Be advised his passport's green. . .

So. This week Derry was selected as the UK’s first City of Culture. Setting aside my natural state as a Tyrone man and considering the fact my wife is from the City, I think this is great news for the citizens of Derry.

There are all sorts of predictions of the benefits that it will bring to Derry. Jobs. International profile. A programme of cultural events that will be the envy of the rest of the North. It is to be hoped that the marketing people in the City make the best of this, extending the City’s reach beyond being the top place to go for your Halloween Night.

I was involved in a rebranding project a few years back, and in a workshop in the Everglades hotel I used the phrase ‘latent hint of violence’ to describe the atmosphere one can encounter in Shipquay Street during the wee hours of a weekend. My nephew is one person who got a good kicking for their troubles. Some of the people there were intrigued at the spectre I had raised, this set a discordant tone alongside some of the claims being staked for the City.

I made the point that the City’s assets far outweighed these negatives, but also that they need to maximise their assets. And you should be able to stroll through a city late at night or leave a bar after a night out without someone mistaking your ear for a kebab.

Other things like the signage within the City are atrocious. You could dander through the entire place without ever knowing that one of its schools is the alma mater of two Nobel Laureates, the only school in the world that can make this claim. Think of the public tourism trails in Boston or the richness of Edinburgh in celebrating its past tastefully.

That the likes of Brian Friel, Seamus Deane, Paul Brady and co also were educated there. (That the Undertones originated there; yep I think that is noteworthy!) All of these things are to be celebrated, but currently are ignored. In my opinion.

That it was the scene of an outrageous human rights abuse. Think Tiananmen Square, think Bloody Sunday. That the siege of Derry is still a subject of closed minds and closed hearts across this part of the world.

My sister-in-law tells me some town planning genius in the Seventies wanted to demolish the City’s walls as they got in the way of the proposed development of tenements. Foresighted or what?

And so it is over to the City Marketing folks, and the likes of Ilex and the Visitor Centre people to maximise all of this. They have all of the opportunity and hopefully some of the rest of us may get a slice of the action in applying our own appreciation and understanding of the City’s culture.

The one slightly jarring note in all of this is the fact that it is the ‘UK City of Culture’, with the emphasis on the ‘UK”.

Remember Seamus Heaney’s riposte in ‘An Open Letter’ when included as a ‘British’ poet in the 1982 Penguin Book of Contemporary British Poetry:

“Be advised.

My passport’s green.

No glass of ours was ever raised.

To toast The Queen.”

I suppose it depends on how green your passport is; or perhaps whether it is a passport of convenience that determines whether this nomenclature bothers you. But then I’m from Tyrone.

Here’s some things I would do if I won the Lottery. Some bloody chance like!

I would buy a new acoustic guitar, maybe a Takamine. This summer I will play again I swear it and I will learn a pile of really cool songs that will make people say Jaysus do you hear that?

Go on a holiday abroad, even sitting on my rear end by a pool has some allure. But if I really hit the jackpot I would maybe go somewhere like Zanzibar, Mauritius, New Zealand, the Galapagos Island, Easter Island? Hey we may even go round the world, you never know.

Depending on how much I won, I would make a very generous donation to charity. I would give something to CHARIS the cancer charity I work with, they are inspiring people. I would give some to CRY because of my good friend John Lundy. I would give some to another charity or two, possibly Barnardos to fund work with disadvantaged children somewhere. I once knew someone who worked there and she was was passionate about her work and an inspirational soul. And I would find a happy charity and give them a few quid.

I would buy a house for my mother near where I live so we would be closer to one another. It would be a nice bungalow like her house at home. She could winter here and spend summer or part of it in Omagh.

I would give my children one wish each (within reason) and try and make it come true.

As for Angie, we could go back to Lake Taquile and then retake the train journey across the altiplano to Cusco. We would go again to see Juanita in Arequipa, stopping at Lucho’s place for Cafe Con Leche and maybe some Papas de frites as she called them. And we’d laugh and laugh.

I would give something to Eoghan Rua to build a stand or their new pitch. Or maybe to buy new sliotars.

I would buy new boots and an earring of gold and I would get tattoed upon my arm “In the midst of winter I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer”. . . in swahili of course.

I would find a business idea that would work and I would set it up and work with three or four people that are close to me. Maybe my niece, my nephew, Angela and I would ensure work for my freelance friends.

I would buy a camera and learn how to take wonderful photographs and I would have exhibitions and publish books, and grow my hair and not shave that often and wear achingly cool cloths and a pair of leather boots.

I would contact Last Town Chorus to come to my house and play Modern Love and I would sit there awestruck at the sound Megan gets out of that slide guitar.

I would pay Grace McMullan to become my personal trainer and the craic we would have Grace, would be something else. I am indeed fortunate in my life to know the two graces – Gráinne & Grace.

I would go to people I have offended, insulted or left on bad terms and I would make up with them. Except for one person, my Irish teacher at school. Not only was he a bastard but he put me off the Irish language and I’m only catching up now. I could have had a life as a real gaelgoir you know?

