The anger that reveals impotence

Racists are not happy when their victims will not be quiet and accept their allotted role as lesser beings.

In the Deep South of the United States the “Uppity Nigger” was something that could not be allowed by all right thinking white folks.


Soon those “folks” maybe ruled by their worst nightmare.


I hope that comes to pass.


I have the facility of allowing or not allowing comments onto this site.


This is a power that the victim of racism usually doesn’t have the luxury of.

Where the comments have been non-abusive and non-threatening I have approved them.


People are free not to agree with me as I reserve the right to disagree with them.


However that liberal attitude to a lively debate is a red rag to a racist bull.


The people who have objected to my opposition to the “Famine Song” do not believe I have the right to object.


That is what the famine song is all about.


It reflects the 19th century Punch cartoon view that Victorian Britain had of Irish people.  Probably only among the rougher elements of Rangers supporters do those attitudes to Irish people still persist.

Like the poor white trash of America when they see successful African Americans they long for the days when the blacks  “knew their place”.

The Irish of the global gaeltacht are no longer Britain’s victims.

We are a success story of the third wave of the info sphere and the de-massified media. Alvin Toffler could have written for the script for this new Irish Diaspora.

The Rangers supporters who sing the “Famine Song” with such gusto hark back to an old culture of the certainties of the British Empire where the Irish had no choice, but to know their place. In that world the community that supported Rangers had a few more crumbs from the imperial table. A few extra crumbs were all that it took. They were not the bottom of the pile in Clydeside in the old days. Rangers football club throughout most of the 20th century did not field players who were known to be Catholics. Recently a Rangers player from the 1960s Sandy Jardine said when he arrived at the club in 1964 there were no Catholics at the club even in the backroom staff. It wasn’t a written policy, but that is how the place operated. Everyone knew, everyone understood. That was the emotional contract with the paying public. The world tilted slightly since 1989 when Rangers, under a new management team signed an ex-Celtic player Maurice Johnston who is a catholic.


Since then many Rangers players have been Catholics these players have been from France, Italy and Spain as well, of course, from Scotland. Their religion has not been an issue. Rangers first catholic captain was Italian Lorenzo Amoruso. The Rangers supporters took him to their hearts. His religion wasn’t an issue, nor of course should it have been. Amoruso embodied what was at the core of the Ibrox psychosis. That Lorenzo Amoruso was a catholic was, at the end of the day, no big deal. What their captain could not be was an Irish catholic. For a player to be able to say he was a Rangers and Republic of Ireland international is simply an appalling vista for the hordes who lustily belt out the “Famine song”. There are Catholics in Scotland of Italian descent as there are Catholics of Irish descent. The Ibrox hatred is aimed at the latter. In my writings in the Irish Post in the 1990s I made this point again and again. This is about ethnicity and nationality in Glasgow not about religion.


Rangers football club has issued a statement saying that if their fans sing “The Famine song” at a match then they are in danger of being arrested for a “racial breach of the peace.” This was the advice that Rangers had received from the Scottish police.


So the police think this song is racist.


When Rangers were formed in 1873 Britain was the world’s unrivalled global superpower. It is hard to imagine that now. Within this archipelago the Catholic Irish were clearly first of many victims of that empire. That is why Irish people have a natural affinity with so many other peoples who also were forced to live under the union flag. Happily that flag is almost gone from the planet as a symbol of imperialism.

Rangers as an institution grew up in the early 20th century to be a power in the land as a focus for anti-Irish sentiment in Glasgow. The Irish of early 20th century Britain, especially on the Clyde, would be analogous to how some people view British born Muslims today. The Irish were always the enemy within for imperial Britain par excellance.


The world has moved on, but a section of the Ibrox support is still caught in that time warp. Scottish journalist Graham Speirs, himself a Rangers supporter and committed Christian, said that the Ibrox club had a “white underclass attached to them. They are financially and intellectually impoverished.” Speirs, who said this in a radio show just after Rangers fans had rioted in Manchester at the UEFA cup final, has become a hate figure for the representatives of this underclass who have access to a computer.

