Muriels
Bro
There was a thread recently about wall murals in Belfast, and the
shocking lack of artistic merit in many of them. It got me thinking
about how they started. So here's a wee tale. It's got nothing
whatever to do with the muriel I used to have on the side of my house.
Unfortunately, I have to disappear for a while. I hope you'll all be
still here when I get back. Well, most of you anyhow.
John Maquire liked his wee house off Dee Street. He'd been there for
the 25 years since he'd returned from North Africa after the second
world war. He remembered those days as the best of his life. Not only
had they beaten gerry, but they'd gotten to Egypt, the Pyramids,
Cairo, Libya and so many more places much more exotic than Belfast.
Still, he'd survived the army fine. He was glad now to be retired
after his years in the shipyard, the huge cranes of which looked in at
his bedroom window every morning when he woke. Yep, he'd been happy
there too, in between the twice-yearly lay-offs for lack of work; up
until this latest trouble anyhow. At this precise moment he stood in
his living room looking from his front window at the shabbily
uniformed men outside. They were presently engaged in pouring concrete
from a mixer into large piles on the road and jamming random pieces of
angle iron into them.
The 'militia' had been formed in protest over the IRA 'no-go' areas in
Belfast and Londonderry. The loyalists had determined that the only
way to get the army to move against them was to close off every area
they could, forcing the government to do something about it. A
reasonable tactic, John thought. If the brits moved against any one
group they'd have to move against them all to show even-handedness.
Fair enough. He wasn't so pleased that they'd decided to use the road
outside his house as a place to put up a barrier, but what the heck.
All this would have been fine and well if the stupid bastards didn't
feel the irresistible urge to paint every wall in sight with slogans
and flags. After the war, when John had applied to the shipyard for a
job, he'd got one in the paint shop. Most of the work had simply
consisted of painting the slab sides of liners and bulk carriers but
John found he had a knack with paint. The longer he was there, the
more interesting the work had become. It was soon noticed that he had
real artistic skill, and he had increasingly been given more intricate
and skillful tasks, like coachlining and interior decoration. He'd
taken an interest in landscapes and his job had become a hobby that he
continued to this day. His present work stood on his easel in the
front room, an industrial landscape from the top of one of the great
liners in the yard. The harbour police knew him well, and he had their
tacit permission to roam where he pleased and paint what he liked. The
presentation of a watercolour for their canteen had helped greatly in
this.
His love of painting was probably the reason for John's irritation at
the lack of artistic flair shown in the wall graffiti. When the local
dad's army weren't building tank traps that wouldn't have stopped two
kids with a wheelbarrow (had they never seen a tank?), they were
painting gable walls with the worst examples of street art John had
ever seen. Knowing the standard of painting round here he had gone out
to protest when he saw the boys carrying buckets of paint around to
the side of his house. The presence of a combat-jacketed thug with a
pickaxe handle had changed his mind and he'd instead asked what they
were going to paint. An eager looking lad piped up.
'W' haven' decided yet, mister Maquire. W' were thinkin that sumthin
good shud go here cos ya can see it from the road.'
'Something good, eh? Like what?'
'Will, w' were thinkin of a big Ulster fleg.'
'A flag. That's very original.'
'Aye thanks pop.'
'I was being sarcastic, son. There's a picture of an Ulster flag on
every bloody wall from here to the arches. Can you not do anything
else?'
'But w' were gonna do a great big'un.'
'I don't want a great big one on my wall.'
The big fella with the pickaxe handle took a step closer.
'We'll paint a big Ulster fleg if we want, pop. Are you gonna stop
us?'
John looked at the big lug. The bush hat on his head was a couple of
sizes too small, and the thick-rimmed sunglasses looked so dark that
John wondered if he could see anything at all through them on a cloudy
Belfast morning like this. The big guy tapped the pickaxe handle
against his leg. A few years earlier, John would have been only too
delighted to have shoved it up his arse, but he was getting a bit too
long in the tooth for that sort of carry-on.
'Ah, paint what you like then. It'll probably have peeled off in a
couple of weeks anyway.' he'd said, then stormed into the house.
He was now wondering how they were getting on. They'd been there all
day, which was unusual. It didn't normally take too long to slap up a
big cross with a six-fingered hand in the middle, plus a few
obligatory F-words and a reference to the Gerry Fitt's parentage.
Curiosity finally got the better of him and he decided to go outside
and find out.
As he rounded the corner, John was slightly perplexed to see the
entire group lined up and looking at his wall. He walked a few paces
towards them, then turned around to gaze on the gable.
'Oh, fer fuck's sake.' was the only phrase that came immediately to
mind.
'Well, mister Maquire? That's not too bad now, is it?'
John looked in horror at his wall. It was, apparently, a landscape. In
the background, lime green hills sat like cardboard cutouts against a
lavender sky. Scudding across the nightmare scene were dripping clouds
of Crown Silk magnolia. The entire scene was lit by a pallid, lemon
coloured oval placed low on the horizon.
'Its.......'
John forced himself to look down to the foreground. Inhabiting this
vision of rainbow hell were a gaggle of very strange beings indeed.
All dressed in black, they stood and lay in various contorted
positions around the landscape. Their heads were also black. Out from
huge eyeholes stared enormous Brilliant White eyes with jet black dots
for pupils.
