Strange tale of an extremist, a Prince and the not-so saintly Maggie

It was ironic to see the pictures of Prince Charles, tea cup in one hand, using the other for an apparently cordial handshake with Gerry Adams, Sinn Féin leader in Northern Ireland and for many on this side of the water, one of the great bogeymen of all time.

The Prince and the Extremist
Extraordinary cordiality

He repeatedly leaned forward towards the Prince, apparently exchanging not merely remarks, but confidences. This is particularly surprising because they both have bitter history against the other, as Adams made clear yesterday: he blames the British paras for the terrible killing of fourteen people on Bloody Sunday, in Derry, in 1972, and the Prince is the honorary Colonel-in-Chief of the regiment. However, Adams did also recognise that Charles had “been bereaved by the actions of Republicans”, in a reference to the IRA killing of Lord Mountbatten, the last Viceroy of India and a relative to whom Charles was particularly close (his “honorary grandfather”).

None of this was half so ironic, for me, than the contrast to Margaret Thatcher’s attitude when she was Prime Minister. She famously talked about the need “to find ways to starve the terrorist and the hijacker of the oxygen of publicity on which they depend”. That led to one of the more risible aspects of her long and painful reign: she banned the voices of extremist organisations being heard on British TV.

This meant that for six years, we could see Gerry Adams on our TVs, we could see his lips forming the words he was pronouncing, but we couldn’t hear his voice pronouncing them: instead, an actor would dub them in over the picture. Exactly the same words, mind you. The “oxygen of publicity” denial didn’t affect his message, only his voice.

This is one of the less well-remembered aspects of the Thatcher years. I always remind her fans of it, when they present her as some kind of secular saint, as they regularly do. It was an entirely pointless act, and damaged only Britain: you can imagine how difficult it made it to argue against freedom of speech limitations in other countries.

The ban kept running after Thatcher fell, perhaps out of deference to her memory. But finally, in 1994, her successor John Major dropped it. The only people who regretted its passing were the actors who were called on to dub the voices: it had been a nice little earner for them.

Today, that same Gerry Adams met and chatted for a few minutes to the next in line to the British throne. With every appearance of cordiality. No actor was on hand to repeat his words for him. And the earth didn’t fall into the sky.

In fact, what the incident did was to strengthen the growing bonds between erstwhile adversaries in Northern Ireland, as the Queen herself did three years ago, when she met Adams’ colleague and the current Deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland, Martin McGuiness, and shook his hand.

Rather underlying the fact that if you want to bring peace anywhere, it’s a lot more effective to come to terms with your resentments, however deeply held they may be, however justified, and listen to your adversary. A lot more effective than spreading further hatred by labelling him a terrorist and extremist. And then trying to shut him up.

And if it turns out you actually can't, it’s laughable as well as ineffective

Ian Paisley: salute a man who found a voice for reason

It’s difficult to work up much of a sense of bereavement over the death of a politician who, during their lives, voiced views that we find toxic.

For my part, I felt no desire to celebrate Maggie Thatcher’s departure – I reserved that for her fall from her office, after which it was a matter of complete indifference to me whether or not she still lived, since she no longer exerted any direct influence over things I held dear. That baleful influence persists, for instance in the 2008 crash caused by the deregulation of banking presided over by Ronald Reagan with her enthusiastic support, but it’s exercised by others who deserve our opposition today. When she died, the matter seemed to me just a footnote in the news.

But I feel different about the death of Ian Paisley yesterday. While I have no sympathy with Ulster Unionism, I can appreciate the stature of the man. He was a far greater figure than Thatcher could ever be.

Ian Paisley in his prime: the megaphone voice of Protestant Unionism

Thatcher was a politician without compassion. She ruthlessly destroyed whole communities in pursuit of beliefs she held with utterly dogmatic, unshakeable certainty. She was incapable of giving any consideration to the possibility that she might be wrong on any issue. It strikes me as particularly powerful wisdom on the part of Tim Minchin to point out that while it’s true, as the popular expression has it, that opinions are like arseholes in that everyone has one, opinions differ from arseholes in requiring to be regularly and closely scrutinised.

It always struck me about Thatcher that she would never have been open to the idea that an opinion of hers deserved scrutiny. She would probably have denied that anything she believed was tenuous enough to be called an opinion rather than a fact. But then I doubt she could have been prevailed upon to admit she even had an arsehole: she took herself far too seriously to allow anything so low.

It was that utter humourlessness, particularly with regard to herself, that was her defining characteristic. Her determination to be taken seriously meant she couldn’t admit that any view contrary to her own might have merit; that made her rigid and intolerant. It was those qualities that led to her ultimate fall. Having pummelled her way into gaining acceptance of such policies as the poll tax, she made herself unelectable, the deadliest of sins within the Tory Party. After having worshipped her for more than a decade, it unceremoniously knifed her.

Now Paisley seemed to be a politician cut from exactly the same block. The phrase most associated with him, a continuation of Edward Carson’s “no surrender” that did such damage to Ulster for decades, was his notorious “never, never, never.” It echoed Thatcher’s “there is no alternative” (Tina as we came to know it, though not uniformly with affection).

There is always an alternative. Paisley unlike Thatcher saw it. On 12 July 2006, eight years after the signing of the Good Friday peace agreement, Paisley said of Sinn Fein that they “are not fit to be in partnership with decent people. They are not fit to be in the government of Northern Ireland and it will be over our dead bodies if they ever get there.”

