Claims of IRA membership

tbh wrote: »

the dude decides that people who, in his opinion, are "subhuman" are undeserving of the same human respect and rights that "humans" are entitled to. What does he sound like now? :pac:

Rt. Hon. wrote: »

But I would imagine that the typical volunteer was an unemployed thug from a poor area who joined up because he wanted to be feared and 'respected.' His neighbours would all know he was in the Ra and he would enjoy the notoriety. Say he then goes to prison and gets housed in the paramilitary wing and answers to the Ra commander and not the screws. Then he gets let out and moves down south.

He is not special any more. Nobody knows or cares anything about him. He wants to feel that fear and 'respect' again so starts flapping his lip when he has a few on board.

It's not impossible, and I find it far easier to believe than the idea that they were all highly disciplined, special forces types.

javaboy wrote: »

Has this descended into an IRA thread? Every goddamn time. :mad:

tbh wrote: »

this is why, for most people, provos = scumbags.

dlofnep wrote: »

There is no onus on me to feel saddened by the impending death of Margaret Thatcher. Ride on old boy. The feeling is shared across Ireland and Britain.

liah wrote: »

I had an encounter with one of these "members" the other week.

My mother was visiting from Canada. She's one of those super paranoid flighty types who says I have meningitis if I have a sore throat, or thinks I'll get raped and murdered if I walk 100ft down the country road to the petrol station to pick up a chocolate bar.

I brought her to Mullingar into the pub I (used to) frequent one afternoon. It's a bit of an "old man pub," you know the type. Good Guinness and some grumpy old men at the top of the bar and not much else. Proper Irish type pub like, figured my mother would love it for its "authenticity" (she eats that stuff up).

So we're sitting there and I get her her first pint of proper Guinness, as she's only ever had the stuff from the can back home. An old weathered man comes and sidles up beside us and starts chattering away as the Irish are wont to do when they've had a couple and there's no one else around to talk to. He'd obviously been after drinking all day and was doing The Sway, but harmless enough.

After awhile he cops that we're not Irish, and although I've lived here for nearly a year at this point and was wise enough to the bullshít that can be spouted on such occasions, my mother was as of yet unprepared. So when he first mentioned the IRA, she turned to me, eyes wild with apprehension, wondering what I had gotten her into.

I, of course, being the complete antithesis of my mother just kind of rolled my eyes at her. And he continued, in a mix of drunken slur and a proper bogger accent;

"Well ah mee-un ah doo-un beleev in hortin' anybody, yanno like. But sum-tymes, ye gotta do what ye gotta do, n' when ah was in de Eye Orr Ay, ah may haf had to do sum unpleasant tings like. The bombs wurr nevar fun but dey had to be done, yanno like. But ah nevar wanted'de hort a soul, I didna."

My mother, turgid with fear at this point, is giving me the Universal Look for "what the hell kind of place did you drag me into?!" and it was all I could do to not burst out laughing. He regaled us with tales of the 'RA and car bombs and The North, and how he had seen "too much, too much." How "nobody should ever have to do what he had to do, nobody should ever see the things he had seen." Oh, the woes and hard times he described.

My mother was transfixed; a mixture of petrification and morbid fascination, held together only by ample pints of Guinness. He, of course, was feeding off of her energy and the stories got more and more detailed and horrific, her eating up every last word.

"Ah miss, ye'd not want ta haf seen the looks on the faces ov the chillun who'd lost der families, ah it'd break yer heart in two so it would, so it would. Sure te see 'em ye'd tink ye wurr in hell itself, so you would. Consider yerselves blessed, girls, so blessed ye never had to witness these horrible tings."

Between revelations he'd take a swig of his pint of Smithwicks, and subsequently spit a fair amount of it back out as he spoke. He was in his own world now, and nobody could take him out of it. The bartender simply shook his head, having heard all the same before.

It was at this point I could tell my mother felt she'd enough Dutch courage to attempt to engage in conversation. However, I'd heard quite enough and decided it was about time to pull my now also swaying mother away from the scene.

I heard a faint "God bless yez!" as we exited the pub.

After we left the pub, all she could say was "My god Liah, are these the kind of people you've been hanging out with around here? Are you sure you're safe? It seems so dangerous! Have you seen any bombs?! I don't want you going out on your own!"

..followed closely by "Oh, but I can't wait to tell everyone back home that I met a real IRA man!"

:rolleyes:

FunkZ wrote: »

But did she get lucky with him? That's what AH really wants to know!

super-rush wrote: »

When i was studying for my leaving cert i spoke to a former leader of the IRA and he told me that anyone who openly tells people they are a member is talking through their arse.