'Its.......'
Mostly, they appeared not to look in any particular direction. In
fact, most left eyes were looking, chameleon-like, in a different
direction to their partners.
'Its.......'
Their hideously misshapen limbs held sticks of some sort, grasped in
three and four-fingered appendages, their thumbs ghastily attached on
no particular side. His attention was caught by one kneeling(?)
individual. The huge white globes bore into John's eyes with a
malevolence he had seen somewhere before. Then he realised where. He
was being stared at by a hideous, black, armed, Kermit the frog.
'Its.......'
One of the gangling beasts stood behind the rest. Grasped in its
rubbery arms was a pole topped by a square of white with a red cross.'
'Its.......Its......'
'It's us, mister Maquire, the whole platoon.'
'Why......why.....?'
'We're in the country. Preparin an ambush.'
Guns. That's what the sticks were. Guns. How in hell could anyone from
Belfast not paint a reasonable facsimile of a gun? John was slowly
recovering his senses.
'An ambush? Against who?'
The youngster looked at him querulously.
'The IRA, a'course. They're gonna invade from the free state soon, and
that's us preparin t' ambush the bastards. Whadya think?'
'Its......'
'Yea, I know. It's a bit better than just a big Ulster fleg. I had t'
get the boys t' stan up agin the wall so as I cud get the size right.'
'You painted these from life?'
'Aye, not too bad, eh? Course, I'm no good wi' faces so they all have
masks on. I didne want anybody t'be identified anyhow.'
'I can see that.'
'That's me there.' The youngster pointed. 'I've gotta bazooker.'
John looked at the figure. Sure enough, it did seem to have a bigger
stick than the others.
'Bazook-a.'
'Wha?'
'It's called a bazooka, not a bazooker.'
'Aye right, like you wud know.'
John looked back at the teenager. He couldn't have been more than 15.
His face and combat jacket were covered in the lurid colours of the
new surreal Ulster landscape. John remembered himself at that age. Too
late to be slaughtered in the fields of France, but happily joining up
with the ragged remains of the old UVF to defend Ulster against the
Free State. Things had not really moved on much in 50 years.
'I was in the army once.'
The teenager's face lit up.
'Did ya kill any fenians?'
'No, son. It was during the Second World War. I only ever killed
Italians and Germans.'
'Italians? I didn't know Italians invaded Ulster.'
'They didn't. It was in Africa.'
'What the f....aw, I geddit. You're a real cod, mister Maquire.
Africa, hah.'
'I know, son. Do you do all the paintings?'
'I'm gonna. You've given me a great idea. From now on I'm gonna do
nuthin but landscrapes. No mere flegs.'
'That's landscapes. You keep at it, son, you can only get better. In
fact, come on in and I'll get you a cup of tea for all your hard work.
I do a bit of painting myself, you know. Maybe I could give you a few
tips.'
'Yea? Thanks, mister Maquire. I can show ya howda do a great Ulster
fleg.'
'I'm sure you can, son. I'm sure you can.'
bro
they don't call me bro for nothing
Fruitcake Of Satan
Regards,
Dave
WWW:http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Alley/5885/index.html
(The Legions of the Black Moon - the unofficial Bal-Sagoth homepage)
====================================================================
"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law" - Aleister Crowley
Sutal
he said, and I quote,
>
>See ya in a while everybody.
Another mystery solved. bro and KateH have run off together. Theirs was a
short but intense courtship and we wish them all the best of luck in the real
world outside of cyberlife. I am merely *suggesting* this could be the case,
not, of course, being privy to any personal information or anything of that
sort so don't threaten to sue me because I didn't do anything wrong.
*100% Copyright Free*
Peter O'Stuart
Sutal wrote:
Works for me Sue. Since they're both gone, it seems only appropriate to start all
sorts of nasty rumours about them, like how their love child will raze the AOH.
--
Pete Stuart
Bro
Fruitcake Of Satan <mango...@my-dejanews.com> wrote in message
news:375457a2...@news.freeserve.net...
> ...Wedding?
>
I hope to hell you're not doing a pyschology course, dave. You're
gonna fail miserably.
See ya in a while everybody.
bro
Fruitcake Of Satan
>On Tue, 01 Jun 1999 21:59:26 GMT, mango...@my-dejanews.com
>(Fruitcake Of Satan) wrote:
>
>>...Wedding?
>>
>More likely exams......
>
>Now is he giving them or taking them....:-)
>
what, exams? Or something else?
Regards,
Dave
>Eddie
>
>
>Web : http://indigo.ie/~edwall/scifaces/sci_faces.html
> http://indigo.ie/~edwall
>ICQ : 8679097
Fruitcake Of Satan
wrote:
It's a good film. Excellent soundtrack...
Regards,
Dave
jake
(Fruitcake Of Satan) wrote:
>On Wed, 02 Jun 1999 09:32:22 GMT, edw...@indigo.ie (Eddie Wall) wrote:
>
>>On Tue, 01 Jun 1999 21:59:26 GMT, mango...@my-dejanews.com
>>(Fruitcake Of Satan) wrote:
>>
>>>...Wedding?
>>>
>>More likely exams......
>>
>>Now is he giving them or taking them....:-)
>>
>
>what, exams? Or something else?
I think I scared him.
--jake