Their anger that has poured onto soccer message boards and onto this site over the last 24 hrs since my interview on Real Radio is a manifestation of their frustration that a culture is changing and they don’t like it.                  


It is always a good sign when racists are angry.


They are angry because they are impotent.


Contented racists are a sign that the oppressor has power over the oppressed.


That is no longer the case. That is why the hatred and abuse now pours into this site like so much toxic waste.


I will only allow those into public view if their missives are civil, polite and capable of basic sentence structure.

The laughter of my children

If you are reading this and you are a parent then you will instantly get what is about to appear a few lines down your screen. If you are not a parent then you will either dismiss the statement I am about to make or take my word for it, because you certainly wont “get it”. This is a parent thing. There is no way I can explain it to the childless. In fact I didn’t think it is possible for anyone to explain the following to the childless.

Ok here goes.

You will not tolerate a situation for your own kids that you endured as a child.

All the parents reading these words nod inwardly in quiet comprehension.

The rest of you will have to take it on faith.

That is how I felt when the “Famine Song” came to my notice in May of this year.

The UEFA cup final in Manchester had not passed without incident.

Manchester had seen the worst outbreak of civil disorder since the Miner’s strike of 1985.

The rioters were supporters of Rangers’ football club.

I wasn’t surprised by any of this. Anyone who knows the reputation of Rangers support knows that crowd trouble is a camp follower of their expeditions into European competition.

What WAS new was a song that was sung by a section of the crowd in the City of Manchester stadium.

It mocked the Irish famine and implored the target of this ditty “ to go home”.

That the opposition on the night was Zenit St. Petersberg from Russia mattered not a jot. This song was written for back home. It was intended to bait and taunt the supporters of their city rivals Celtic.

Most Celtic supporters in Glasgow can conjure up an Irish ancestor or two.

My own ancestry is a probably not uncommon for Glasgow born followers of Celtic.

One Irish born parent (my father from Mayo) and a settled family in Scotland who came to Scotland during the land war evictions. My mother’s grandparents were from Carlow and Donegal. All were rural poor Catholics. All of my great grandparents were children of the Famine generation. They had held on in places like Mayo and Donegal, just.

Not surprisingly between such a household in the East End of Glasgow and summer vacation on Mayo’s Atlantic coast I grew up with a keen sense of Irishness.

It was a proud rite of passage when the Irish embassy in London posted me my green passport with the golden harp embossed on the front.

Inside I savoured the words   “saoranach d’eirinn”. The literal English translation is “free person of Ireland” on the passport it was  “Irish citizen”.

I was indeed a citizen and not a subject of someone’s hereditary good fortune.

Citizen was good enough for me and it has been so ever since. One of the reasons I loved foreign travel as a young man was my affirmation at airports and borders of my Irish identity.

I have relatives with an identical genealogy in Philadelphia and in Ohio. There it isn’t a problem in the USA to have an Irish lineage. In fact it is something of a social advantage.

The Famine song would never be sung to Irish Americans. Never.

With the new football season in Scotland the famine song was again sung by the supporters of Glasgow Rangers.

This time it was what they really wanted. They were allowed to sing it inside the stadium of their archrivals as their team comprehensively beat Celtic 4-2.

In this hate fest the excellent performance of the Rangers’ players who fully deserved their victory was a mere sideshow for the Rangers support.

They had the serious business of pouring out racial hatred for those in Glasgow who remember that part of them will always, emotionally, be in Ireland.

A couple of weeks later the Irish Times published a letter by a Mr. Dan Duggan who had been at the game with his children. He was appalled at the anti-Irish racism given vent and fury in 2008 in a British soccer stadium. He was sickened by the “Famine song”.

Reading Dan Duggan’s (Rangers and racism, Irish Times 10/09/2008) reminded me that I made the correct decision to take my young family out of Glasgow in the mid 1990s.

