SMUG controversialist Newton Emerson started a shitstorm on Friday night after he tweeted ‘Happy Middle Class Twelfth’ to his thousands of followers. He was only saying what everyone else was thinking but it got some people’s backs up and many others couldn’t give two fucks because they knew what he was getting at. Most offended were the middle classes themselves because they like to pretend they’re down with the people and some of them even have friends that are Proles.
It wasn’t Twelfth culture in a King Billy sense but the freedom to take over Belfast City Centre and roam free with alcohol in hand, disguised as celebrating the arts. The real arts, not the seasonal type that turns the city into a fenian free zone.
Me and the Emo went last year and did all the family stuff. It was a good night and the city was heaving with people. This year, she hates me because six months ago I used a meme in the wrong context, therefore I’m a big loser and not worth her time. I needed new buddies. Stepping up were Louise, Cheree and Leah.
We met in Writers Square and had to stop Cheree from head butting her ex who had the brass neck to be dandering about soaking up the same atmosphere as us.
We strolled on to The John Hewitt where the queue for the bar was out the door as well as being thirty deep inside. Dito the Duke of York. We weren’t getting a drink anywhere. Except for the off licence. I can neither confirm nor deny two trips to the offie.
It was rumoured the on street drinking laws would be over looked for the night, some people decanted their beverages into plastics and made their way around the varying street artists and some people didn’t even hide theirs. The two cops I saw, displayed more partial sightedness than an RNIB AGM.
We ended up at the car park rave, Voodoo, then Kelly’s Cellars. One of my mates was in dire need of a tinkle and attempted to go behind a bin in Bank Square. It was here we were serenaded by three skater boys singing Total Eclipse of the Heart and Grease Lightning. We joined in and it turned into the worst choir in the world.
After bumping into a group of hippies doing a Belfast version of Stomp! With bottles of Buckfast and orange barriers, we met John Compston, star of Line of Duty and had our picture taken with him. I attempted to flirt but Louise’s star struck screaming was drowning me out. We then finished up in the Spaniard. Where I got locked in the toilet and judged by holy pictures.
So, was it the middle class Twelfth?
There was laughter, music, cosplay, no cops about, litter everywhere, drinking, pishing in the street and a section of the working class community felt alienated from it. So yeah. I suppose it was.