I Am the Border, So I Am
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‘No.’
‘There would be interesting digressions from our endless and pointless discussions.’
‘I’m not sure we have time for that. Brexit is quite urgent.’
‘You’re a funny man. We’ll all be here for years talking about this. 800 years of Ireland trying to leave Britain is about to be repaid by 800 years of Britain trying to leave Ireland. There’s no rush. Alright, Rupert, you go first.’
‘We’d like to propose a range of measures which would mean that there is no return to the border, I mean to the you, of the past … Are you ok?’
‘Sorry, I fell asleep. You’re being boring. Did you bring ice cream?’
‘Ice cream?’
‘I can’t negotiate without ice cream.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I am not. Would you head in to Newry there and get two 99s and then we can negotiate when you get back.’
Rupert got lost in Newry. Maybe he’d have fared better as Olly, or maybe he just didn’t know his way around. The 99s were a bit drippy by the time he came back.
‘So as I was saying …’
‘Yeah, Olly, sorry to interrupt but you dropped some ice cream on your suit there.’
‘It’s Rupert. And bugger.’
‘Dry cleaning is the only solution, Olly/Rupert.’
‘Can we please get back to the negotiations? Now we’ve been looking at other borders around the world as possible models for how a post-Brexit you could function seamlessly and frictionlessly …’
I drifted off a bit while he talked.
Jean is a friend of mine from way back. During the darkest of days she’d stop by and we’d put the world to rights and we’d despair and laugh together about the general state of things. After the Good Friday Agreement we ended up talking about normal stuff – vets’ bills, the number of Maltesers in a packet, how to avoid PowerPoint presentations, that kind of thing. We’ve seen good times and bad times. She’d be a philosophical kind of person, in a direct sort of a way. Rupert was still talking when Jean came along, walking her wee dog, and I thought, Jean will help me out here. Rupert’s a nice lad but he talks like a dishwasher manual sometimes.
‘Hello, Border.’
‘How’s it going, Jean?’
‘Woof.’
‘How’s it going, wee dog?’
‘Who’s your man there, talking to himself?’
‘He’s talking to me, Jean.’
‘But you’re not listening.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Jean, this is Olly.’
‘Rupert. We said my name is Rupert.’
‘Do you not know your own name?’
‘It’s a codename, Jean. Olly wants Rupert to be his codename.’
‘Olly’s a fine name.’
‘Can we stick to Rupert?’
‘Nice suit, Rupert.’
‘That’s what I said, Jean.’
‘You know it’s got a stain on it?’
‘He does.’
‘Would it be ok if we got back to negotiations, Border?’
‘Is this a Brexit thing, Border?’
‘Oh yes, very secret. Rupert-who-used-to-be-Olly has been sent by the British government. Jean’s good on the subject of Brexit, Rupert. You should listen to her.’
‘This Brexit thing is desperate bad, Rupert.’
‘It’s unseemly, Jean, that’s what it is.’
‘Unseemly’s the word, Border.’
‘Scundering for us all.’
‘Scundering, Jean.’
‘I don’t really understand.’
‘We know, Rupert.’
‘I’ll be back soon, Border.’
‘Fair play, Rupert. You can get that suit cleaned in Newry, you know.’
‘He’s gone, Border.’
‘He’ll be back. What are you reading there, Jean?’
‘It’s a kids’ book. I’m off to see the nephews.’
‘Is it a good one?’
‘It’s ok. It’s called The EUffalo.’
‘Would you read me it, Jean? It’d calm me down.’
‘I’m not sure it will, but ok …’
A border took a stroll through a deep, dark wood
Liam Fox saw the border and the border looked good
‘Where are you going to, little soft border?
Come and play a role in my new world order’
‘It’s terribly kind of you, Fox, but no
I’m going to have lunch with a EUffalo.’
‘A EUffalo? What’s a EUffalo?’
‘A EUffalo? Why, didn’t you know?
It has Donald Tusk, and free trade laws,
And the ECJ at the end of its claws’
‘Where are you meeting it?’
‘Here by these rocks.
And its favourite food is roasted Fox.’
A border took a stroll through a deep, dark wood
A May saw the border and the border looked good
‘Where are you going to, seamless frontier?
Can you be solved by the end of this year?’
‘It’s really not possible, May, you know
I hear more sense from the EUffalo.’
‘A EUffalo? What’s a EUffalo?’
‘A EUffalo? Why, didn’t you know?
It has a flag and a customs union.
(It nearly had a constitution)’
‘Where are you meeting it?’
‘Here by this hay.
And its favourite food is pickled May.’
