I DON’T need subtitles to understand what Paddy Barnes is saying in television interviews; nor do I need to have ever met him to know him.
Belfast – or “Bill-fast”, to its residents – has never been my home, but my father was born there, and I grew up to the sound of Paddy’s backstreet, working-class accent. To the unpractised ear, the authentic working-class Belfast dialect may sound like a washing machine operating at high speed, but for some of us it is a hymn to the decent, salt-of-the-earth people of whom Barnes is a part.
The archetypal Belfastian is solid and dependable; tough and fearless, but also fair and generous. He is straight-speaking, and not inclined to hints and allusions, with little time for those who are. He has even less tolerance for po-faced sulkers. He is painfully outspoken, and has no sense of diplomacy.
If the working-class Belfastian had a motto, it would be, “If you have something to say then spit it out, or forget about it.” You do not ask a Belfast person for his or her opinion on any subject, unless you are prepared for a brutally honest answer.
The Belfast humour is blacker than pitch – blacker even than that of Glasgow – and although offence is seldom intended, it can often be taken by those unaccustomed to a Belfast “sleggin”.
As for fearlessness, on no account invite a Belfast male (or to be safe, even a female) to fight if you have no intention of taking your coat off, for it is almost certain he will accept, regardless of his size or the chances of him winning.
Yet there are no people more generous than the Belfast working class. If you are down on your luck in Belfast, you will find any number of backstreet residents who are quite prepared to, as they would put it, “Give you the last bite out of their mouths.”
These things hold true regardless of whether the neck of the Belfastian is decorated with a Linfield or a Celtic scarf. I have lost count of the number of foreign journalists (that is, those from outside Northern Ireland) who have been astounded to find there is no essential difference between the working class of the two main communities in our capital city.
At the height of the Troubles, an American friend, after interviewing residents at their homes in various loyalist and nationalist districts, remarked to me, “But Davy, these are all the same people.” “I know,” I replied, “That’s a large part of the problem. Neither will shift an inch from what they believe to be right.”
I grew up in poverty, on a tiny mixed-religion housing estate in the countryside, so never needed much teaching about common, working-class themes. Yet even I, on my then infrequent trips to the city, was struck by how similar the working-class communities of Belfast were.
As a youngster, I used to earn a few coppers working for a local farmer, who supplemented his income during the winter by selling firewood around Belfast’s backstreets. At every house, whether in a Catholic or Protestant area, the routine was the same. You carried the bags of wood blocks through a front door that led straight into the living room, and on through the scullery to the backyard, where they were stacked up against the side of an outside toilet.
The smell of cigarette smoke and food fried in lard was the same at almost every house, and so was the welcome: “Here’s whata owe ye, son, and a couple of coppers for yerself. Wud ye like a wee cup of tea, and mebe a wee biscuit or a bun?” That’s the decent red-brick people of Belfast for you: handing out pennies even when they can ill-afford it, and offering their last bite to a stranger.
The only difference ever discernible to me was in what they chose to hang on their living room walls. In some houses, it was a holy picture (usually flanked by one of JFK) and in others it was the queen’s image.
How do I know Paddy Barnes without ever having met him? Because he is pure Belfast working class, and I know the qualities of the people he comes from. The gutsiness of his performance in the semi-final defeat to Zou Shiming was Belfast through and through: his courage in taking a pummelling to get in close to his opponent; the never-give-up spirit that had him battling to win the third round; and his refusal to tone down his accent for the cameras.
There was a time when boxing judges gave points for aggression, and if that were still the case, Paddy would have been awarded the fight he so narrowly lost. Despite this, in true Belfast sporting style, in his post-fight comments he swallowed his hurt and paid tribute to the winner.
Paddy Barnes did himself, his family and his country proud. He also did his people proud: the residents of all the working-class districts of his native city of Belfast.
Thanks, Paddy.