‘Be Angry - ‘God’s Word Commands You To Be Righteously Angry’

Madness visits Belfast for the hottest Twelfth of July on record

National Army Museum, West London, 10th July 2026

There is lots and lots of wealth in Chelsea. I am late. This is not going to plan. On the way there I pass a million girls and boys in bald caps, shortly done black ties, Buzzballs in hand, small plastic globes being thrown from one another. I am informed by helpful signage that Pitbull is performing at Hyde Park. I assumed this was the work of an aggressive state actor - a subversive Litivenko memorial perhaps - the Met’s anti-proxy warfare PR campaign was clearly playing with my delicate, precious brain. 

I was on my way to visit another Mr Worldwide, King William II. Ahead of this weekend, I thought it only appropriate to see the eulogism of this figurehead of the Glorious Revolution, the man who, rumour has it, had caused a little bit of trouble across the continent. I wanted to see his face in London, before I saw his spirit in Belfast. The National Army Museum had no appreciation for this poetically cyclical metaphor. The National Army Museum closes at 1730. I arrive at 1650. I have been told that I am an excessively Type A person. I am riddled with sweat and my feet hurt. ‘Sorry, we are closed.’ I politely enquire about the advertised remaining forty minutes one should have of viewing. ‘Yes, sorry we are closed.’ Over their shoulders I see a man with a Rangers tattoo occupying his calf, perusing the metallic copy sitting in front of a decommissioned canon. I relent, I turn, I leave. I am still riddled with sweat and my feet still hurt. I slowly walk away, as if I had just exited Costa Coffee after my first teenage break-up. I pass the Margaret Thatcher Infirmary on the east wing of the Chelsea Pensioners complex. There is a joke in there. It makes me smile. Something else to get over, something else I cannot leave to fester.

The Latchmere, South West London, 11th July 2026

‘God save our Gracious King! Long live our noble King! God Save the King! NO SURRENDER! Send Him Victorious! Happy and Glorious! Long to reign over us! God save the King!’ Admittedly I was not entirely mainlining visions of King Charlie, his melting frontal bone morphing into wealthy pinned eyes, his divine right to propagate serfdom and to save the world, his Richmond sausage fingers, nor his gentle disbursement of ‘mummy’ when another close relative is outed as a notorious child rapist. No - again, I must admit, my mind was on other things. He’s getting kicked out later, 100%, a lot of white people in here isn’t there, I wonder if that tall girl fancies me, £3 for a pint of lime and soda, could justify a relapse with these prices, robbery, life is precious and a gift from god, what, she must be, what, 6’1”, shut up man, it pierced these thoughts NO SURRENDER like a lorry speeding into a drunk 17-year-old’s Astra as it is flies onto a roundabout without due care and attention. The pub, a compression of pretty, accountant girls, mulleted, fintech boys, absent fathers with Football Banning Orders, Hispanic staff exhumed with resentment and disbelief, bouncers dressed like cheap bounty hunters, accepted the NO SURRENDER without any consideration or thought. This reference to military subjugation of the Irish people regularly wisps the chilly winds of Ibrox, the Shed End in SW4, and on the Musk-sponsored mass protests against immigration. NO SURRENDER echoes around the boozer, crunching and bouncing around my brain.

The match ends and there is a result. NO SURRENDER. It is quite late. Is something still happening? What are they not surrendering to? What do they think is still happening? Is this jingoistic recall - a nostaglia for pub bombings, nails flying into Parachute Regiment achilles, rubber bullets flying into the eyes of Catholic children, unionist death squads, grenade hot potato at thousand-strong funerals, 17-year-olds from Kent being uniformed and housed in Crossmaglen to sexually assault, surveil, shoot, traumatise, then return, to traumatise, be traumatised, and try to get on with this life. NO SURRENDER, saidwith a smile and a laugh - a most British negation of responsibility, remembrance and accountability. 