The day that I read Duggan’s letter my son received his Junior cert results from his Gaeilscoil here in Donegal. Like his Mayo grandfather he is a fluent Irish speaker capable of a subtle and nuanced conversation in the first language of this republic.

In sean Dun Na nGall it is not a crime to be called Cathal. His sisters Roisin and Aislinn are in also in a culturally safe place.

The “famine Song” is only the most recent manifestation of Scotland’s oldest racism. It is also the racism that is tolerated by the leaders of Scottish society.

Although Rangers FC are currently subject of a probation order from UEFA for “discriminatory chanting” at UEFA controlled games the club will escape any sanction from the Scottish soccer authorities for their domestic outpourings of racism towards the Irish community in Scotland.

Moreover the Scottish media tend to turn a blind eye to the racism that is all around them.

The Famine is indeed over, although we Irish here in Ireland and in the global Irish Diaspora continue to deal with the demographic and psychological aftermath.

I did come home and it is sad that, in a very fundamental way, the city of my birth will never be home while these racists enjoy official tolerance.

A week or so after the derby match in Glasgow I was contacted by a source inside the foreign affairs department that the Irish embassy in London had received many complaints following on from the soccer match in Glasgow in August.

From my time with the Irish post in London I knew a few people I could call in the embassy.

I found out that the appropriate minister in the Scottish government didn’t know of the existence of the Famine song, never mind the import of this racist ditty.

The Irish consulate in Edinburgh did bring up the issue of the Famine song with the Scottish government.

I dipped into the Scottish soccer debate around the “Famine Song” by giving an interview to Ewen Cameron of Real Radio on the 16th September 2008.

The very mild intervention of the Irish Consulate caused some embarrassment to a sporting establishment who had sought to deal with the Famine song “in house”.

This non-confrontational approach had seen the Rangers songbook not advance an inch towards the enlightenment in decades.

It took a Panorama programme in 2005 and UEFA sanctions in 2006 for  “discriminatory chanting” to make the singing of the original Rangers’ battle hymn “The Billy Boys” a banned substance inside Ibrox Park.

Although it is heard regularly wherever the rougher end of the Rangers support is found it is not heard inside Ibrox.


The Famine song was penned within the last twelve months.

It was a replacement for the “Billy Boys”.

Although marching “up to our knees in fenian blood” is no longer publicly acceptable (or legal) the need to bait and taunt those of Irish descent is still a deep-seated need probably best dealt with by a psychotherapist.

After this particular news cycle we know this much.

The Famine song-sung publicly in a soccer stadium in Scotland is likely to lead to the singers arrest for a “racial breach of the peace”.


Here in Donegal it isn’t a crime to be Irish anymore. My children are citizens of a republic and in times to come one of them may even be elected president.

That is why, when I hear the laughter of my children outside in the garden, I know that their mother and I acted in their best interests when they were too young to know that they were the objects of hatred of so many where they were born.

Their laughter is the best antidote to the hatred and bile that created the Famine song.



2010 President Palin

The year is 2010. Two years from now. President John McCain finally loses his battle against cancer. There is a ceremony as laid down by the founding fathers. The office of the presidency of the United States of America transfers from President McCain (deceased) to President Palin.

President Palin…………..

From that moment there is an extra person in Sarah Palin’s security entourage.

There is a military officer with the attaché case as beloved of spy movies handcuffed to his wrist. This person is a commissioned officer in the U.S. military, pay-grade O-4 or above, who has undergone the nation’s most rigorous background check (Yankee White). This briefcase is codenamed “The football”. The contents of this briefcase in the wrong hands could end all human life on the planet.

The “wrong hands” is a US President who believes that we are in “the end of days”.

A President who believes that dinosaurs roamed the earth four thousand years ago.

It is correct that the officer entrusted with this world-ending piece of equipment has been thoroughly checked out.

Unfortunately President Palin the person who has the command authority to launch the ICBMs and initiate a nuclear winter wasn’t checked out at all by John McCain and his campaign team.

