If identity were a purchasable commodity, if loyalty could be suborned by economic success, the Northern Ireland troubles would now be over. Unionists would be so anxious to enter a united Ireland that we could charge admission, order in the queue please, here you, Paisley, get to the back, and if I see pushing again, I'll banish you to the Siberia of Westminster, where you can break rocks. And Robinson, you can bawl Amhran na bhFiann as much as you want, you can wait your turn, same as every one else. Take that Easter Lily out of your lapel, Taylor: it won't get you an Irish passport any sooner than your place deserves.
Of course, it's not like that. But still, let's dream of what might be possible if devotion to a flag could be won by argument, as we might have done last Wednesday after going to bed. That day, while the people of the Irish Republic saw taxes fall, yet again, both directly and indirectly, with more money for the poor, the old, the disabled, for children and most importantly of all, for me, under a decent Government composed of decent men and women, the people of Northern Ireland had to endure another display of three-card trickery from the knaves who govern them from London.
Tony Blair
Look. I'm not often right. In fact, I'm more often wrong. But I got that Labour Party right from the moment that charlatan Blair became leader. He is a spiv, an unprincipled conman, a ridiculous mountebank who stands for nothing and believes in nothing except the pursuit and retention of power, spinning words and striking whatever poses he thinks will woo his audience - most contemptibly and abjectly so when he read the lesson at Princess Diana's funeral: the little sobs so bravely stifled, the lowered inflection, the sincere and lingering looks at the congregation, the sad silences between sentences. He is the Hughie Green of British politics.
In Britain, taxes are rising, the railway network is in chaos as railways sleepers are examined one by one, this morning's 8.08 a.m. from Nottingham to London Paddington will arrive next August (once it's been recovered from the sidings in Aberdeen where it was mislaid in March), the Millennium Dome echoes to the feet of its single visitor, a Buddhist hermit looking for complete isolation - and, by Jove, finding it - even as Blair's goons wreck the London Underground in their disgraceful vendetta against Ken Livingstone.
Was government ever so bereft of ideas, and so driven by populist image-making? A problem with drunken yobs in public places? Why, take 'em by the collar to a cash-point and fine 'em on the spot. Teenage gangs on the street? Clamp down on 'em with night-time curfews. This bilge, short-cutting the entire process of the rule of law, wasn't uttered by some redneck taxi driver who also thinks Pakis should be sent back 'ome where they come from, but by the first minister of the land.
Loyalty
It is obvious that Blair has no moral centre. This absence of an ethical compass to guide him through the jungle of politics also allows his ministers to wander off course. Peter Mandelson once sneered on RTE - no doubt hoping to appeal to what he imagines were the prejudices of his audience - at the chinless wonders on Horse Guards' Parade. Those chinless wonders were willing enough to lay down their lives for their country and for freedom; and did so.
Listen, unionists. We're not perfect down here, but we know the meaning of loyalty. No Dublin minister would ever run down his country, or disparage our security forces abroad, and no such hypothetical minister would survive politically if he tried it.
What is Blair's great initiative to win the next election, as health queues grow, and motorways become car parks? To ban foxhunting. Upon reading those words out loud in Parliament, how close Queen Elizabeth must have been to having the Brigade of Guards chuck Blair and his cronies into the Tower, snarling, "Off with their heads!" But, unlike her first minister, she is aware of the limits of her powers, which is a frightful shame.
So. Let's ask the unionists a couple of questions in this hypothetical dream-world where loyalties are exchangeable. Why stay attached to a country which certainly doesn't love you, which is governed by men and women with no abiding principle other than the acquisition and retention of the levers of power, where intrusive bossiness has taken the place of social policy, where words are spun as webs are woven, covering all meaning with a gossamer sheen of vacuity?
Better place
Come and live with us in an Ireland where we get an awful lot wrong; but it is a better place to be than a United Kingdom which regards you as a historic encumbrance. Our Government is not perfect, but it's not at all bad, and it's led by an honest man. Moreover, we have a splendid head of state, one you'll come to respect and admire, as I have.
You think we can't accommodate you and your traditions? Really? You might just try us. This is the deal. You can fly what flags you want, march in July, remember your war dead - why, we'll even join you - keep your British passports, and retain your loyalty to the Queen. Most important of all, you can hunt foxes. And when she visits - which I suspect will be rather often - so can she.
What do you say?