George Best City Airport, North East Belfast, 12th July 2026

I couldn’t stop watching the man in front of me on the plane. He was on his way to the same place that I was, but he was giving Mr Active Supporter, rather than Mr Anxious Witnesser. He had been gifted with the Mr Worldwide at the genetic barbershop, he wore worn orange Sambas, a Stoke City tattoo, and a rather effeminate straw hat, a Union Jack neatly sewn into one side. He had Benidorm hands, the gently inappropriate smile of that old man living next door who definitely fancied your mother. Again - I may be wrong - contempt prior to investigation and all - but I suspect this fellow traveller was on his way to commemorate the 336th anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne - or The Twelfth, as the BBC’s coverage labelled it this year. Now, in case you think Stoke City and I were leaving it a bit late this year - the Twelfth is celebrated on the Thirteenth when the the twelfth falls on a Sunday, presumably to avoid disturbing the loyalist communities’ strict observation of abstinence and protestant ceremony on such glorious days.

Stoke City was on his phone for the whole journey. I watched Stoke City’s phone for most of the journey. An AI generated British lockscreen, imbued with Henry VIII on the bottom left, Queen Elizabeth II on the bottom right. A quick scroll on Instagram before take off. AI-generated Islamophobic content, DOUBLE TAP, NEXT suspected-AI generated sexy woman, with suspiciously eastern European features mind you, captioned with statistics about the cost of unchecked mass migration to the taxpayer DOUBLE TAP, NEXT an AI-collated celebratory post of England’s victory over Norway, dominated by Jude Bellingham roaring NO LIKE, BACK SCROLL TO SEXY WOMAN brief peruse again, perhaps there was a statistic that hadn’t quite hit home on first viewing ALREADY LIKED NEXT, quick flash of Bellingham, NEXT an AI-generated woman wearing a hijab talking in front of an AI-generated mansion.

Stoke City did not just consume far-right Artificial Intelligence products though - he also played a game for much of the journey. The quiz application appeared to have the same illustrator as Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and Stoke City expanded his knowledge by answering questions about the age of the Ottoman Empire, or commonly worn clothing items for men. 

At one point, less than one hundred years ago, the majority of the European land mass had fallen under the fascist rule - in Italy, exorbitant palaces were constructed, fashion and the form of man remodelled, in Spain, Madrid had a makeover as Catalonia underwent a violent, further, subjectification, and in Germany, an evil cloud of Aryan superiority bestowed the continent with a well-oiled war machine, a logistics department capable of unheralded levels of destruction and anti-life activity. Railways, missiles, submarines, educational systems, complete restructuring of societies, all took place within a fifteen year period. Never before had human innovation and intelligence and anti-life, self-isolative darkness collided with such devastating effect. ‘Name 10 things made of glass’. Stoke City pondered. Stoke City continued to ponder. To be fair, it was a deceivingly challenging question from the smiling stick man. 

Shankill Road, Belfast, 13th July 2026 

I awoke in my room. The door was broken, the window hadn’t shut, the curtains were weak in the face of the Irish morning sun, the bed was small and sheets, as I feared, seemed as if a wash was a distant memory; the fleeting, formative, early-life sexual flashback of a care-home resident who only experienced intrusive, medical sexual contact these days. I had not been in this room since I had read Crime & Punishment, suffering alongside Raskolnikov as I drank myself to oblivion, alone, convincing myself that he was I and I was he. Sober today. Another day. I thought about a million things as my mind crossed the B-Road it finds itself on every morning, until the BOOM of distant drums and cheers rocked my room. The sound of a distant army, I felt afraid and surrounded. My fellow residents of the New Lodge who are, I am sure, much more accustomed to this practice, were awake as well. I could hear shouting down the road, laughter next door, someone shitting violently in the bathroom behind my head. 

The New Lodge, a traditional republican stronghold in West Belfast, bordered the Shankill, a traditional loyalist stronghold in West Belfast. The Orange Hall and a large gate emblazoned with anonymous, at least to anyone outside of the Orangesphere, historical heroes of Protestantism separated the two communities. The stone harps became Union Jacks, Palestinian flags became Stars of David, the Tricolour became the Red Hand, the INLA became the Parachute Regiment, Refugees Welcome became Stop the Boats, we became them, they became we. 

