The comb on James Brokenshire’s bathroom shelf is, by now, almost redundant. Clogged with months of greasy Brylcreem, loose hairs and lost hope, it will soon find its way to the bottom of the bin. There is a little alarm clock beside his four-poster bed, ticking; but its batteries are unlikely to stretch much beyond the summer recess.
Hounded by the ceaseless sound-bite of “Talks Crisis” from the BBC and Irish News, it reverberates inside his head each time he closes his eyes. Sleep will not come…yet.
Welcome to the entombed echo chamber of the Secretary of State.
James Brokenshire
Brokenshire, James, had trouble fitting in even during his school days. There was all of that funny business with his name on the first day of term, when he got teased terribly. James did try to show an interest in Gaelic football, but poor punctuality ensured he was always late for the sing-along at the start. His least favourite part of the day was the Assembly. And it was all downhill from there, really.
Michelle O’Neill
Despite having the enthusiasm of a young spaniel, or a Jack Russell pup, the P45 printing press in Whitehall will be starting up in the autumn if the current tedious Talks produce more of the same.
And yet the dogged Essex native had to be kept in place after June’s general election because, weirdly, his familiar presence is one of stability. Theresa’s polling gamble may have been a mile off-target, but she’s hedging her bets by holding on to Brokenshire.
Indeed, the Conservative’s £1 billion promise for local investment, as a result of DUP support for their beleaguered government, has led to a concern that some sort of DUP-Tory cabal will decide how and when that money is spent in NI.
Speaking to the Irish News, Sinn Fein’s Michelle O’Neill addressed this matter yesterday: “I’m very clear… – it’ll be executive ministers here who’ll be taking decisions where that money will be spent.”
O’Neill, then, clearly knows the financial necessity of leading the Stormont Showband back on to the stage. But with no executive since January, she may start counting her loose change.
And amusingly, visitors to the Northern Ireland Assembly website are fittingly met with an ambiguous message, urgently seeking a Tender Opportunity for the “Supply, Delivery and Installation of a Secure…Solution”.
It’s accompanied by a lonely image of an inactive Stormont itself, sitting atop barren, rolling and empty hills. You couldn’t make it up.
Our own small corner of pastoral, rural and urban beauty still has its unshakeable shadows of division. It’s awkwardly suitable that Northern Ireland pretty much remains, well, a Broken Shire.
Although not entirely at fault, for sure, numerous missed deadlines since January have seen the Secretary of State’s credibility totally diluted.
Out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where Brokenshire is on his knees. He’s not praying, but is instead “considering his options”.
If the Right Honourable MP for Old Bexley and Sidcup were sitting his driving test he’d be done for constant stalling.
“We are thinking carefully… as to what the next steps might need to be,” Brokenshire said on Tuesday. Just take your time, fella.
Because a long, long time from now, when the light in the last disputed Stormont vending machine finally flickers out, graffiti will be visible on the dusty desk of Barry McElduff.
“‘Meet. Greet. Talk. Repeat’ – Arís!”
James Brokenshire
The year is 3026 and the barren Capital Wasteland stretches far and wide; a landscape where even the famous yellow cranes have lost their colour. But in the south east of this Ruination a crowd is gathered within the last remaining Pub of Ulster, with peeling letters spelling out the ghostly word ‘Rosetta’ on a rusting façade.
Inside, local punk stalwarts Stiff Little Fingers have been resurrected. Again.
Tragically, frontman Jake Burns picks up the mic and suddenly roars out a revised version of the People’s Anthem: “It’s an…Austerity Ulster!! It’s an…Austerity Ulster!”
The obedient crowd, nullified long ago, bob and weave in comatic unison – for ’tis now the only chant this nation knows.
Outside of the venue, on nights such as this, the spectre of a dishevelled Essex Cocker Spaniel can be spotted, hopelessly slouching home with its tail between its legs.
There’s nothing to be done for it; except to pray, please God, that somebody, somewhere, will find it a good comb.