This is not the behaviour of a grown up culture. Nor is it the behaviour of a polity that has a long-term future.

A standard refrain from the  “the women’s movement” in the 1970s was that war was something that only men did .The implication was that men enjoyed going to war and women, because of their nurturing life giving role in human procreation , were the planet’s pacifists.

Like all insane ideologies feminism denies the subtlety of the human condition. All of us know aggressive warlike women and equally we know men who abhor confrontation.

Historically ,because of the physical demands of warfare, it was men who had to heft the sword and shoulder the pike.

All President Palin has to do is speak some words while peering into a retinal scanning device to play her own part in “ the end of days”.

When she was put on the Republican ticket two weeks ago an incriminating piece of video emerged on You Tube.

She was speaking to a “graduation class” in her church “the assembly of god” in her hometown of Wasilla Alaska.

Not only did she say that the invasion of Iraq was  “part of god’s plan” she believed that Alaska would be a sanctuary for the saved as the end of the world-as foretold in the Book of revelation- neared.

Palin is, of course, on the republican ticket to attract Hillary Clinton PUMA voters.

Party Unity My Ass voters maybe the final kick of a dying feminist animal in America. That a woman ,ANY woman, will do.

Even THAT woman will do.

Is that the legacy of feminism?

2010 the end of days?













Why feminists are like John McCain

Carol Hunt of the Sunday Independent in Ireland ( is, I think, rather like John McCain.

It isn’t that she doesn’t care about male suicide.

She does.

It is that she just doesn’t get it.

She mentioned my book “Preventable Death” in a piece on Sunday 7th September 2008.

She spent most of the column fulminating about the cover design.

Now I can no more take the credit for that book cover than I could a Rembrandt.

As our American cousins would say ” he hit it straight out of the park!”

I did say that I wanted the death certificate with cause of death ” feminism” on it. However the rest of the design and how my idea was brought to the cover was all the designers.

The reason I wanted such a mocked up death certificate on the cover of preventable death was that it summed up the central thesis of the book.

Interesting there wasn’t a single relative that I interviewed for the book-female or male-who complained about the book cover.

Feminism is indeed in the dock over the hundreds of our young men every year who die by their own hand.

However so many in public life owe their position to loyalty to that world view that even heaps and heaps of young male bodies every year brings them face-to-face with their very own Lord Denning moment.

To finally come around to the proposition that everything they believed about men, women, society and all of human affairs since their adolescence through university education and o0n into their professional lives-to believe that all of that was wrong.

That all of it was based on a nonsensical ideology.

That is such an appalling vista for them that it is better that these young men continue to die just as the Birmingham Six were sent back to prison in 1988 rather than Lord Denning have to face up to the reality that the entire English criminal justice system fitted up six innocent men simply because they were Irish in 1974.

Male suicide in Ireland, that body count of hundreds of young men every year, is the innocent man quietly incarcerated without a voice.

This is a huge miscarriage of social justice.

It is becoming more difficult for feminists like hunt to remain silent on the male suicide issue.

What we are witnessing in Ireland is an entrenched ideology, in social policy power, fighting for to retain its privileged position.

It isn’t a pretty sight.

Child Protection (except weekends & bank holidays)

Phil was invited to discuss the issue of no out of hours emergency contact for the HSE’s Child Protection ‘services’ which resulted in a 15 year old boy spending the night in a make-shift bed in Garda station as the emergency numbers provided were not covered at the weekend.

Listen to Audio FileYou can listen to the audio file of an interview from the George Hook show, The Right Hook, by Kevin Myers.

This was broadcast live in August 2008 and has been kindly provided by Newstalk Radio.

The audio file is an MP3 file and clicking on the link will open it in your default media player.

The Scots have a word for it

The Scots have a word for appallingly dismal weather – well they would have to by now wouldn’t they?


Feel the quality of that word dripping down the back of your neck and it incrementally racks up the misery index.


It was indeed a dreech day last week when I travelled with my son from the East End of Glasgow, where I was visiting my mother, to travel to the country’s capital.