Armoured Land Rovers surrounded by dark green PSNI stormtroopers waved me across the threshold. Many bands from across the Orange Diaspora, Glasgow, Leeds, Liverpool, Western Scotland, Canada, would meet and commence their march into town together. I walked into the town, passing thousands of fellow candidates for an early, alcoholic death. Mothers and fathers were well oiled, gargling Stella and Harp, as their youngest writhed around in prams with band sticks, their ten-year-olds dancing with WKDs, laughing and chasing their friends around. This was a city centre flooded with alcohol, blue, red, white, hugs, kisses, NO SURRENDER, fights, chases, Police Service of Northern Ireland, more booze, cocaine. One day at a time. 

A Long Walk, South Belfast, 13th July 2026

It’s a long walk. The Twelfth, whilst celebrated internationally across the Orangesphere, only has true national significance within the North of Ireland. The Belfast Parade is the largest display, although significant parades take place across Portadown, Derry, and across most major cities in Ulster. The bands congregate, first locally in Protestant strongholds early in the morning. They start drinking and are cheered on by heavily drinking supporters. They then march and congregate in the city centre. They continue to drink and are cheered on by heavily drinking supporters. They then march just over six miles to The Field, a mysterious park in South Belfast, bordering a large sports complex belonging to Queen’s University, where they continue to drink and are cheered on by heavily-drinking supporters. They then reform, and march the same route back, through the centre and back to their own communities. They continue to drink and are cheered on by, at this point, extremely drunk supporters. There are some exceptions to this. Some of the supporters at this point are only very drunk. They then reach their own communities where, alongside their supporters, they continue to drink. The legal drinking age is lowered on the Twelfth. The NHS increase the upper age limit for recommended excessive alcohol consumption. 

The Parade snakes through South Belfast. The areas en route are largely Protestant working class, or mixed middle-class communities. There is no contentious crossing on this section of the Parade this year, no sole drum beats nor PSNI militarism to keep the Parade from inflaming Catholic protest against presence on their streets. As Sandy Row turned down Lisburn Road, the houses got bigger, the crowds get thinner, the families got smaller, the parents got older, but the passion and alcohol consumption remained the same. A suspected middle-class family has their boot open, with a spread of sandwiches, children with Union Jack hairbands. ‘Mammy’ - a short-haired, red lady with the kind stature of an overworked dinnerlady, opens up a lunchbox in the boot. The roof of the box is inscribed: MAKE TODAY AMAZING followed by NAME: Codie. The timing of the Twelfth this year appeared to have gifted Codie an extra day off of school - I wonder if he was aware of the co-opting of his precious lunch bag as a store of multiple 300ml Smirnoff Ices.

I struggled with these moments; the collision of family, unity, laughter, the argument that this was a celebration of cohesion, of joy, of identity, when externally, this was a collection of bands, marching and singing almost exclusively sectarian songs that celebrated war, violence, bloodshed, religious division, coupled with universal binge drinking. The collision is that of an addict, of a boundariless person. How many train journeys, family birthdays, car drives, early morning shifts, strangers beds, does one experience omnipresently with their substance. This is a festival, whilst imbued with politics, but a festival is all that remains in contrast with the claims of the Orange Order. The musicians may all be of the same genre, the clothing united in Protestant-Glaswegian-British-Para-fucking-Monarchism, the drinks and drugs flowed more freely than any Reading & Leeds Festival I had taken ecstasy as a teenager. Whilst the banner was hatred and division under the guise of unity and loyalty, this was an addicted peoples, addicted to a past of which they had not participated in, addicted to mass-produced substances designed to absolve one of their presence in the moment.

As the Parade, and thus I, approach the Field, the carnival of Sandy Row is replicated on this home stretch. By now, many of the Orangemen, bandsmen, children with bandsticks, and UVF-tattooed marshals, are tired and drunk, and whilst remaining obtusely bombastic and full of deep bellied laughter, they begin to fall out of step with each other, drunk on the cheers of their brethren and sisters, the constant blue, red, and white confetti canons, the surprise dap up from a colleague on the roadside. The PSNI presence increases at this point, they look happy. In fact, the PSNI throughout the majority of the day seem to be having a cracker time. 

