Roy Garland is a leading Political Commentator in Northern Ireland. He is a journalist and writer for the Irish News, a member of the Ulster Unionist Party, a member of the Reform Group and author of several books – most notably the biography of UVF leader, Gusty Spence. Roy is a well respected and leading Unionist figure and has been from the 60’s.
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Do you know anything about Marius Milner? What about Luc Delany? You probably don’t know a thing about them – but there is a good chance they know something about you. Delany used to be Google’s European policy associate and Milner is a software designer from Hove in East Sussex. Still in the dark? Well, Milner has patented inventions for Google and one of these was the ‘Street View’ programme for Google designed to gather information via cars fitted with cameras and antennae.
Dr. John Coulter is a former ‘Blanket Magazine’ columnist and, at present, is Northern Political Journalist for the Irish Daily Star. Dr. Coulter is also a member of the NUJ’s Belfast branch.
Loyalists need a blue-collar hero:
Working class out of politics loop.
Loyalists badly need a working class hero who can deliver the type of human
and civil rights which Martin Luther King won for the Afro-American
As RSM of all UVF / RHC compounds during the mid seventies, I sincerely welcome the formation of this long overdue site. For far too long we the old Ulster Volunteers of the late sixties and the early seventies, have set back and allowed the sincerity, the service and the sacrifice of our fallen comrades, to become tarnished and belittled by the feuding, treachery, self gain, extortion, drug dealing and informing, practiced by many of those who have attempted to follow in our footsteps.
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I see that the old ‘Prod Basher’- Hugh Jordan has been his usual self again. Last week in the Sunday World he wrote an article about Paula Bradley, a DUP MLA for North Belfast. Jordan variously describes Bradley as a ‘curvaceous party girl, a pretty brunette, a curvy DUP babe, a fun-loving politician with a fondness for Jaegermeister shots, part of a loved-up couple, a lovebird etc.
Where now the No Surrender men
Where now their cries of Never?
Where now the pledges cheaply made,
Without the courage to deliver?
Where now the hands that would not shake,
The bloody hands of slaughter?
Where now the papers boastfully waved
For guns that would not utter?
Where now the wavers of the flag,
Where now the ranks of marchers?
Where now the Resistance Red berets?
All sold out by your masters.
All sold for riches, power and fame
Lie betrayed the cannon fodder
Misused, disowned, shamefully cast aside
In exchange for Stormont’s plunder.
HE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE
Robert ‘Bobby’ Spence
Born: 7th March 1929
Died: 12th October 1980
Bobby grew up in Joseph Street, Shankill Road, he had four brothers and two sisters. He went into service in both the Royal and Merchant Navies. While in the Royal Navy he was awarded two medals, a distinguished service medal whilst serving during the Korean War and a United Nations Medal.
Have you ever started reading something and, after a couple of paragraphs, wondered if it was a wind-up? Happened this week to me. Anthony McIntyre’s site – The Pensive Quill, posted a contribution from a group called – I’m not making this up – ‘No Royal Beacons at McArts Fort Cavehill Campaign Group’. (What a mouthful).
Imperious—on high—almost a dot
plummets in a freefall—like a gunshot
focused—fixed and resolute
homing in—an Exocet—astute–
doesn’t waiver—zooms in at a hundred plus,
with precision-an arrow straight and true
A dive-a drop from cloudy heights
Plumage sleeked back-its hue,
brown/grey to conceal from unsuspecting prey
The prey-camouflaged-amidst the wire-it thinks:
Cowers in awe-in trepidation-slinks–in dread
at its impending doom-petrified-frozen to the spot
turned to stone—and not—wanting to move—presents itself:
A shrill piercing cry—a salutation from a monarch of the sky:
Impact—swift—incisive—a flurry of feathers–Rip—and Slash:
Then stillness—surveys the scene—and begins to pluck-to tug and preen—then gone—its prey grasped by its talons—hooked around its lifeless form.
Written by an old compound man – a veteran of most of them in fact – the inspiration for this short piece came from the many hours spent by he and a number of prisoners watching the bird of prey. No one can be sure if in fact it was the same bird all the time but when the shout echoed through the huts – ‘The Hawk’s Up’ – there was a dash to the wire to see this wonderful act of nature unfold.