When I was my son’s age in the 1970s Edinburgh wasn’t really the capital of anything.

Today it feels like a capital city. In a cautious canny way Auld Reekie is edging towards being a power centre. When we alighted from the fast commuter train at Edinburgh Waverley the deluge was such that even the street performers of the Edinburgh Fringe were absent.

I have, like most Glaswegians, a basic understanding of Edinburgh’s street layout. I was told that the destination I was heading to was at the bottom of the Royal Mile.

Even in a dreech day it is an impressively venerable thoroughfare. The facade is late medieval and is the urban ravine that would have been thronged with the Highland rabble that had Britain in crisis in 1745.Today the tartans that were banned after that failed rebellion are on sale everywhere.

We had trudged and splashed a remarkably short distance when I thought we might be at the destination. The building we were going to was an animal of report. I asked the lady at a bus shelter -a “wee wifey” from central casting-where the Scottish parliament building was? She dismissively gestured straight in front of her.

We had arrived. The story of Scotland’s first tentative steps towards self-government three hundred years after being annexed into the Westminster state started with this controversial and hugely expensive building.

Our guide for the day was the Herald’s Chief Scottish political correspondent Robbie Dinwoodie. Robbie and I had first met when he was covering the SNP’s unorthodox campaign in the 1987 general election in Glasgow Shettleston. We have been friends ever since.

After passing through the airport style security scanner we were finally inside the much criticised, much over budget parliament building.

I claim no special insights into architecture or what buildings “mean2 or what a pile of concrete, wood and glass can “say”. I just know that the building is, to my untrained eye, Impressive, innovatiebve and human friendly.

Robbie was the ideal guide with his backstage pass and the political nouse to know what to show my son and I and where to take us.

The debating chamber itself send a message of openness and modernity. There is a fully staffed crèche for MSP’s all staff and even day visitors to the building. This is not the gentleman’s club on the Thames.

The MSP’s offices are, like the rest of the building innovative and different. I was especially taken with the “think pod”. The leather chair built into the back wall of the MSP’s office. The architect senor Morales thought that the most important task of a public representative was to be able to think. The electorate makes the choice, but he created the space.

While we were on the top floor among the SNP offices we met with professor Chris Harvie.

Professor Harvie MSP is the author of the seminal No Gods and Precious Few Heroes: Twentieth-century Scotland, Blackwell (3rd Edition), 1998.

Our chat was illuminating especially in the light of the Glasgow East by-lection and the journey that had been embarked upon in that constituency from Labour stronghold to SNP gain. Chris harvie would puncture anyone’s preconception’s about Scottish nationalism. Chris is an eminent historian and would be the first to admit that history makes fools out of all of us.

However, as I went back into the deluge across from the British Queen’s official; Scottish residence I would not wager that one of these garden parties in Holyrood she, or her floppy eared son, will be the monarch of an independent Scotland.

It was a thought that made a dreech day in Edinburgh enjoyable.


The Provisional SNP comes of age.


21 years ago I trudged the mean streets of Glasgow’s East End proffering a message hardly anyone there wanted to hear.  I wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness nor was I selling insurance, although I might as well have been.

I knocked on every door in tenement buildings. I walked up flight after flight of rubbish-strewn stairs in high flats where the lifts could not be relied upon. The stairs had an ingrained smell of urine that was the perfume of poverty, of hopelessness.

It was, as now, one of the poorest parts of Western Europe.

To outsiders it would have been a daunting task to walk these streets by day, let alone night. It did not occur to me, as this was my patch, my hometown.

Familiarity breeds a sense of security in a situation that would terrify anyone who wasn’t local either spatially or socially.

The chances of bumping into a cousin on these streets, or an old school friend were quite high. Despite the fact that I was advocating for the enemy, in carrying SNP leaflets, I had a sort of tribal diplomatic immunity.

Middle class people from Glasgow (yes they do exist) wouldn’t have set foot in these areas unless they were required to do so by their profession.

