Kevin Myers: Two extremes in North like spoilt brats on a day out
LONG, long before today's Belfast rioters were born, I was reporting on a riot in precisely those very same mean streets. They were a lot meaner then, as indeed were the rioters, who regarded journalists as treacherous mongrels, begotten by the Pope out of Republican Whoredom. So I naturally attempted to look Staunchly Protestant, with the Reformed blood of the Boyne boiling in my Orange arteries, while waves of rioters spent their apparently inexhaustible ferocity upon the Welsh Guards. At one point, a snatch-squad made a vain attempt to grab a rioter, and ended up, exhausted and culpritless, standing beside me.
A middle-aged man hobbled out of his terraced house and knocked metallically on his thigh. "See you f#*+ing Welsh bastards? See this f#*+ing leg here? I lost this f#*+ing fighting for the f#*+ing Crown at Arnhem, so I did."
"Well you ought to 'ave more f#*+ing sense then, didn't you," wheezed the sergeant in mellifluous Swansea, before rejoining his embattled platoon.