‘Aw, that’s nice, Jean. The nephews’ll love it.’
‘I’d say so, Border. Isn’t it a grand evening, now?’
‘I’ve always specialised in sunsets, Jean.’
‘That you have … Do you think you’ll do grand sunsets after Brexit, Border?’
‘I will, Jean. But maybe for a while, not so …’
‘Luminescent, Border?’
‘Not so luminescent, Jean. Not for a while.’
‘Goodnight, Border.’
‘Goodnight, Jean.’
‘Woof.’
‘Night night, wee dog.’
Off she went. And the wee dog. And silence descended.
Some night you should come here, lay yourself down beside me and put your ear to the sod. Then you can listen quietly to the voices of the things that are buried, shallow and deep, within me, and you will learn from the yarns they spin, and the sadnesses they recall, and the wisdom they speak. Then, if you don’t know it already, you’ll see why I’m so pissed off with Rupert and his Brexit.
RADIO BORDER
192.1FM
Today at 5pm:
If a seagull sh*ts on you is it a Brexit thing?
How to train your Leaver
‘Yer Head’s Cut’ – Jean’s advice column
Still Here, Jim?
Jim was still here. Where else would he be, I suppose? He had nowhere to Leave to, no hidden Leaving skills that he had suddenly unleashed, no map which would take him on the path to Leaving. No, Jim’s Leaving now involved being very unLeft.
‘Border.’
‘Jim.’
‘This is quite boring, isn’t it?’
‘…’
‘Did you ever hear tell of a lad called Samuel Beckett, Border?’
‘Oh aye. Went to school round here. Quiet lad. Why do you ask?’
‘It passes the time, Border.’
‘It would have passed anyway, Jim.’
‘…’
‘Still Leaving, Jim?’
‘Still Leaving, Border.’
‘Ok, Jim.’
Jim can stand there for hours, days, weeks on end, in the process of Leaving. I admire his persistence.
‘Are you looking forward to Leaving, Jim?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Why’s that, Jim? Is it the prospect of freedom? The journey into the unknown? The horizons of expectation which you can push back, finding endless potentiality within yourself and your fellow Leavers?’
‘No, it’s the weather, Border.’
‘The weather?’
‘It’s going to be sunny when I’ve Left, Border.’
‘Sunny uplands?’
‘Yes, Border, that’s it, I think. Sundry uphills.’
‘Sunny uplands, Jim. When you Leave there will be sunny uplands.’
‘That’s it. I’m Leaving for sunken funlands.’
‘Ok, Jim.’
Time for Jim to get into a telephone box and put on the Brexitman suit that Jean knitted for him.
Croissants and Pasties
I saw Jean hurrying towards me one evening in an awful rush, with the wee dog being dragged along behind her on the lead, bouncing off the footpath with the eyes bulging and the claws click-clacketing on the tarmac. Jean was fairly panting by the time she got to me, and the wee dog was disgusted with life.
‘Border,’ she says.
‘I’m here, Jean.’
‘I know that,’ says Jean. ‘Oh, I haven’t a breath on me, Border.’
‘Is something wrong, Jean? Is Strabane vanished again?’
‘No. No, Border, that was fog. No, I was watching the news there and was just about to put the wee dog’s dinner in front of it …’
I looked at the wee dog. The wee dog definitely remembered the dinner not actually getting to the front of it.
‘… and the man on the news said there’s a delegation from the EU coming to visit you tomorrow.’
‘There’s never a day goes by but some lad in a suit comes along and gets his picture taken beside me, pointing, or standing with one foot either side of me. And I never look up, Jean, I never look up.’
‘I know, Border, and you are to be praised for your restraint. But that man on the news said that tomorrow it’s Monsieur Barnier.’
‘Well, now, amn’t I glad I got my grass cut this week, Jean? And sure, by tomorrow afternoon I can do a good trim and tidy and be ready. It’s a big deal, all the same.’
‘But, Border, the man on the news said Monsieur Barnier is coming for a “working breakfast”.’
There was a silence. I looked at Jean. She looked at me. The wee dog looked at Jean. And then at me. And me and Jean said together:
‘CROISSANTS!’
‘Jean, where in the name of hell and all that’s holy are we going to get croissants for Michel Barnier’s breakfast? It’s 7.13pm the night before he arrives and we’re standing in a field outside Muff.’
‘That’s a fair question, Border. The good shops are shut. The shops that are open are croissant-free zones. We could get a sliced pan handily enough in a petrol station.’