And yet on 8 May 2007, a mere ten months later, he became First Minister of Northern Ireland, with as his deputy Martin McGuinness, who is not only from Sinn Fein but a known former IRA commander. Paisley said “today at long last we are starting upon the road — I emphasise starting — which I believe will take us to lasting peace in our province.”

Now it takes real courage to make that kind of a turn in politics, or in anything else. To do it for the sake of peace in a riven community shows real greatness.

Thatcher famously – or infamously – said “the lady’s not for turning.” Paisley turned on a question central to his whole political being. And proved himself far the finer statesman by doing so.

Rest in peace, Ian Paisley. My disagreement remains as strong as ever. But it comes with a substantial dose of admiration too.



Postscript. I was once told a story about Paisley whose truth I’ve never been able to establish, and indeed have never investigated: I’d hate to discover it was an invention.

Bernadette Devlin was for a while an MP at Westminster, and the sworn enemy of everything Paisley stood for. She once told him that unionism was unfair. He admitted that she was right but pointed out that he’d “rather be British than be fair.” That at least has the merit of being honest, especially as many Brits like to believe that to be British is to be essentially fair – or at least to believe in fair play, which may or may not be the same thing.

Bernadette Devlin: MP at 22
Firebrand nationalist and nemesis of Paisley

The story I was told was that after a late night sitting of the House of Commons, Paisley was waiting for a taxi in the queue outside the Palace of Westminster. A taxi drew up, but he stood back to let the next MP have it.

“But it’s your cab,” the other replied.

“I’m waiting for Bernadette,” he told him.

Bernadette was a young woman, it was late and London is a big and sometimes dangerous place. She might be a sworn adversary, but Paisley saw it as his duty to see her safely home.

A BBC journalist told an anecdote last night which rather suggested that this might be true.

He found himself, by coincidence, sitting next to Paisley on a plane to London. They chatted all the way over, but Paisley spoke so softly that the correspondent had difficulty hearing him over the engine noise. As they arrived in London, they were besieged by reporters. Paisley switched on his trademark megaphone voice and used it to proclaim some inflammatory and unbending statement or another.

And then turned to his travelling companion and winked.

A handshake marks the end of some things, the continuation of others

When it comes to historic handshakes, it wasn’t right up there with the best of them – one thinks of the Bill Clinton-sponsored greeting between Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat, for instance – but even so something important happened when the Queen shook Martin McGuinness’s hand yesterday.

It was all so laden with significance. 

On the one hand, an anachronism symbolic of our times: a former leader of a terrorist organisation. But this one has laid aside the gun for good to embrace the opportunity of pursuing a political career (and is proving rather good at it). 

On the other hand, another anachronism symbolic of our times: a head of state who owes her position to birth alone. Sadly, she provides a fittingly reflection of the desire of a substantial majority of British people to be treated as subjects, not citizens.

A historic moment.
And she was in green. Is she a secret Republican?

Still, the Queen and McGuinness represented former adversaries – actually, former enemies – and by shaking hands they signalled the commitment of everyone involved to settle their differences peacefully in future. That is massively significant.

In addition, however, I’m also enthusiastic about how this event shows up those who make absurd claims along the lines of ‘we never talk to terrorists.’ Michelle Bachmann (remember her? she used to be quite prominent in US politics) said it last October, tackling Ron Paul (remember him? he had a brief moment of minor celebrity too): ‘We have an absolute policy: we don't negotiate with terrorists’.

The position is nonsense because the people it most makes sense to talk to are your enemies. You can talk to your friends any time, and there’s a real chance that you’ll all agree, but you won’t be a jot further forward. If you want a breakthrough, it has to be across the table from the people who would otherwise be trying to shoot you.

The policy of refusing to talk reached its zenith of stupidity under Thatcher in 1988 (something to remember when people wax nostalgic about her).

In an attempt to ‘starve the terrorist and the hijacker of the oxygen of publicity on which they depend’ Thatcher brought in regulations to prevent Sinn Feinn leaders’ voices being heard on broadcast media. Unfortunately, since the only way we were ever going to make progress in Northern Ireland was by finding common ground with Sinn Fein, what they had to say was of particular interest to the public.

So we had the glorious sight of Irish republicans being interviewed on British TV, their lips visibly moving, their expressions changing, their body language fluent, but their voices silenced. Only their voices. We could hear their words – just not spoken by them. Instead, actors would read out the words, precisely the same words the Sinn Feiners had used.

Political censorship is generally poisonous. But when all that’s being censored is the voice, not the words, then it becomes ludicrous too.

Come to think of it, a measure that was both poisonous and ridiculous sounds like an entirely fitting monument to the Thatcher government.

That we had a handshake yesterday to seal the end of the bloodshed and the misery is hugely important. Historic. But will it also end the kind of childishness in government that led to Gerry Adams’ words being pronounced by an actor? When Tony Blair announces he’d like to be Prime Minister again, it’s quite obvious that delusions among politicians are not about to melt away.

But that's just as well. Think of all the opportunities for entertainment we’d lose. Let’s be grateful for the occasional historic handshake. But let’s also be grateful when the clowns do something to laugh at. After all, they already give us plenty to weep over.