I was far away in Donegal the ancestral homeland of most of the East End Irish when I watched the British labour party come tumbling down in my hometown. The Labour party had held the Westminster seat in the East end of Glasgow since 1922. In those days it was the ILP (Independent labour Party) when Glasgow Shettleston returned John Wheatley to Westminster.

John Wheatley was, like the famous soccer club that grew out of the area, Irish.

The catholic Irish of the East End flocked to Labour they way they flocked to Celtic park on a Saturday and to mass on a Sunday. If you do not understand the narrative of the Glasgow Irish diaspora on the Clyde you will not understand Celtic football and for sure you will not understand the Fort Knox quality of the Labour Party’s vote in the area over generations.

Although Labour left John Wheatley behind the people of the East End, his people, stayed with Labour.

It was, like the Catholic Church and Celtic FC a badge of identity. Any canvasser from another party   knocking on any door in my parish would be told firmly “we’re labour in here!”

The concept that people made up their own minds on how to use their vote after sifting the various policy packages on offer from the competing candidates was, quite frankly, bizarre.

We were; indeed, labour in my household and in all the households of the neighbourhood.

Last week that inheritance of history was finally spent. Labour’s political cheque finally bounced. For generations labour votes were weighed in the East End of Glasgow not counted.

This time the party managers called for a re-count. It actually increased the SNP majority.

Over the last six months I have visited the constituency more than I had in the previous six years due to the illness of my mother who still lives in her native Baillieston.

Up until then she would visit her grandchildren here in Donegal.

The hometown looked much the same, but there were subtle changes.

People said they would opt for independence if they got an option.

I had been last in the area in the mid 1980s. I had arrived back in Baillieston because of the illness of my maternal grandfather. While I was there I looked around at the crushing effects of the Thatcher economic experiment and I was roused to become politically involved. Despite having a politics degree becoming a political activist was something I said to myself that I would never do. Politics fascinated me. My father’s family had been “out” in 1916, had run Sinn Fein in Mayo and were founder members of Fianna Fail. My mother’s father was a life-long trade unionists and a devotee of the secular faith of class-consciousness as well as a dutiful member of the Catholic Church.

He was fashioned in John Wheatley’s image. He had been born in 1904 a few miles to the east in another mining village. Both his parents were Irish from County Carlow.

Poor as church mice they had struggled through real poverty and institutional discrimination in Protestant Scotland to rear their relatively small family of five children.

All of his life he voted Labour and voting anything else would have been like him denying everything he was, everything he believed in.

People do not do that easily.

Maybe it was easier that he had passed away when I decided to become a member of the local branch of the Scottish National Party.

This was apostasy in my tribe.

I argued that it should not be viewed as such.

How could a community, which advocated Irish national self-determination, oppose national freedom for the country they lived in?

The local labour party startled by this development from within their bedrock constituency dubbed this new happening “The Provisional SNP.” This attracted the interest of the media and the Scotsman newspaper sent their seasoned political reporter Robbie Dinwoodie to cover the story. We’ve been friends ever since. Our little rebellion had an excellent front man.

John MacVicar, a rugby playing schoolteacher from the Scottish Borders saw the Labour hierarchy in Glasgow clearly through a nationalist prism. Moreover he accepted my analysis that the Catholic Irish bedrock of the Labour vote was their jugular. In a street fight that is a good place to start.

The SNP hierarchy were horrified.

We dubbed them (well I dubbed them) SNP = So Nice Party!

We saw ourselves in a street brawl with a bully who had never been challenged on their own turf before.

In the end the SNP Provos of the East End didn’t unseat labour (although we did get the best vote in Glasgow).

What we did do, I’m sure, is to plant a seed from within the East End Irish Catholic community that Scottish independence was good for them also.

Large cultural changes after often only visible a generation or so later. It is now culturally acceptable to be an East End “Tim” and vote for the SNP and advocate Scottish independence. It should always have been the case, but better late…

21 years on I’m proud of the place I come from.