‘Jean, if I give Michel Barnier toasted sliced pan and peanut butter for breakfast he’ll have customs posts on me before he’s back in Brussels. And who would blame him?’
‘Woof.’
‘What’s she saying, Jean?’
‘Woof woof woof woof woof woof.’
‘The wee dog says she’ll go and find a breakfast suitable for the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator and his team.’
The wee dog was going round in circles now. ‘Off you go, wee dog,’ I said, ‘find some exquisite pastries. Also, freshly squeezed orange juice. And probably muesli.’ And off she scampered.
Jean went home and I settled down for the night, but I knew I’d not sleep. I was worrying about becoming a hard border. I was worried about meeting Barnier and having to make my case to him and to remember all that stuff about tariffs and checks. I had to remember to ask him about the SPS, and to plead with him that I not end up too proximate to chickens or the internal workings of ruminants. Most of all, I was worried about the croissants. I felt that my future probably depended on the croissants.
At about eleven I heard the distinctive lolloping of Jean’s wee dog, its name tag rattling as it ran, its ears pinned back in the bordery wind as it tore towards me – with a blue plastic shopping bag in its mouth. Thon’s some mutt, I thought to myself, though as she got closer I began to feel a little sceptical about the shape of the bag. Still, I thought, croissants in Muff near midnight. That would be a miracle. Miracles are in short supply where Brexit is concerned, as you may have noticed yourself. ‘Grand job, wee dog. Tip out the croissants there,’ I said, ‘til we have an inspection.’ The dog tipped up the bag. Custard Creams. Bourbons. Jammie Dodgers. And all of them, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit slobbery.
I looked at the wee dog. She was delighted with herself. ‘Is this what you got me for the breakfast, wee dog?’
She assented, in a wee doggy way. ‘Wee dog, I am grateful for your help, truly I am. But this is not a breakfast fit for the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator. He’s a man of sophisticated tastes. Leaving aside the canine saliva in which they are marinated, the contents of a box of Family Circle biscuits are not how he would choose to begin his day, and I need him to be in a good mood, otherwise it’s physical infrastructure for me and rabies injections for you [technically this wasn’t true but I had to put the frighteners on the mutt]. Did you just go home and steal these biscuits from Jean’s cupboard?’ The wee dog said nothing. ‘Wee dog, please take these back and, if you can, find me some croissants. They’re like puff pastry things.’ The dog went off, a bit more slowly than before and I felt that my hopes of putting on an impressive continental breakfast had probably gone with it.
I must have fallen asleep for a while. I dreamt that David Davis was dressed in a devil costume and riding around on a souped-up lawnmower trying to find me so he could cut my grass. And some time, probably around midnight, was when it must have happened. I’m not proud of this, dear reader, but you must understand it was an accident. Somewhere, along the length of me, and I’m a bit hazy on the details, a lorry ‘shed its load’, as they say on the radio, and the load was, I believe, kegs of beer. I woke up with a start and a surprise and I was, I think it is fair to say, absolutely plastered.
I do not recall much of the rest of the evening. I know the wee dog came back with another bag. I spoke to it fondly, if a little incoherently. I may have said that it was the best f***ing dog in the whole f***ing world and if anyone said otherwise they’d have me to deal with because there’s no other dog I’d rather have as a border’s best friend than you wee dog you lovely wee dog c’mere ’til I give you a pet but don’t be lifting your f***ing leg near me.
I know I sent Jean a few texts, because I saw them on my iPad the next morning:
Thursday 00:15
oh Jean a lorrrydropped a keg on me an it split so it did n I think I might be a bit ahhm pissed or something xx border
Delivered
Thursday 00:23
it seeeeeeped in I couldnt held it help it fing autocorrect
Delivered
Thursday 00:47
I love you jean you are my best friend like did I ever tell you I love you but god I hate brexit
Delivered
Thursday 00:49
I mean Brexit whats it like a big pile of crap but sure I have you your my best friend. oh wait the wee dogs here
Delivered
Thursday 00:54
the wee dog brought the croissants Jean it’s a wonderdog so it is i’m going to kiss yer dog
Delivered
Thursday 00:54
might boke see u in morning bring jam
Delivered
You know the way, when you wake in the morning with a bit of a hangover – let’s call it for what it was – you know that way, and nothing much is working except your sense of smell, but it’s working overtime because everything else is taking the day off? Well, my sense of smell was telling me that whatever was in that bag had come from the general area of Macari’s chipper. I nudged the wee dog. It woke up slowly and it did that dog thing where they stretch their legs out in front of them like they’re going to catapult themselves into dogland. When she’d wandered off for a leg-lift and come back I says to her, ‘Wee dog, is there any chance we’re at cross-purposes here with the croissants? Maybe show me what’s in the bag, because it sure doesn’t smell like the best Parisian viennoiserie pastry to me.’
