'Cause all our kind are good for is shovelling shit and making bombs, isn't that right? D'you know something, big lad? I'm sick of shovelling shit.
— Patrick O'Brien, Life on Mars
There's a book called Patriot Games by Tom Clancy and in it America is pitted against the IRA. Not the real IRA, of course, that'd be too complicated. Not the Pretend IRA, not the Breakway IRA, not the Continuity IRA, no, it's the Totally Mad Bonkers Only-Two-Of-Them-Left-And-Neither-Of-Them-Knows-Who-The-Other-One-Is IRA.
Northern Ireland is made up of a majority of Protestants who like to kill Catholics, a large minority of Catholics who like to kill Protestants, and a significant number of individuals who like to kill people regardless of their religious affiliation.
— The Onion, "Atlas of the World"
The choice was clearly open: crush them with vain and unstinted force, or try to give them what they want. These were the only alternatives, and though each had ardent advocates, most people were unprepared for either. Here indeed was the Irish spectre – horrid and inexorcisable.
This period of was known as 'The Troubles,' while the rest of Northern Ireland's history is known as '1954.'
— The Onion, "Our Dumb World"
Let me tell you something. I've had enough of Irish Americans who haven't been back to their country in twenty or thirty years come up to me and talk about the resistance, the revolution back home; and the glory of the revolution, and the glory of dying for the revolution. Fuck the revolution! They don't talk about the glory of killing for the revolution. What's the glory of taking a man from his bed and gunning him down in front of his wife and his children? Where's the glory in that? Where's the glory in bombing a Remembrance Day parade of old-age pensioners, their medals taken out and polished up for the day? Where's the glory in that? To leave them dying, or crippled for life, or dead, under the rubble of the revolution that the majority of the people in my country don't want. No more!
— Bono, Rattle and Hum
You're just another coffin on its way down the Emerald Aisle
When your children's stony glances mourn your death in a terrorist's smile
The bomber's arm placing fiery gifts on the supermarket shelves
Alley sings with shrapnel detonates a temporary hell
From the dole queue to the regiment, a profession in a flash
But remember Monday signings when from door to door you dash
On the news a nation mourns you, Unknown Soldier, count the cost
For a second you'll be famous, but labelled posthumous...
— Marillion, "Forgotten Sons"
Two kinds of Irish people? What are they fighting over — who gets to sleep in the bathtub?