Let no one imagine Britain and Ireland will ever be reunified, but relations are at present in mutually appalled harmony as both countries spot the howlers in the TV blockbuster House of Guinness.
The series might even make the Guinness World Records for the most mistakes, accidental and dramatically expedient, in a biographical show. The fabulously wealthy Anglo-Irish beer dynasty lacks nothing in scandal, tragedy and glory. But as they overlooked the narrative power of spawning a blackmailing illegitimate scion, one has been invented for them.
Nor did they have the foresight to employ a ruffian fixer called (what else?) Rafferty (played by dimply James Norton) to enthusiastically torture anyone who got in their way. The writers fixed that while also arbitrarily making one scion gay and giving another a (non-factual) miscarriage, possibly the result of a (non-factual) dalliance with the non-existent Rafferty in “Connacht, County Mayo” – a bit like describing the American Midwest as being part of the state of Nebraska.
The family probably did notice the Irish famine and probably didn’t starve their tenants to death as seen on TV.
Of course, it’s only the telly and it’s an engaging romp. What producer was ever going to tackle a family saga like this without riffing off Succession’s boardroom brutality and Riders’ bed-hopping? Few would watch a story about rich folk who never misbehaved, or who neglected to grind the faces of the poor at least occasionally.
“Inspired by a true story” these days means “full of porkies or it’d be on the History Channel”.
No one can fault the Guinnesses for genius branding, “Guinness is good for you” being one of modern advertising’s most successful slogans, maddening as it is to health activists. Though no longer used, it has survived through a wealth of visual iconography, chiefly the harp emblem – which the show accurately depicts as having been introduced as a peace gesture towards Irish nationalists. The family, though pro-British rule, retained both a love of Ireland and a hard-headed appreciation of how important Irishness was to its brand.
Even its distinctly non-Irish marketing menagerie – a toucan, kangaroo, crocodile, giraffe, bear, emu and lion – has a quirky back story. Dorothy L Sayers, in the days before she became known as the bestselling author of the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries, worked in advertising. She wrote a rhyme punning about “what one or two [Guinnesses] can do for you”, illustrating it with the appealingly beaky South American parrot. From then on, local fauna didn’t get much of a look-in on Guinness merch.
The draught stout is a long-standing bridge across the Troubled waters of Anglo-Irish relations, Britain being the world’s biggest consumer of the beer (followed, curiously, by Nigeria).
In turn, the Guinnesses bequeathed the now-republic its biggest tourist attraction, the huge brick Dublin brewery where, among other things, visitors learn about “The Pour”, a reverential two-step, angle-measured rigmarole which may as well be part of the national school-leaving certificate. It’s culturally offensive to touch the drink before admiring its foaming process for two minutes.
Coincidentally, the Guinness World Records is celebrating its 70th anniversary. It’s hard to quantify which of the family’s products has caused more shenanigans: the beer or the book.
Not much harm has come to anyone competing for, say, the most ice-cream scoops ever balanced on a single cone or the longest skateboard journey by a pig. But you do have to worry about the safety of the underwater hula-hoop duration champion, and the eardrums of the parents of the world’s youngest professional drummer, aged 4.
More soothingly, Ireland holds the record for the most cups of tea made in an hour: 1848, presumably brewed to fill the Guinness waiting time.