Terminal Decline

     The cautionary tale of post Blair Britain.

    100 years ago, a mere nanosecond in the human story, the Westminster parliament was the political centre of the biggest extension of global political power since the Roman Empire. In 1908 the British Empire spanned the planet it was the first truly global exercise of power.

     In 2008 British troops are huddled in Basra airbase as the descendants of the fighters to that took on General Haldane’s troops fight it out for control of the Iraqi city. The soldiers of the Queen look on impotently as a Shia on Shia civil war unfolds.

     This is packaged for public consumption as “Providing Over watch”.   What is interesting is that this ignominious episode has passed almost without comment in the UK, even among the left.

     In the North West Frontier the latest episode of the Great Game is being played out. In Helmand Province the great grandsons of the tribesmen who defeated the British Army of Kipling’s day are killing Gordon Brown’s men and women with consummate ease.
“When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains – And the women come out, to cut up what remains.  Then roll to yer rifle, and blow out yer brains And go to yer God like a soldier!”  Wrote Rudyard Kipling the Bard of the British Empire.

     Now the suicidal bravery is largely displayed by the Afghans detonating themselves as they close with the Infidel. As a young boy in Scotland in the 1960s I read my comics-like all other young lads.  It was pre-gameboy and X-box. We played soccer, we scrapped at playtime and we read the Hotspur and the Victor. One character that remains in my memory was an ace British spy “The Wolf of Kabul”. With his sturdy, if not too bright, native sidekick armed with a copper bound cricket bat this James Bond of the Hindu Kush always came through against the villainous rebels.

     In Basra the British troops await in the departure lounge of credibility. A US general said in 2007 that the British in Basra had “ been effectively defeated”.   Their defeat in Afghanistan is not in doubt. The insurgency, which they are, the targets of have an almost inexhaustible manpower pool in neighbouring Pakistan.

     Unlike the Iraq invasion the UN mandated NATO operation in Afghanistan is completely legal within international law. Despite this the contribution of the major NATO powers in Europe (France & Germany) has been lacklustre to say the least.

     Kevin Myers in the Irish independent broke the story that the Bundeswehr troops are not allowed, not allowed, to be out on patrol after the hours of darkness. The French, like the Germans remain in the relatively quiet North while the British, the Americans and the Canadians do the heavy lifting in the South.
If Afghanistan becomes a failed state-again-it could well prove the tipping point in Pakistan. A Talibanesque regime in Pakistan with a nuclear arsenal is something that is too horrible to contemplate, but contemplate it we must. India would almost certainly feel compelled to act. That is set of events could be set in train because of the resources currently diverted to Iraq.

     We were told that the Baghdad regime was a clear and present danger and a regional WMD threat. The blood and treasure spent on that illegal catastrophic war could well have stabilised Afghanistan. Certainly veterans of the war against the Taliban feel that they were forgotten solders in a largely ignored conflict .
Blair said ,in the weeks after 911 “ Let us re-order this world.” He pitched to his Labour party that the war against the Taliban could also be the war against third world poverty.

     Blair will, undoubtedly, be remembered as the Anthony Eden of the early 21st century. His was a foreign adventure that changed the nature of Britain on the home front. Eden’s Suez debacle was, of course, a military success. His error was to act without United Nations AND United States approval. The UK was no longer a world player capable of independent action, even if the action involved smiting a few pesky Arabs. Britain was now, Post Suez, at best a very junior partner in the US imperium.

     Blair’s charge to Basrah fully accepted that role, indeed reaffirmed Britain’s filial piety to the US empiure on capital hill. What is different now is that Britain can no longer afford the treasure to augment the blood needed for colonising the Islamic world.

     Britain in fighting an insurgency against the Taliban that it might very well lose. At time of writing the Parachute Regiment is suffering an almost daily attrition rate of its men. The Paras are, in terms of line regiments, the very best that the British can throw into any conflict. To say that the Taliban are giving a good account of themselves against the Paras is beyond understatement.

