The most unexpectedly brilliant event I’ve chanced on in some time was the James Connolly Songs of Freedom Band gig at Sandino’s. Not much of a turnout, admittedly. Everybody I talked to afterwards had assumed from its name that this was a band of the fife-and-battered-drum variety, possibly favouring saffron kilts.

Not a bit of it. JCSFB offered orchestrated blasts of guitars, fiddles, a whistle, an accordion, keyboards, bodhrán and pipes, plus soaring vocals from Yvonne Moore and Ger Fitzgerald. Reminiscent of the hugely underrated McSweeney phase of Moving Hearts.

JCSFB’s specific accomplishment lies in giving Connolly’s lyrics a rock beat while preserving the skirl and rebel fervour. They have a Motown version of ‘The Red Flag’ the likes of which you’ve never heard, but will be avid to encounter again.

The album, Songs Of Freedom – not brilliant at the titles, are they? – isn’t in general circulation but easily enough found on the net, and well worth the effort.

Stormont Duumvirate Robinson and McGuinness took time out last month to join Tánaiste Eamon Gilmore in launching a digital archive of the records of the 200,000 soldiers from Ireland who fought in World War One, more than 49,000 of whom perished in the mud and guts of the battlefield.

“This work will allow us to express our thanks and acknowledge the sacrifice of men who died helping to preserve our freedom”, said Robinson.

Martin was more measured: “This innovative project ensures the memory of those Irish soldiers killed will continue.”

What neither said was that the 1914-‘18 war was a crime against humanity.

If it’s in your family lore that an ancestor shared in the horror, log on to In Flanders Field and type in the name. Ponder the rank, regiment, serial number, date of death and place of burial, and strive as you do to picture the way that it was.

“Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling/Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time/But someone still was yelling out and stumbling/And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.../Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light/As under a green sea, I saw him drowning/In all my dreams, before my helpless sight/He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.”

A string of gigs under the title When This Lousy War Is Over has been launched alongside the “official” centenary commemorations of which the digital archive is part. The initial Lousy War lineup includes poets and singers Abby Oliviera, Connor Kelly, Technopeasant and Paddy Nash. Hoofers, tumblers, jugglers, conceptual artists and three-card-tricksters are invited to join them. Your country needs you!
[email protected] will do as contact point for now.

I was driving past Stormont in the misty crystal glitter of a frosted winter’s dawn when I caught glimpse of an expanse of Assembly members arrayed in serried ranks across a sward of parkland executing a slow-motion series of coordinated callisthenical manoeuvres, each self-absorbed in seemingly contemplative mode.

They have taken to the tai chi!, I gasped in wonderment, to infuse the local fractiousness with calm... But no.

Turns out the notorious sax-abuser Bill Clinton is set to re-visit the North next month to open the William J. Clinton Leadership Institute at Queens, and this was a rehearsal for a planned display of mass kow-towing on the tarmac of Aldergrove airport when he flies in.

Nothing testifies so eloquently to the wheedling nature of the Stormont Assembly as its members’ obeisance to political low-lifes, whose endorsement they reckon might aid their ambitions.

Clinton is a hero to conservative Nationalists on account of his sponsorship of Gerry Adams in the 1990s, which helped ensure that when the Provos departed from the path of armed struggle they veered to the right and not to the left. Against that, the fact that, for example, he had ordered a missile attack on a pharmaceutical factory in Sudan in order to divert attention from a semen stain on an intern’s dress counted for nothing.

A sharp illustration of the character of the man came from the late Alexander Cockburn on the Counterpunch website three years ago. Back in 1979, Alex’s friend Tim Hermach needed a “certificate of origin” to import reinforced steel for a construction project he was putting together in Arkansas. He was told by his local fixer to talk directly with the new governor. So a dinner was arranged with Governor Bill at the Little Rock Hilton.

Cockburn continued: “They were scarcely seated before Bill was greeting a pretty young waitress in friendly fashion, putting his hand up her dress while announcing genially to the assembled company, ‘This woman has the sweetest cunt in Little Rock’.

“Tim, an Oregon boy by origin, tells us he listened with burning ears and mouth agape as Bill talked of womanhood in terms of astounding crudity. Badinage notwithstanding, some business was transacted... Governor Bill ‘very openly, nothing shy about it, said words to the effect that our end use certificate would cost about $10,000... Since ours was a $2 million deal, we didn’t care,’ Tim recalls.”

Business concluded, “Governor Bill repaired to the Hilton’s nightclub with boon companions, where they cavorted lewdly with sundry flowers of Little Rock before repairing to bedrooms in the upper regions of the hotel.”

Picture that as you listen next month to politicians and journalists hail Clinton as a man who has earned the admiration of Ireland.

Next issue: why Hillary is worse.