RUM, SODOMY ... THE SASH

It's Friday, May 22. The votes haven't even been counted yet, but already a succession of post-ballot parties are taking place. Your prime location is the Mandela Hall at Queens University Belfast, where a few hundred groovers will congregate around an event organised by those feverish tykes from the local music magazine, Blank. The name of the game is 'Keep Ulster Brattish' and admission is a mere quid.
Paul McNamee and Colin Murray are your beaming (and possibly quite squiffy) hosts. They have thrown this gig as a challenge to the Northern Ireland Office and the upcoming megastar gig at Stormont. Hence the subtitle of the Blank campaign: "Peace, but no Elton John".
The message is that the 'peace dividend' shouldn't just apply to the middle-aged, the middle-classes and the middle-of-the-road. During the darker years, it was the plucky and adventurous bands who ignored the bad press about Belfast, and created fun possibilities. So tonight will be a showcase for Sugar Island (moddish and cute), Roo (ever-discordant), co.uk (buzzing and posing) and Watercress (mandolins akimbo). There are some handy DJs in the bar next door and rumour has it that Colin Murray is the great-grandson of Sir Edward Carson, a Unionist icon. Even if it's not true, we should believe it for the tremendous symbolic value.
Down the road, one of the great old punks, Petesey Burns, is throwing a bash at Robinsons Bar, called "The Eve Of Construction", with the likes of The Cheese Junkies blamming along in sympathy. Again, it seems to be music that's articulating the mood. Where are the sportspeople? The poets? The comedians and celebrities?
Saturday afternoon, and we're driving back from the Northern Lights festival at Ballycastle. The music workshops up there were badly attended, but that can't spoil the mood as we hardnose the highway, squinting in the sun and listening to the election count on the radio. Tony, the Cuckoo manager, and Angela from the Federation of Musicians' Collectives, are also on board and we're smiling at the news that the 'No' campaign has taken a stuffing.
The next four days pass in a blur of rhetoric, statistic-bending and sour denials. And Mo Mowlam is at the centre of things, toughing it out, adamant that if the election was a football game, the score would be 3-1, and a replay is therefore completely out of the question.
Suddenly, it's Wednesday, and there she is again, on the steps of Stormont, with minutes to go before the start of the Elton show. Mo is in sparky form, talking to the media about her fave Elton songs ('Don't Go Breaking My Heart', plus 'Bennie And The Jets'), and is dismissing suggestions that she might sing a bit herself. This, after all, is what caused the enforced retirement of a predecessor, Peter Brooke, who crooned on the Gaybo show just as the IRA were bombing Belfast.
The local MP for Stormont, Peter Robinson (a DUP and Paisley man), is angry that such a gig should take place in his constituency, but he's on a hiding to nothing. Mo wants to disarm the symbolism of the venue. Instead of being viewed as the bastion of Unionist supremacy, it will host an annual knees-up (Pavarotti is a hot contender for 1999), and its grounds will also give way to a jogging course, a nature trail and a children's play area. And in a move guaranteed to bother the opponents some more, the Northern Ireland Office have suggested that future plans will be under the jurisdiction of the shiny new Assembly. Ho ho.
I put it to Mo that some people think all of this is quite sacreligious. She looks over the lovely grounds and snorts. "I didn't know these grounds were religious."
Elton plays a pleasing, if unspectacular show. After the sentimental openers ('Funeral For A Friend' and 'Love Lies Bleeding'), he unpacks the hits, including 'Crocodile Rock', out of the mothballs after 20 years. He comments about the "foul weather" and 15 000 punters cheerily agree, looking comfy in their Gortex and polar fleece, tapping their well-heeled Timberlands to the beat. Up in the balcony, the Duchess of Kent shakes her tastefully-coiffed head as 'Great Balls Of Fire' warms the air.
By Thursday, most of the foreign media are jetting off again, and there's space to mull over a ferocious fortnight. Therefore it's fitting to step into the BBC TV studios for a unique edition of the political show, Hearts And Minds. Presenter Noel Thompson has pitted myself against a student and DUP supporter from Omagh, called Gareth.
In the make-up room, the lad seems to be affable, good-natured and worried about the results of his finals. He says he wants to go into retail management, possibly with one of the supermarket chains.
As a preamble to the discussion, Noel cues up some footage of Bono on stage with John Hume and David Trimble. The footage cuts into the famous old Christmas show when Van Morrison and Brian Kennedy rocked outside the City Hall to welcome the arrival of Bill Clinton. We also view the Northern Ireland Office adverts which used Van's 'Brown Eyed Girl' to underline the happy potential of peace and reconciliation. That's how I take it, anyhow.
Gareth isn't in agreement. Especially at the sight of Elton, throwing shapes in the shadow of Stormont.
"First of all, as a Christian, I wouldn't support those pop musics," he mutters, his lips pursing, his words whistling like the spiritual son of Paisley that he is. "I wouldn't listen to those. And Elton John, because of his avowed homosexuality. I believe music doesn't have a role to play in politics."
This is actually the second time the discussion has been filmed. On the first occasion, he fulminated so much about sodomy and The Bible's take on this activity, that we covered very little of the actual agenda, namely politics and pop. This is a young man who doesn't even listen to Cliff Richard because he may be tainted by his association with rock. Although the lacrymose gospel ballads of the DUP's William McCrea, the deposed MP, are of course permissible.
The second take of the interview covers more ground, but the young zealot is no less distasteful. He calls the U2 gig "a desperate attempt by a very desperate man", meaning Trimble, I suppose. Then he tells us all that he's not such a killjoy, really.
"I'm not against Protestants and Catholics coming together," he states, as if we should somehow cheer him on. "I'm a member of the DUP. My party leader, Dr Ian Paisley, works actively for his Roman Catholic constituents . . ."
The discussion - as if you can actually discuss anything with a fundamentalist - consequently slumps. Gareth aims one final sneer at Elton John, and the jubilation of two glorious weeks is momentarily sloughed on this futile meeting.
But when you watch the finished show later that night, you realise that there's even more to play for. The Paisley underground is an intolerant, homophobic, embittered organisation. Against them are the tens of thousands of people who have saluted the liberating tunes and the good vibes of these parts, through a series of phenomenal, trust-building years. That's the real hymnsheet to sing from.
As Christy Moore would say, let the music keep your spirits high. n