When Catherine Connolly was inaugurated, there were 11 officiants, representing a range of religions. And none. The Humanists were also there.
This didn’t differ too wildly from previous inaugurations, yet still it was enough to draw the frothing ire of sundry patriots on X: not because of the puzzling omission of Buddhist and Hindu representatives, but because one of the celebrants was Muslim.
There’s a particular gasping-in-shock tone these people like to take: as if this kind of thing has never happened before. (It has). Or that the presence of a non-white person at the event was the final proof of the diabolical plot that they have long suspected. The structure of this plot is always a little vague, but it usually has something to do Irish culture being undermined.
Not that the patriots will take this lying down. Apart from fulminating on social media, they have, as you know, taken to erecting Irish flags in many parts of the country: a cut-and-paste copy of similar strategies in parts of the UK.
A national flag is a tricky thing because, despite the original intentions of its designers, it is something of a blank sheet on to which anyone can project any kind of meaning. There’s no text explaining exactly what the flag says. Ostensibly, it can be an innocent expression of national pride, but in the taloned claws of the “patriots”, it becomes a weapon: an expression of naked racist hatred.
But it’s always been that way with the Tricolour. During the height of the Troubles, a house displaying our flag could often be viewed with discomfort by other people: who would interpret it to mean that the occupants supported violent republicanism. There was, within middle Ireland at least, a quiet reluctance to have anything to do with it.
[ Seán Moncrieff: Visiting from France, my daughter found Ireland hard to loveOpens in new window ]
But, as William Shatner famously said, irony can be pretty ironic. The flag was unwittingly reclaimed thanks to an Englishman, Jack Charlton. Once that football adventure began, the meaning of the Tricolour changed dramatically, suddenly expressing a positive view of ourselves. Come on you boys in green. You’ll never beat the Irish. We didn’t think of ourselves as having the best country, or the best football team: but what it expressed was a plucky spirit, a determination to good-humouredly make the best of whatever limited resources we had. And for a while, it drew the country together in an unprecedented way.
It didn’t last, of course, leaving the flag vulnerable again to other interpretations.
Troy Parrott is only 23. It’s a lot of responsibility for someone that age. And I know I’m getting ahead of myself. But his five goals last week have possibly edged the country back towards the Charlton era. This isn’t football punditry; I haven’t a clue about any of that. What I mean is the possibility of changing the mood in this country; of getting our flag back.
The first match was extraordinary. But the second was almost miraculous. I watched most of it in my in-law’s house over lunch. But we headed home before it was over, convinced the game was lost.
We listened to the rest of it in the car. And when the two goals came, the reaction of the radio commentary team was, at first, oddly muted: not because they’re weren’t pleased; more that they couldn’t quite believe what they had seen, and what it might promise.
Yes, I know: there’s a long way to go yet. The play-offs will be every bit as challenging. It might turn out to be a total bust. But this time the team, their diehard fans and fair-weather fans (like me) will be bolstered by the knowledge that anything is possible. The flags will be out then: for a team of young Irish men whose faces aren’t all white.