The Field, South Belfast, 13th July 2026

Barnett Demesne is the destination for the Parade: that sits on the estate of Malone House, a Presbyterian-style 1820s white mansion, a home of the Ulster elite. It acts as a turning point in many ways. The Belfast Parade meets here, supposedly has a procession and event, then turns around to march the same route back to their communities. The Orange Order, an ancient organisation of largely bald, Protestant men, who believe it is their divine duty to protect the fruits of the Glorious Revolution and to ensure that never again does the Catholic Church monopolise European Christianity. The Reverend Doctor Ian Paisley, Captain, Leader, Legend, joined the Order in 1949. Whilst a figure of humour and confusion in England, he really gave a fucking shit about the schisms within Christianity. He long held that the European Union was a Vatican plot to create a Catholic superstate, and in 1988 heckled Pope John Paul II in European Parliament, labelling him the antichrist. The Order lead the procession for the duration of the march. In Barneet Demesne, a large trailer is set up in the middle of the field, about 20 seats set up within it, a microphone at the fore.

I tend to over romanticise, to think too much, to see fantasy, desire, darkness. I imagined the many bands, the hundreds of supporters who had traversed here, forming up in front of the trailer, transforming this blissful, excellent dog-walking park into a Gladiator-adjacent ceremony, roaring, cheering, as one thousand drums boomed the war cry of the Glorious Revolution. I made my way and sat on the grass in front of the trailer, eager to get a good seat to ensure I didn’t have to listen to the speeches uncomfortably looking over the shoulders of thousands. 

I tend to get things wrong. The bands and their supporters, almost immediately upon arrival, take their taps aff, buy £6 burgers for themselves and their cubs, chain smoke cigarettes, and continue to drink as if Rangers were in the Champions League final later that evening. The Orange Order come onto stage. In the crowd, besides me, are approximately twenty-five people, presumably those who are not popular enough to sit with the rest of the band, or who have King William II paintings above the shitter. No one fucking watches this thing. 

The most notable speech is that of special guest, Grand Master Tim Lord, recently anointed as head of the English branch. He has shit banter. He pokes fun at his fellow Orangemen on the stage with the same naivety as that of a pub quizmaster who exclusively jokes about barstaff punters haven’t a fucking clue about. He briefly eulogises the history of the English-language Bible. He talks about celebrating the past, living in the present, and preparing for the future. He commands a fierceness which, although sheafed below a soft and fatherly Lancashire accent, and within smartly dressed funeral wear, encourages anger, violence, action. 

‘Be angry - God’s word commands you to be righteously angry’. He talks of the disparate state of the Union, of the amount of people in the North of Ireland who refuse to accept their Britishness, and he talks of action, history, and passion. I miss his final words as the four teenagers skinning up a joint to my right talk louder than him when arguing who is best at rolling. Twenty two people applaud as he sits down. 

A moment of chronic disconnection occurred here. The Order, believing that it is effectively 1691 and that the Revolution has but began, believe that this is the culmination of the day. In the treeline behind their trailers, hundreds of bandsmen piss, smoke, and drink alcoholically. The people, both on the streets supporting the parade, and actively participating in it, do not make the Order feel central in any way bar allowing their participation and aesthetic centrality. As many had warned us, the evening was the best bit, the madness. It was the return parade that did it. Everyone would be fucked, he had promised, things were only getting started. The lack of participation with the Christian semantics on the Field revealed all - this was a festival of drink and of self-determination, but this was no longer the religious fuckfest the Orange Order had proclaimed that it was. This was a half-time drinks break, before it went off, before Belfast truly felt the 4.5%ABV might of the Orange, Blue, White, and Red. 

Sandy Row, Belfast, 13th July 2026 

The biggest mystery of the 21st century thus far remains unsolved; how the fuck did Rangers go into administration? Shirt sales in this area alone must have equaled the Barnett Formula spoils thrown across the Irish Sea by Westminster each year. Along the twelve mile route, I counted approximately forty million Rangers shirts. 

Madness interviewed a former UVF volunteer and self-proclaimed ‘mad cunt’ on the way down the Field. You can read this in our LITERATURE section. He had warned me to watch myself on the way back up Sandy Row. He had chuckled a lot, but behind the glazed eyes and bobbing head, I had identified a truthfulness to his warning. 

