MORE than writing from any other part of this island, Northern Irish writing is always measured by a political yardstick. While it is true that all writing is in some way politically inflected, the political situation in the North throws a writer's allegiances into sharp relief. Unlike Southerners who can write without a stated consciousness of politics, and not be taken to task for it, Northerners are inevitably expected to be saturated in politics.
If a writer such as Colin Bateman makes no mention at all of politics, he may be attacked for his political quietism; if he does, he may be accused of being just another Northerner who can't shut up about politics. In this damned if you do, damned if you don't situation, Bateman opts for a comical extreme. Politics, and violent politics in particular, fills every part of this novel to the point of absurdity. The boxer and his entourage who are the central characters are attacked by loyalist paramilitaries in Belfast, and by a breakaway IRA group and a radical Islamic terrorist group in New York.
The novel, which sets out to chart the story of a bid by a Belfast man to win the world heavyweight title from Mike Tyson, instead relates a wholly unbelievable tale of kidnapping, torture and murder. But this is a very funny book, and Bateman's use of humour and his self consciousness, as he does so provide an in built commentary on the function of humour when it is used as a foil for violence and hatred.
Of Wee Sweetie Mice and Men opens with the narrator, Dan Starkey, drawing together the Belfast climate and the political climate in a very forced (yet funny) one liner: "The forecast was for rain, with widespread terrorism." The many one liners of this novel are often awkwardly contrived, mirroring the narrator's uncomfortable self knowledge that he uses it to hide his feelings towards his alienated wife and to make light of his alcoholism. The comical spiral of violence which draws in the narrator and his companions is a similar device which Bateman employs both to mask and to draw attention to the real ugliness of violence. It would be serious if it weren't so funny, and it would be funny if it weren't so serious.
IT is hard to know exactly who Mary O'Donnell thought would enjoy Virgin and the Boy. This reviewer suspected that it was intended for the teen market, but judging by its display in several bookshops in Dublin, it seems to be intended for a general readership. It is the story of a 19 year old boy who whisks away his pop star idol (the Virgin of the title) in the middle of the mayhem that follows the bombing of a concert which she is giving. They develop an intense romantic relationship. After another violent assault on Virgin, they manage to maintain their relationship, despite the pressure on them from all sides to break up.
This novel is at best a display by the author of her liberal credentials, particularly with regard to love and sex. Sub plots include: the achievement by Virgin's manager of a wholesome homosexual relationship; the sexual deviancy of the crazed Catholic fund amentalist who attacks Virgin; and the morally questionable affair of Virgin and a prominent politician which is based solely on sex. The dialogue and internal monologues try so hard to use curse and swear words in a casual way that their glaring obviousness is embarrassing.
Rural life, Catholic morality, and Ireland in general are imbued with negative qualities in a display of cultural snobbery that is as simple minded as it is irritating. Unlike Bateman's book, which deals subtly with thorny issues by unsubtly (and comically) overstating them, O'Donnell's novel raises "topical" issues and transmits its unequivocal and bland opinions, with an obviousness that at times made this reviewer wonder if he was missing something. As a rites of passage novel of teenage angst, Virgin and the Boy may find a more sympathetic reception with a teenage readership, but I doubt it.