Nationalism begins at home! That's what my Grandda used to say, remembering the unbearable guilt experienced by the people of Leeside following Easter 1916 - due to the fact that the Rising happened in Dublin. He would then go on to explain that the burning of Cork by the forces of the Crown in 1921 was, in a strange way, both a blessing and a redemption - in effect reinstating all Corkonians to their rightful place as true patriots of Ireland.
The juxtaposition of these two historical facts bamboozled my young brain - how one could experience the guilt of not being involved in what has been described as one of the greatest strategic military fiascos of all time, and express pride in the fact that one's City had been burned to the ground in the same breath, was beyond me. Nevertheless, despite all my logic, I inherited his guilt and my prayer at puberty was that I too should have died shoulder-to-shoulder with James Connolly and Patrick Pearse in the GPO. And maybe that's why - in fact that is why I found myself perched on top of the Berlin Wall with my buddy Jerome on November 9th, 1989.
At the time, we were working for a car manufacturer in Dusseldorf and if the truth be known, Jerome's incessant complaining was driving me around the twist: German beer wasn't as good as Murphy's; their sausages weren't a patch on Denny's Gold Medal; and you couldn't get a bag of Tayto to save your life. Anyway, when word filtered down the line that history was about to be made in Berlin, I knew I had to be there. Jerome was a reluctant revolutionary, but faced with the prospect of a lonely night in Dusseldorf, he said he'd tag along for the craic.
But something happened as we stood there gaping in awe at the Iron Curtain. It was like a switch went in his brain, and with a yell of, "What the hell are ye all looking at!" he charged blindly at the reinforced concrete. And with a hop, skip and most almighty jump, he was airborne and grappling his way up past the graffiti on to the wall.
Swept along by a surge of human flesh, there we were, jumping up and down like human Kango-hammers. That's when Jerome lost his footing, slipped and fell into East Germany. For a split second I was tempted to leave him there. But, his eyes pleading for compassion, I reached down and dragged him to safety. It's amazing the bonds that are forged between comrades-in-arms. And following much grunting and heaving, the concrete crumbled. That night we danced 'til dawn, up and down Friedrichstrasse, hand-in-hand with our Eastern brethren - a nation once again.
Passport to Pimlico (1949), starring Margaret Rutherford, is a film set in its own place and time - when Europe was laid waste by fanatical nationalism and counter-nationalism. A time when barriers went up and lines were redrawn on maps. It tells the farcical story of what happens when a city is suddenly partitioned by a new national boundary. Tracing the unfolding events, when the people of Pimlico (London), discover documents stating that their neighbourhood was ceded to the Duke of Burgundy way back in the Middle Ages. The residents decide that they are actually Burgundians, and thus free from the restrictions and rationing of post-war England. Pimlico becomes a haven for racketeers, spivs and black marketeers.
The powers that be in Whitehall instigate a Cold War by cutting off all essential services to the new state. In a counter move, the Burgundian council aggravates the situation by checking passports on the Underground trains and openly flaunting British licensing laws. As the stand-off escalates, so does the comedy. It's one madcap scene after another, especially when sympathetic Londoners begin their own version of the Berlin Airlift. Eventually a stalemate is acknowledged and both sides enter into diplomatic negotiations.
Films such as Kind Hearts And Coronets and The Lavender Hill Mob, produced at Ealing Studios, will always be counted among the classics of British comedy. But for me Passport to Pimlico stands head and shoulders above all the rest because of its cutting political satire, mirroring the events happening in Berlin. It is a film of its time - and yet before its time. If a black and white time capsule with a far-reaching vision is to your taste - you need look no further than Passport to Pimlico.
Anyway, getting back to me and Jerome and our days dismantling the barricades, the whole episode has become a life's obsession for Jerome - collecting various artefacts from across the globe in his bid to break down international boundaries. His collection includes a brick from the Great Wall of China, dried blades of grass from Hadrian's Wall, a chunk of concrete from Berlin and a sod of turf from the Monaghan/Armagh border. He claims that the Irish Border should go not as an act of uniting the south of Ireland with the North - but rather uniting the south of Ireland with the rest of the world. Funny how my misguided nationalism, brought out the internationalist in Jerome. Maybe my Grandda was right? Maybe Nationalism - and Internationalism - begins at home.