     Unlike Northern Ireland the vast majority of the civilian population are not ethnically pro-British. Northern Ireland is the size of Yorkshire with a population similar to that of greater Glasgow. Two thirds of the civilian population identified with the UK state and supported the security forces. Yet it took 20,000 regular British soldiers and 10,000 local security forces twenty-five years to grind down the IRA to a point where it gave up, destroyed its weapons and entered the Northern Ireland political establishment. The situation in Afghanistan could hardly be more different.

     Meanwhile in Basrah 4,000 British troops sit in quiet defeat awaiting their departure instructions. The remarkable thing about this is that this defeat has passed almost without comment in Britain even from people who vehemently opposed the war in the first place. When a US general in late 2007 said that the British in Basrah “ had been effectively defeated” it hardly made the inside pages of the quality British papers.

     The Al Qaeda threat that was alleged to have existed within Saddam’s Iraq and allegedly enjoyed his protection is definitely there now. Their main target from 911 to 77 is the mass transit systems that allow the Western way of life to continue and flourish. The “opening” of Terminal 5 at Heathrow proved that Britain doesn’t need only to worry about Islamic extremists trying to disrupt the mass transit way of life.

     The British can do it to themselves as well. Heathrow airport’s latest building, Terminal 5, launched after almost two decades of planning, $8.5 billion dollars in cost, and 100 million hours in manpower. It is a glass and concrete and steel marvel, the largest free standing building in the UK, with over 10 miles in suitcase moving belts, and was supposed to be a cure for the Airport’s famous congestion by way of massive automation. But on its opening day it just did not work right. There were scenes of travel chaos not witnessed since the bomb plot of 2006 was uncovered. There was a time when Britain erected buildings that wowed the world. What would an Empire Exhibition look like now? The opening day of Terminal Five was a timely reminder that Britannia does not rule the airwaves. It can’t even get a baggage carousel to do what it is supposed to do….

     Of course, post 7/7 the Islamic threat to the UK remains a very real one. The attack on Glasgow airport, although happily it was botched, reminded the UK that they were virtually defenceless against suicide attackers. It is perhaps fitting that the hero of the hour at Glasgow Airport was a lowly baggage handler. John Smeaton, crucially, used the “B” word when interviewed after his heroics with the burning would be suicide bomber. This is what Gordon Brown wanted, and needed to hear. A Scot talking about Britishness!

     Blair re-inforce Britain’s place in the world as the faithful servant of the US. Empire rise and empires fall. Historians will judge that the US Empire in the early 20th century became fatally entangled in the equivalent of the forests of Germania or the muddy field of the Somme. Iraq and Afghanistan, but above all else Iraq is where the United States of America found the extent of its power.

     The great grandfathers of the Pashtuns now killing British Paras in their red berets fought and killed British redcoats. Not only cant Britain afford the treasure of this war but now from the land that produced the Empires toughest troops, Scotland, it appears not willing to play the blood price of such a war.
In today’s Daily Record in Scotland an exclusive story that there are 615 soldiers, the equivalent of an infantry battalion, either AWOL or submitting sick notes for such aliments as “depression”. The story implies that these soldiers are not physically wounded. However they have a medical certificate saying that they cannot perform their duties.

     The British Empire did not crumble in a catastrophic defeat. Latter day Huns and vandals didn’t sack London. The first truly global empire is merely sinking beneath the waves of history. The UK is now, more than ever, a vassal state of the US. That it should have hitched its wagon to an empire also passing its zenith is probably Blair’s lasting legacy. However differently he wasn’t history to remember him.

     The defeated British troops in Basrah or the dying British soldiers in Afghanistan will not prevent another 7/7 in London. Britain over stretched itself in defeating the threat of Germany in the first half of the 20th century. Since Suez Britain has known its place as a junior partner in the US empire. Now Britain can’t even step up to the plate with the big boys anymore. Blair’s real legacy has yet to be fully revealed.
Could he be the last Prime Minister of a Britain that could even pretend to be “Great”?