History teaches us to be wary of anyone who likes drawing lines across maps. In Bill Drummond’s case, I’d suggest you make an exception.

Over the years the former timelord has proven to be an unlikely ally for the more inventive wing of the (cough) Northern Ireland arts scene – a gentle prompt here, a supportive, low-key appearance there – but it is work that has usually taken place on a quiet, almost subterranean level.
This year he surfaced in grand fashion. The Soup Line – dreamt up, according to legend, on a lay-by outside Norwich – saw him attempt to travel across the British Isles, along the titular path, meeting folk and making them big pots of broth. Before setting off, Drummond insisted that the jaunt was motivated by nothing more than common courtesy, but when pressed he spoke of rubbing out the division between artist and audience and taking the creative process into areas that normally get neglected.
His subsequent trip through rural Ulster was facilitated by The Cathedral Quarter Arts Festival and, according to the few reports that have thus far leaked out (a book documenting his experiences is reportedly in the offing), a rollicking good time was had by all.
Great stuff, you’ll agree. And the kind of inventive, inspiring enterprise that you’d imagine would evoke nothing but positive thoughts.
Well, no. Not quite. Because the place where Drummond explained his intentions to me is no longer there. North Street Arcade – home of pet shops, The Vacuum, Hooley, the Cathedral Quarter people, and some big ideas– was torched in circumstances that, as the months have passed, have lost few of their sinister overtones. True, the defiance of the affected traders has been laudable (the completion of the full CQAF bill and the September fundraiser with The Undertones were especially heroic) but this can provide only a partial comfort considering how many of them have now lost their livelihood. Equally disturbing is the light this event throws on the extent of the criminality embedded (and regularly laundered) throughout our society.
Belfast in 2004 is a place where The Portadown News can read like reportage rather than satire.
Not that it’s all been gloom. Some of the diversionary stuff has almost been inspiring. The irresistible, and far from predictable, rise of Snow Patrol was a most welcome development. Likewise, Iain Archer is, at last, looking like a contender. Driving By Night, Robyn G Shiels, The Throes (R.I.P) and The Embers have also contributed necessary colour to proceedings. Fortune Cookie, Moving On Music and others, meanwhile, have ensured that the flow of low-key, interesting gigs has continued in difficult circumstances. There was also the publication of These Days, the debut poetry collection from Leontia Flynn – a book that, as I type, is in the running for a Whitbread Prize.
For me, though, I’ll try to think of 2004 as a year of one man, his pencil and his ruler. Because lines don’t always divide, sometimes they can join things up.