"We, as a people, feel we have so much in common with the people of Whateverland. Our historical contacts, though perhaps fewer than we might have liked, nonetheless bind us together in all sorts of constructive ways. Our cultures, though admittedly separated in tradition and language, share much in common. Though our countries are far apart, spiritually I feel we are close."
Something like that seems to have been said by every Japanese commentator on the opening of Riverdance; and identical sentiments will follow in Seoul when "Riverdance" opens there, and in Sao Paulo when it opens there, and in Freetown when it opens there, and Port Moresby when it opens there, and in Kamchatka when it opens there, and in Vilnius when it opens there, and in Des Moines, Iowa when it opens there, and in Minsk when it opens there, and on the Sea of Tranquillity too when it finally opens there before an entranced assortment of lichen, boulders and moon-dust.
Solemn banality
It is not mere Irishry alone that causes such solemn banality. It erupts whenever peoples of two nations come together. No diplomat born can open the ambassadorial gob without observing how much we two peoples have in common, cultural links which bind, historical similarities which unite, endured kindred oppressions, opposed comparable tyrannies, doughty spirit in face of adversity, love of freedom, devotion to the arts, oops, hello, here comes our old friend Et Cetera.
Nobody ever declares the truth, viz: "Your people and mine have got absolutely phuque-all in common. Nothing, apart from being human. That useless piety aside, I can think of no part of our histories, cultures, languages or respective national experiences which resemble each other in any way. We are as unlike as it possible to be without being different species. Actually, you're an ugly looking bunch, your language is perfectly foul, 17 tenses, no vowels or regular verbs and ablative absolutes at every turn, your poetry is like a Dutch telephone directory and your music like a tomcat shagging a mangle."
Instead, a spurious commonality is invariably celebrated whenever diplomats lift their bottoms from the chair and reach for the supplied scripts. The Japanese ambassador to New Guinea is eternally doomed to witter on about a shared dedication to culture, two island peoples bound by a love of their respective national traditions which, though different in many regards, have in common a reverence for the family, for the old, for visual art and for musical celebrations. Could he - and indeed the French ambassador too - not advert to one truly shared tradition, namely, beheading people?
Codology
Never. Thus it is that the ambassador from Chad presents his letters of accreditation to President Helga Thorliksdottir in Rjeykavik, and tells a banquet that evening that the Icelandic peoples and the peoples of Chad have so much in common. Iceland is an island and Chad is not. Iceland is all coastline and Chad is thousands of miles from the sea. Iceland consists of one people of one race with one language and one church, Chad consists of scores of peoples, of many races and at least 100 languages, and nobody knows how many religions. Iceland is one of the richest countries in the world with 125 per cent literacy (many cod can now read Icelandic). Chad is the poorest country in the world whose literacy rate last year was halved when the vice-president was eaten by leopards.
Iceland has the world's oldest continuous literature. Chad has none. Protestant zealots in Iceland abolished folk-dancing as the work of the devil and all but exterminated music. The people of Chad dance morning noon and night and are never done singing and drumming. The people of Iceland have the largest consumption of protein in the world, with a rich diet of reindeer, fish and vegetables. The people of Chad think that a protein is a girl on the game, and their diet consists of one dried date per year, supplemented daily by a pint of sour camel-milk clotted with sheep's urine: absolutely yummy.
The average life-expectancy of a Chadian is three-and-a-half. In Iceland, life expectancy from birth is 104, though it rises steadily after that. Iceland is covered in greenery in summer and ice in winter. Chad is covered in sand, and no word exists in any language for snow or ice, nor even, for that matter, for green. The mean temperature in Iceland is the same as Chad's literacy rate. And vice versa.
Historical contacts
The ambassador clears his throat. "We as a people in Chad feel we have so much in common with the people of Iceland. Our historical contacts, though fewer than we might have liked, nonetheless bind us together in all sorts of constructive ways. Our cultures, though admittedly separate in language and tradition, still share much in common. Though our countries are far apart, spiritually I feel we are close."
Such idiocies should be grounds for war. Henceforth, any ambassador to Ireland who says such things will have their letters of accreditation returned; our FCA reservist, she will be mobilised; our army will get its hearing aids combat-ready; the air force will stand to beside the Sopwith Camel, and our fleet will row to battle stations off Mizen Head. The world has been warned.