Paul Kennedy

Hahaha did yous honestly think I would forget to post it this year?

The twelfth of July is a big date here in the north. My earliest memories of it were as a nipper in Stiles in Antrim and watching what would be now considered a miniscule boney in comparison to some of today’s behemoths. It was contained and seemed like fun for those who attended. My family, West Belfast fenians, watched from the living room window.
We soon moved to Ballymena and on a few occasions local lads I ran around with would extend an invitation to attend the boney at the wimpy playing fields assuring me it was fun and I would be safe. I never accepted, though did go drinking one twelfth when I was about 17 with a Protestant pal and his big brother and it was just like a normal pub crawl, nothing celebratory or triumphal about it. Just a few pints.

Every year now we see flags or effigies on boneys and there’s a bit of a kerfuffle as a few local MLAs pay lip service to how shite it all is. Maybe someone slips from a boney during construction and injures themselves or worse. Fire brigades are called to save houses that have caught fire, ambulances contend with burn calls all night, we all get on with it, like it’s necessary collateral damage.

The character I played in that photo was called Nat McIlwaine. I lived with him for nine months or so in 2016 and got to know him quite well. If he were alive today he’d be the type of guy who would come up with the idea to put an effigy of an immigrant boat or a mosque atop a boney. He’d be dead proud of himself, thinking he’s some sort of hero. Then he’d get the local kids to do it all while he sits back and watches the shitshow he’s created unfold. McIlwaine’s redemption - for me - was that there was a spark of love in his heart and at one point he started questioning everything. It took the trench for him to reach that point.

Let’s try to end on a lighthearted note

“It was black and it was beautiful
The aroma was divine
We bought an eighth at half past eight
We were stoned by ten past nine
We skinned up in the living room and we were all half choked
And on the mantelpiece behind the clock
Was the HASH MY FATHER SMOKED
(Paddy Kielty)