers and local chronic did not seem to wear down his enthusiasm for interjection, his passion for proudly pointing out the violent history of those associated with each marching band, his love of the Rangers, the Crown, and disdain for the British lack of appreciation for our monarchical overlords. Madness asks if this is a regular highlight of Ross’ year.
Aye, sence I wes a chald, erry fucking yer. See, we’re mare Bratish eny o yous, we fucking lav the Croon, the Keng, fucking allovit. Ye see, ye see, ye see -
Ross points out the infinite stream of Union Jacks, Blue, White, and Red uniforms, Glaswegian Orangemen
Wuldn git annie o this in fucking Landon, fucking prowd as fuck, we fuckin lav the monarky, allovit, do ye wan a bare man?
Madness politely declines the beer. Another day clean and sober. Madness asks Ross what it was like growing up in the Shankill
Fucking mainya man, mainya, am thurty foor and fuck it’s much bettur naw but fucking mainya, thengs gowang off allodatime, fucking sketch, them basterds dain da road fucking ell man
Ross is distracted by the Bridgeton Loyalists Flute Band. They are one of the camper outfits, a slimmer, male-only collective, the drummers’ delicate wrists and gentle mouth work of the flutists inspires a firmly anti-hetero notion inside one.
Aye loyl as fuck, so it is
Ross sometimes got into loops, loyalist loops, cycles of love for the crown. In fairness to him, there was endless stimulation present in this regard.
Do ye smoke weed?
Madness declined again. Another day clean and sober. Ross borrows a lighter. Ross pockets the lighter.
See thees gies, fuck man, all fucking UVF dalotodem, sareayous fuckers man
Ross shouts even louder at the passing band, the Ulster First Flute Band, donning tight fitting Rangers blue uniforms, arma covered in Red Hand tattoos, the gates of Ibrox permanently emblazoned across two different forearms. Madness pensively enquires about Ross’ own experience with loyalist paramilitaries.
Aye man, wen e wes a yung lad, proprr inte allodat shite, fucking mad bastars mind
With the exception of RAAD and CIRA, the Republicans seem to have largely upheld their Good Friday obligations, perhaps sensing that the tumultuous chaos and self-inflicted harm within the United Kingdom may escalate their ideological timeline. Better to wait for the redundancy package, than fuck off early and fuck everything up, right! Madness enquired if the loyalists were holding up their side of the bargain. Ross laughs.
No mayt, it’s still abeit, fucking proprr stell abeit, a stapped all that after the bahnd but stell, gud and aw, you know man, withart the UVF things would not be good - ye know the PeeEsssEnnAye aunt thare for us, ye know? Do ye smoke weed?
Madness again declines.
A wes en a bahnd, the YewEffEffBee, basters pramised may a wud bee a drummr, a tol them, a fucking tol them, am no fucking abat wev a floot. Firs fucking week, eh floot they gayve me, so dey did. Fucked rite of, fucked the UVF off, fucked et all, fucking floot man.
Ross’ militaristic ambitions seemed to have been floored by an instrumental dispute. It is the small things in life that matter.
Madness pushes further, asking about the paramilitaries relationships with the state, with their communities. Ross does not particularly wish to discuss this. Even all kettled up, some things are sanctious.
Ross explains that the PSNI, with armoured Land Rovers, pistols on their hips, and rubber bullets at the ready, do not serve anyone. Ross explained that they had failed to protect both the Irish and British community against the true enemy, a new enemy, an enemy which had recently united them.
Fucking emmagrants.
This may seem to be a surprise. Since 1800, an estimated 300,000 people have migrated, both ways, from the North of Ireland to Scotland. Arguably, since 1690 immigration has been the sole cause of all issues within the island of Ireland. The Glorious Revolution, the occasion all were here for, was a Dutch Protestant deposition of the last Catholic king of England, painting England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland orange. What’s the craic with immigration, are things not good right now Ross?
Nat en a good playce mayt, nat at tall, anly thing branging oos togever es Harry Novak, ye know Harry Novak, aye uniting the Cathlics and Protstants, stapping the BBC fram controlling us.
Before Madness could query further, Ross grabs, pulling in by the shoulder, a seriousness piercing his retina.
Tell me, fucking hanestly. Have ye seen annie displeis a aggression, racism, anyhing teday? Fucking saresly. Anythang? Es all BBC bollocks.
As this statement is made, another band is passing. The the families in their seats in front of us oblige the jingoistic death song the band disburses ferociously: WE’RE UP TO OUR KNEES IN FENIAN BLOOD, SURRENDER OR YOU’LL DIE, COS WE ARE THE FAMOUS BILLY BOYS.
It’s time to go. Contention is to be avoided with Ross. A handshake, a squeeze of the shoulder, a hyper grin.
See ye later man - o an dont go Sandy Row after dark, net wev yar voice - dell fucking kill ye.
Ross chuckles and, as Madness departs, he bellows along to Follow Follow. What a wonderful day, and a wonderful celebration. Fun for all the family, aye so it is.