In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations, before crying into our knees, looks back and tries to figure out how the fuck we got here.
The Orange Order
For this edition, The Fair Observations hit the road and headed north to Belfast. We arranged to meet some Orange Order representatives to talk about history, the changing times, and that sartorial savviness that has made the Order legendary.
I was met at the Grand Orange Lodge by Irene, a 25-year-old intern, who greeted me kindly and proceeded to guide me around the facility. I expressed my surprise — but not without charm — that a woman was escorting me around. After all, I admitted, the Orange Order had always seemed chauvinistically male. She informed me, with a terseness that was as cute as it was efficient, that the Orange Order was "a changing organisation" and that Orange Women had marched for quite some time (though not with the men). "Does that mean they'll be admitting Catholics in the near future?", I inquired with a wry smile. "I doubt that's on the cards", she said with tactful grace. "But", she admitted encouragingly, "I'm personally open to admissions."
I was met at the Grand Orange Lodge by Irene, a 25-year-old intern, who greeted me kindly and proceeded to guide me around the facility. I expressed my surprise — but not without charm — that a woman was escorting me around. After all, I admitted, the Orange Order had always seemed chauvinistically male. She informed me, with a terseness that was as cute as it was efficient, that the Orange Order was "a changing organisation" and that Orange Women had marched for quite some time (though not with the men). "Does that mean they'll be admitting Catholics in the near future?", I inquired with a wry smile. "I doubt that's on the cards", she said with tactful grace. "But", she admitted encouragingly, "I'm personally open to admissions."
Unexpectedly, our foreordained antagonism turned into a playful game politico-historical teasing. She corrected me on the organisation's name, letting me know it was now officially the Orange Institution. "We don't want to conjure up old images of domination and subjugation." "Don't we?", I piped in, with a raised eyebrow Roger Moore would be proud to call his own. Coyly avoiding my sideswipe, she fed me a line about the 'Institution' now focussing on celebrating heritage and culture. I asked her about the disproportionate cultural celebration of the Williamites beating the Irish Jacobites over three hundred years ago. After a little bit of historical wrangling, we both agreed that freedom from Papal tyranny was a good thing. She was particularly convincing when she argued that Catholics wasted a great opportunity to join in the celebration of heritage when the Orange Lodges marched right through their neighbourhood. The look in her eye and tactile contact further persuaded me that she was right.
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Any disagreements between us soon melted away when began to discuss the marching clothing of the Queen's loyal servants. "The Institution has a had a long tradition of plain fabrics", Irene explained. "They are back in fashion now, but I felt they never fell out of fashion in the first place.The neat cut of the shirts and suits make our members look polished. The dapper white gloves project cleanliness, and the bowler hat makes the whole outfit very chic. The blazing orange sash makes a daring contrast." "As daring as William III's usurpation of the crown", I interjected playfully. Unfazed, she continued: "All you need do is add a skinny tie to complete the look. They're all the rage now, and they hark back to the good old days" [when Catholics didn't have full voting rights or equal access to secondary education].
"Would you like to try it on?", she asked me, taking me aback. I eagerly admitted that I would, and soon found myself dressed in the fine attire of an Orange Man. The feelings of stylish triumphalism were intoxicating, and I could soon see the appeal of accompanying large, loud drums down the streets where my (badly dressed) enemies live. As I was leaving, I felt a cheerful, more hopeful mood descent upon me. I considered sending a letter to the 'Institute' asking them to consider admissions from all races, creeds, sexes, and sexualities. I dreamed of a bright variegation of people clad in orange sashes, marching to a Lambeg drum and flute version of Vanessa Amorosi's 'Absolutely Everybody'. I told concerned members of staff I knew nothing about the cries of "give it to me, you sectarian, fundie psycho" heard fifteen minutes previously, and then scarpered out the door.
"Would you like to try it on?", she asked me, taking me aback. I eagerly admitted that I would, and soon found myself dressed in the fine attire of an Orange Man. The feelings of stylish triumphalism were intoxicating, and I could soon see the appeal of accompanying large, loud drums down the streets where my (badly dressed) enemies live. As I was leaving, I felt a cheerful, more hopeful mood descent upon me. I considered sending a letter to the 'Institute' asking them to consider admissions from all races, creeds, sexes, and sexualities. I dreamed of a bright variegation of people clad in orange sashes, marching to a Lambeg drum and flute version of Vanessa Amorosi's 'Absolutely Everybody'. I told concerned members of staff I knew nothing about the cries of "give it to me, you sectarian, fundie psycho" heard fifteen minutes previously, and then scarpered out the door.
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