I would buy a boat and pay some grizzled oul bastard with a Findus Cap and a grey beard to be my captain. I would call him skipper and get him to sail me and Leo and Peter round the North Coast catching Lobster and Crab and god knows what else and we would let them go again and laugh and laugh.

I would buy my three daughters beautiful clothes and wonderful toys and I would write a book and dedicate it to them. And they would laugh and laugh. And I would get Planxty together to play so they could dance to their hearts’ content in our kitchen or living room, just wherever they wanted.

I would get my sister a house nearby so she can keep an eye on me and I on her and we would make up for the time she spent in England.

I would pay some bollix to cut my lawn, trim the trees and fix my hedge. And I would put up some wire around the bloody hens. One keeps escaping down the street. I fear she will get flattened. Which came first, the chicken escalope or the omelette?

Sin é. That’ll do.

Mark Hughes. No angel, and good guy to boot.

When I was growing up amongst my heroes was the Manchester United footballer Mark Hughes. Sparky as he was known was the scorer of great goals rather than being a great goalscorer.

By that I mean he scored unfeasibly spectacular goals that were important in important games. He won the European Cup Winners Cup for United with a brilliant driven effort, unbalanced going in the other direction. He settled cup semi finals and important league matches burying chances with an aplomb others could only dream of.

Years later when I worked at the University I had the opportunity to meet Mark. As the senior University representative at the Milk Cup Launch I had to speak on behlaf of th institution and present him with a memento of the occasion. Was I disappointed? Not in the slightest –  Sparky was a quiet spoken man, genuinely humble and when I somewhat gushingly told him I had been a fan for years he said thanks for supporting us. We chatted in a friendly way for a while before he was ushered on to his next engagement. I was even more in awe of him. He was human, humble, decent and civil. A childhood ambition fulfilled.

I have met other people I admire greatly in a sporting context, and in most occasions I have not been underwhelmed or disappointed. The likes of Padraic Joyce, Sean Óg Ó hAilpin and Peter Canavan all have that down-to-earthiness that one would expect from genuine people and especially genuine GAA people. Others I have had the misfortune to come across have been arsey and indeed up their own.

The problem arises I suppose when people ascribe characteristics to people that they don’t know very well. In that case they are in a line for a disappointment and that can be hard to handle. If my perceptions of my heroes have been largely positive, the same can’t be said of some others. . .

I have a natural aversion to class reunions and meetings with people I knew years ago. Perhaps it is because I am not proud of the person I was.  Perhaps the person I am now is unrecognisable from the me of ten, twenty years ago. Perhaps I am uncomfortable with who I was then. But then, I am not too sure what any of us would make of our grown up selves. We would at least hope that we had grown up. Sometimes that isn’t the case, long seated habits and personality traits are hard to lose.

Over recent months and years I have had occasion and indeed the misfortune in some cases to run into people I used to be friendly with as a student or in another world. Perhaps through social media like Facebook or incidental contact. One or two have chosen to email me out of the blue. It can be a strange experience. We have probably all had the awkward moment on Facebook or when opening an email that cause us to stop and take notice.

My philosophy on that is all too simple nowadays. If these people were important to you, you would still be in contact with them. Ergo if they weren’t, you’re not for a perfectly good reason.

So the English football team have failed to emulate the heroes of 1966 once again. These overpaid, overindulged and over sexed Gods of the turf have shown that despite all the money in the world; all the celebrity wagging and wagging with other people’s wags; despite all the newspaper columns, product endorsements; tub thumping and union jack waving. . . that they are unworthy of the faith an over-expectant England public placed upon them. Are we surprised?

And now, in the way that they always do there is the inevitable search for a scapegoat. And, the first target is always the manager – he, or a player that made a balls of something. In 1998 it was Beckham kicking an Argentinian in a display of petulant indiscipline. In 2006 it was Rooney who got himself sent off, but the Portuguese Cristiano Ronaldo came into the firing line for daring to suggest his teammate should be sent off and then compounding things by winking. What do you expect from a porker only a grunt?

In this World Cup, the players playing for England simply weren’t up to the job. Whether the management ballsed up the pre competition preparation; whether John Terry’s mouth managed to destabilise the ship further, we will never know. In a tournament where at least the French had the deceny to self destruct in the most incandescent way possible. . . and where teams like Germany and Spain showed that it’s easier to win football matches by keeping hold of the ball, the English team simply failed on every front.

The facts are what are left when you strip away all the hype, the bullshit and the blame. And the facts are that once they take themselves onto the pitch it is the players that are required to show people what they are made of?

What then of Ghana, exploding onto the stage and exploding off it again and taking the hopes of Africa with them. What of Uruguay, cynical South Americans to some, but a well drilled and competent team that exited last night, weakened by suspension and the incompetence of another linesman. What of Argentina, brilliant forwards and with great attacking play but not a defensive bone or sinew in their body. Like the wonderful Maradona, unpredictable but doomed. . .

And so despite all of what we’ve seen over the last few weeks, Mr Capello will manage England for another while. . . nothing changes though, does it really? It wasn’t his fault but try telling that to the English.