The joint BBC-RTE collaboration Rebel Heart, written by Ronan Bennett - our Ron - is a triumph. Who could not but marvel at the sight of the two gallant republican sisters, teenagers from Belfast yet mysteriously in St Stephen's Green in 1916, under sniper fire from some dastardly British soldier? We can see him clearly, pot-shotting away, with typical British incompetence, until - finally - one of the sisters notices him and barks out his location to the other, who snaps her rifle to her shoulder and shoots him dead, first shot, spot on, no bother.
Brilliant! Another dead Brit! Excellent! What was his name? Don't know? No matter! Are there any dead civilians in this telebilge, as there were hundreds in the real thing? No, of course not. Much more important than the truth is that the world sees what incompetent, brutal cretins the British - and their Irish stooges - actually were and are. With a bit more televisual laundry like this, Sinn Fein might move from being the second most popular party among young people in the Republic to being number one.
Unarmed volunteers
Which is my favourite scene? So many, so many! I loved the one in which five almost unarmed IRA volunteers overwhelm some 20 heavily armed British soldiers, conveniently marching in drill order down a country lane, simply by putting their single gun to their officer's head. He, being British, promptly commands his men to surrender and, having handed over their weapons to their captors, they are locked into a cottage for which our intrepid heroes have a key. (Yep, Irish cottages had locks in those days.)
Was it the same key which enabled the IRA - armed with sub-machine guns of circa 1940 vintage - to break into Crumlin Road Jail, open prison cells undetected, release their condemned comrades, and leap back over the prison wall? To be sure, some warders on terra firma finally open fire on the escaping prisoners as the latter dangle from rope-ladders, but naturally their aim is wretched, and they are gunned down by our swivelling heroes. All right, prison warders of 1921 didn't carry guns; but what matter?
And then there is the massacre of an entire Catholic family in their homes in 1919 by the RIC. Never mind that in 1919 the RIC was overwhelmingly Catholic, with a Catholic head. Never mind that the force in Belfast was so "disloyal" that six years earlier Larkin had led it on strike. Never mind that the only organisation which was actually butchering people in their homes at the time was Collins's squad in Dublin. What matter truth, when the cause is the Republic?
IRA analysis
This is the stuff of Sinn Fein dreams, with British and Irish licence-holders' money being used to make a drama series which glorifies the traditional IRA historical analysis: an apologia pro vita sewer. With Tim Pat Coogan - who recently wrote (in this newspaper no less) that the Ku Kux Klan literally dominates the Ulster Unionist Party council - as consultant, our Ron should be commissioned to write another series on the most recent Troubles.
It is 1969 on the Falls Road. We can hear hammering. The B Specials are conducting their daily crucifixion of Jesuits. Nearby, some squealing Sisters of Mercy are being stripped naked and hosed with cold water, prior to being raped by the Ulster Unionist Council, conspicuous by their orange sashes and white hoods. In the distance, an RAF bomber napalms the Anderstowns Montessori.
In other words, an average day in West Belfast, prefreedom.
Cut to shot of winsome young girl, Tim-patia, on the shoulder of a modest, self-effacing young Irishman, Earnan Og Og, the grandson of the hero of Rebel Heart. "Is that an RPG7 you've got there, or are you just glad to see me?" she purrs. Earnan Og Og gazes towards the horizon. "I have my duty to my oppressed people." (Cut to some cackling policemen bundling the canonical figure of the parish priest from the spire of St Peter's: Aaaheeee. . .Splat.)
"Oh, but Earnan," simpers Tim-patia, "I too love Ireland. And I am a woman. I too hear my country call. "
"Hush, macushla, a ghra ma chroi, tell me what it recalls when the war is over! For what time have we for love when that is going on?" He points to some British soldiers barbecuing nationalist infants on a spit. "I have had enough," cries Earnan Og Og. He takes his cravat (for he is from a well-to-do family in Orchardville) and threatens the soldiers' officer with it.
"Oh, we surrender, we surrender," whimpers the officer, chinlessly. "Give him your guns, chaps, and look smart about it!"
Necessary work
The terrified squaddies hand over their guns, weeping hysterically and pleading for murphy. Sorry, mercy. Earnan's face is grim. "This is not pleasant work, but necessary for the Republic," he declares, and he slays them all.
"My hero," murmurs Timpatia, and has an orgasm. There is a sound overhead. It is the SAS arriving by helicopter. Earnan seizes a passing fish supper and hurls it into the sky. The chopper explodes. As it does so, we hear a steady roar growing the length of the Falls Road. "What is that?" Tim-patia asks wonderingly.
"Do you not know? It is the voice of the risen people, demanding their freedom," Earnan Og Og intones. In the background, we hear Mise Eire. We close on the pair of them silhouetted against a rising sun. Dissolve to a soft-focus of the flag of the Republic, fluttering over the blood of dead oppressors - the united colours of Bennett-Ron.