The dog looks indignant and tips out the contents of the bag as if to prove how well she’s done. Oh My Sweet Lord. Pasties. Not pastries. Pasties.
Now, it occurs to me that some of you may not be familiar with the pastie. A traditional dish of Belfast, but available elsewhere in Northern Ireland, and beyond – though not far beyond, for who would want it? – the pastie is traditionally made from pork mince, with potato, onion and some spices, moulded into a substantial burger shape and then covered in batter and deep fried. Usually it is eaten in the ‘pastie supper’ form, that is with chips, and usually when the consumer of the pasty is pissed, because otherwise you might pause to think about what you’re eating, what’s in it, and what it actually tastes like. A croissant it is not.
‘Right,’ I said, though ‘right’ didn’t really reflect what I was thinking. The wee dog was sniffing the pasties and seemed ready to tuck in. Jean appeared.
‘Pastie suppers, Border?’
‘Pastie suppers, Jean.’
‘The wee dog thought you said pasties, didn’t it?’
‘So it would seem, Jean.’
‘Shit.’
‘Ah, bonjour, vous êtes la frontière? Et c’est votre ami, Madamoiselle Jean?’
‘Monsieur Barnier, bonjour. S’il vous plaît, prendre un … petit déjeuner, I guess.’
‘We can speak in English, Border. What an usual breakfast. A local speciality?’
‘Erm, yes. Yes, we often have this for petit déjeuner, Jean, don’t we?’
‘Oh aye, at least once a week.’
I had an idea. ‘Actually, Monsieur Barnier, we are very concerned that this traditional dish will be threatened by le Brexit. It depends, for example, on ahm … help me out here, Jean …’
‘… on cross-border pigs.’
‘Yes, exactly. The distinctive spicy flavour of la pastie is achieved by having the pigs criss-cross the border eating herbs from either side of me. And, well, you know yerself, Michel …’
‘Mais oui, le Brexit threatens all our livelihoods. I shall do all I can to maintain the tradition of la pastie, and everything else about you, Border. I will personally ensure that la pastie – like Roquefort, like Champagne – receives the full legal protection afforded by EU regulation. It shall have Protected Designation of Origin status. Now, let me try some of this delicacy.’
You’re not going to believe this. He liked it. He took some away with him for his mates in Brussels. I’d say that place fairly smelt of chip grease and vinegar for a few days after he got back. They’ll not be forgetting about me over there for a while.
So we had the bantz with Michel and that was all grand. He’s on our side, sure we know that, and he was very reassuring about the animal welfare issues.
‘You will not be needing the long-armed gloves, mon ami,’ were his very words.
And he went off happy. As his motorcade purred off towards Dublin I began to really feel the effects of the spilt drink.
‘Well, that went well, considering, Border.’
‘It did, Jean.’
Brexisnt.
Could I sue Brexit for damages?
Aye, sure, go on, rain on me, as if that could make things worse.
I have a little sign on my desk to remind me and my visitors of my responsibilities. It says ‘The Backstop’s Here’.
Don’t let me keep you now.
Ambridge Analytica manipulate rural voters.
I was going to call this book Fuckoon.
I’m Brexasperated.
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Jim
World expert on the process of Leaving. Drawing on three years’ experience of Leaving and going absolutely nowhere
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ABOUT THIS BOOK
Do you want to Leave? I mean really Leave. Leave absolutely and completely. Leave so there’s no coming back. Yes? Good for you. Me too.
My name’s Jim and I’m a Leaver. I’ve been Leaving since 2016. I’ve put in at least 25,000 hours of Leaving over the past few years and now I’ve distilled my vast experience into a book so you too can be a Leaver. A BeLeaver.
There are seven steps to Leaving:
1 You must BeLeave in BeLeaving.
2 Tell yourself you’re going to Leave. Don’t think about how, just tell yourself that it’s going to be easy.
3 Tell everyone else you’re going to Leave. If they object, tell them they’re Leaving with you whether they like it or not.
4 Find a safe place from which to Leave.
5 Stand in that place.
6 Wait. Something will come along soon.
7 Be calm. Becalmed.
In this book I’ll take you through the 7 steps and then you’ll be ready to Leave. You’ll be standing, becalmed, alongside me. I know you’re excited about standing around saying you’re going to Leave and not actually Leaving. I am too.
Let’s Leave! Soon! Really soon!
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