As I returned, at first slightly ahead of the bands, he had emphasized the seriousness with which this community took their unionism. He told me about a Scouse man he had known to have taken down a flag at the gates of Sandy Row. He told me he had pleaded with the man to not do it. The Scouser could not be swayed. He had climbed up, taken it down. Our friend advised us that this man was later put in a van by eight men. Our friend advised he had never seen the Scouse man since. ‘I fucking pray he made it back to Liverpool on a fucking ferry bro’ our friend laughed. 

As the Parade returned, Sandy Row was electric. Sandy Row is one of the most loyal, most working class, most unionist, most Rangers supporting, most British, parts of Belfast. As I walked off of the Parade route down towards the Orange Arch, of which mark the entrances to many bits of Sandy Row and the Shankill, I was caught within a maelstrom, an Orange air, Buzzballs, the stench of prospective violence, the shouts of happy men and the screeching laughter of pretty women, the endless clapping, pogoing, dancing, NO SURRENDER, Buzzballs, an orange flare, the scratching of broken glass under foot, Buzzballs, more Buzzballs, NO SURRENDER, a Union Jack headband, and another one, the push and pull of a crowd of youth, of opportunity, of economic inactivity, of the past the present and the future all circling within thin rows of residential terraces. Although admittedly unlikely, I felt as if I were the most sober person present by approximately 60 units. 

As the bands began to arrive, where they had been fast, proud, tight, angry, had slowed. They were not lax nor less proud, but the bouncing Sandy Row crowd, crushing the musicians from both sides, bouncing in alignment with the drums. I have never witnessed such jingoism, such anger, such joy, such alcoholic unity, in one moment. This felt like the layman's Twelfth, the pressure valve of feeling unloved but proud, all fucking year, this was what this moment was. In truth, the North of Ireland’s British-identifying community operated like a sugarbaby that had caught feelings. Maybe their sugardaddy had led them on, birthing them, smothering them with love, honour, care, shit tonnes of money, but as with all sugardaddies, they have a lot on their mind, an endless desire for more, for difference, for endemically changing priorities and hyperfixations. They had lost interest. Their own chaos had caught up with them. Still, £18bn hit the North’s CashApp every 12 months, sure, great, but the love, the tender love, loyalty, passion of old, this was gone. What else to do but drink, but sing of old, but languish in the past. And drink some more. I left Sandy Row before it got dark. A slow trudge back to the Shankill, and some mental hygiene, this time on my behalf, to carry out. 

Belfast International Airport, 14 miles west of Belfast, 14th July 2026

They took my bag. At the scanner, I watched it leave the mouth of the machine, pause, and elegantly deposit itself behind the screen. On their side. I waited for ten other bags, largely emblazoned with children's cartoons, to be opened, searched, taken apart, and swabbed. My turn. Alexandru smiled at me and asked me to open my bag. He removed the contents; a beat up, dirty chromebook, a pink Primark portable charger, a small pocket Big Book, my shite clothes, and a larger book, Madness & Civilisation. He placed it down and paused, briefly flicking the pages, reviewing the front and back. He ran the paper swab, first over the book, then roughly over the remaining items and lining of my bag, before turning and putting the swab into the machine. He returned a few seconds later.

Alexandru leaned in darkly and whispered. ‘I promise you my friend. This is the maddest civilisation has ever been. The way people are today. It’s over.’ He nodded, almost apologetically, remorse dripping out of his eyes. He passed the tray across the threshold, and continued onto the Peppa Pig bag that had been flagged. I walked away. My phone went the moment I retrieved it from my bag. Was this God? What was happening?

Ryta, Ryanair’s AI Travel Assistant, had a notification for me. My flight had been delayed. My capacity to move, to travel, to leave, to smoke, to do what I had to do, gone, just like that. My agency was temporarily quashed by a corporate entity working alongside the sharp end of the state security apparatus. Anger, violence, tears, anxiety, panic, hatred, resentment, were these solutions to this affront? No; surrender. Aye, so it was. Surrender. The capacity for change would never go away. It is only ever delayed.