IT'S FELT like a long time since there’s been any good news. Until the vaccine for Covid-19 came along.
The sight of 90-year-old Enniskillen native Margaret Keenan being wheeled down a hospital corridor after getting her jab, the first in the world, was truly heartwarming. Nurses and doctors applauded in lines, just like they had done when patients recovered from the virus.
The moment was spoiled by the sight of Britain's health minister, Matt Hancock, pretending to cry on Good Morning Britain.
“It makes me feel somehow proud to be British,” he fake choked, about the vaccine, developed by two Turkish immigrants in Germany, part financed by the US. But yay, Britain got it first, just like they became the first in Europe to exceed 50,000 Covid deaths.
Still, the vaccine has let Boris Johnson and his incompetent cabinet off the hook – for now. But the impact of Brexit is still waiting in the wings. Whatever deal he cooks up in Europe, it certainly isn’t “oven ready”, though it may well be a turkey.
Sammy Wilson looked like he had been standing too near the oven when he got to his feet at Westminster to denounce the latest Brexit shenanigans, telling the house he is 100 per cent British and the reason he is against the Withdrawal Agreement, is that it diminishes his Britishness.
The problem for Sammy is that no-one at Westminster really believes he is properly British, like them. The “unionism” espoused by the hard line Brexiteers like Rees Mogg and his chums soon evaporated when the DUP weren’t needed any more.
A YouGov poll taken among Conservatives a year ago revealed what everyone else already knew: Northern Ireland is tolerated, not loved. That survey of 892 Conservative Party members found that a whopping 59 per cent would prefer to see Northern Ireland split from the UK if it secured Brexit.
I’ve often wondered if unionists just pretend that Britain really does love and want them, despite evidence to the contrary. How many times do they need to be called “Paddy” when they go to England before the penny drops?
But lest nationalists gloat too much, let’s not pretend they love us wholeheartedly on the other side of the border, either. It wasn’t their full-blooded campaigning for Irish unity that saw Sinn Féin’s vote surge in the last election in the Republic. It was housing and other social matters.
People are pragmatic. When it starts to look like they would be better off in an all-Ireland context, then it will become a reality… eventually.
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THE closure of shops has driven most of us into the world of online purchasing, which is far too easy for the unwary. I keep finding ads for kitchen gadgets popping up on my phone. How can I have lived without that grout cleaner all the way from mainland China?
I’m perplexed, though, at the arrival of a pack containing three mysterious red plastic funnel-type objects, which I have no recollection of ordering. I still don’t know what they are.
My latest 'it seemed a good idea at the time' purchase was a white furry stool-cum-cat bed. It was yet another mistake. I should have known better. The word “thran” was invented for cats. They never do what you want them to do. He took a look, sniffed it and then walked away. Later he was found curled up in the lid of a cardboard box.
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IT’S sad that sitting on Santa’s knee in a department store grotto is another of the Covid casualties. Indeed, department stores are themselves becoming a rarity and it’s sad, if inevitable, that Debenhams is the latest to go down the tubes. A lot of effort is going on to bring a little festive magic into online Santa visits, but it’s not the same.
I remember as a child, the sheer excitement of going to Robbs or the Co-op on York street to get a parcel from Santa. We always went on the December 8 because we were off school for a holy day.
Back then the visit involved some sort of magical trip, a sleigh ride, Santa’s boat or even a rocket flight. In the Co, it was a journey through a winter wonderland of grottos featuring animated puppets before you met Santa at the end, to get your gift.
I was disappointed to discover, when my own children were small, that a visit to Santa was far from a magical experience. It was a photo op. You queued up in a shopping mall where Santa was already in vision, hoisting screaming toddlers on his knee to get their picture taken before getting their parcel.
Our most memorable trip was when my eldest was around two. The photo showed him looking sceptically at the Santa whose costume was meant for a smaller man. The sleeves weren’t quite long enough to hide his UVF tattoos.
