BRENDAN Duddy was once the best fish-and-chip man in Northern Ireland, in his own estimation: "I understand potatoes, I understand fish, I love it." He was less able to boast about his understanding of what was going on behind the scenes of the war a
nd peace process there – until now.
It's only ten years since the Good Friday agreement "officially" ended The Troubles, as they were euphemistically called (thankfully the current Middle East conflict has never been dubbed The Unpleasantness or The Big Row). Yet it seems so much a thing of the past that most of us don't really think of it any more. We've forgotten the bombs and the hunger strikes and the riots and the time when actors could make a living re-voicing Gerry Adams's speeches for TV.
Surprisingly it seems that in a large degree we have Duddy, apparently a fairly ordinary, jolly restaurateur from Derry, to thank for that. Journalist Peter Taylor, a longtime friend, has been waiting to tell his story until, presumably, they could be sure that the peace would stick and he wouldn't be in danger. It was a good story, too: one of secret meetings and coded conversations, intrigue and missions around the country.
Duddy became established as a contact between the IRA and the government by accident, as he tells it, when the local police chief asked him to use his influence to clear guns out of the Bogside before the march which was to end up being known as Bloody Sunday. Later, MI6's Michael Oakley – "this six-foot handsome perfect specimen" says Duddy, making him sound like James Bond – used him as his "bamboo pipe" to relay the government's messages to their opponents. He seems to have been trusted by both sides; it helped that Martin McGuinness had once delivered hamburgers to his chippy and was regularly told off for chatting up the girls in the shop.
Duddy's involvement ended up going on, in different forms, for 20 years. It's hard to see why it took so long and so many deaths to get to where we are now. But along the way, he did help to achieve some temporary ceasefires: "Every day of peace was a life saved." And without his role, and that of still unidentified agent "Robert" whom he credits for defying orders to bring about negotiations, perhaps we'd still be stuck in that cycle of violence.
The most interesting part of this documentary was seeing the small, traditional living room at the Duddys', which once brought together major IRA and security service figures on his sofa. Everyone took turns at making the tea and fetching in the coal. People think history is made in grand places like the White House or the Kremlin, he said, but it's not like that: the real change happens in smaller, less public ways.
Less seriously, Desperate Housewives is back and thoroughly committed to recycling. The incredibly tedious and smug narration, the twinkly, arch music, the characters doggedly sticking to stereotypes and the stories that could be cleared up in five minutes if anyone was honest with each other: here they all are again.
I'm pretty sick of this show, but I suppose I can see why it's still popular because in its stupid cartoon way it does cover a lot of issues which affect women's lives – Lynette's cancer, Susan fearing the menopause, Bree's failure as a mother – albeit in a ridiculously over the top manner. But not yet another new neighbour with something to hide, surely? The local estate agents must give discounts for buyers with Mysterious Secrets.
The full article contains 615 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
