Woland in Stormont: An Embarrassing Defeat

By Carmen Gray

Some years ago, around 1930, it is said (By Bulgakov, of course) that Woland, the Devil himself, visited Moscow. Coming up on 100 years later, rumour has it he has floated across the debated Irish sea border and straight into Stormont. With centuries of hellish torture behind him, no doubt he believed he would make short work of the odd little country.

He was, as it turned out, spectacularly wrong.

Political chaos, he mused, is the fastest way to societal collapse. All he would need to do is introduce one policy- just one- to set them spinning. Finally, it came to him: one policy, the policy. One simple, devastating idea.

He smiled faintly to himself. This policy, he decided, he would present to the members themselves; make them agree to it. It was so incredulous, so unliveable — self-induced destruction — yet they would never see him coming!

And he was coming, slowly…almost bored after the float up Stormont’s hill, Woland wondered whether he, long ago, had inspired some sadistic architect to design the glorified driveway.

Putting the purgatorial journey behind him, he had arrived. He pondered again on his devious policy. In Moscow, he had made money rain from the sky. Citizens scrambled, trampling each, a tableau of chaos. Although he hated to admit it, he had in fact attempted this exact stunt in Northern Ireland a week prior.

Plastic £20 notes billowed from the sky, initially intended to reach the greedy socialites in Belfast city centre. The wind, sadly, was no supporter of Woland — and most every note landed in a cow field in Fermanagh — only to be found by a farmer and promptly brought to the bank.

But this time would be different. He had come, in the flesh, to ensue chaos himself. His preferred humanised self was a dark eyed, semi-attractive man in his thirties- all charm and subtle menace. Unfortunately for poor Woland, such allure may have been too conspicuous for the grand halls of Stormont. Rather, he donned the body of an unremarkable, slightly weathered Caucasian man in his fifties. He cursed his patterned power tie and drifted meanderingly into the chamber.

The excitement had reignited in Woland seeing the chamber in operation. It was so fascinatingly…quiet, almost dead truthfully. He would bring it back to life, to painful, tantalising, pandemonium life.

‘If I may interject…’, he started.

Lord, he hoped he could interject. He had somehow walked into a debate on the anniversary of the 1926 sewage draining act, and how this demanded an updated footnote clarifying the permissible slope of culverts. Why exactly it would, given that that the act had not been in operation for 40 years, was quite beyond Woland. He started again:

‘my deepest apologies, for interrupting such an important anniversary debate’, he obliged, ‘but there is a policy proposal I must discuss before session ends’.

A few heads raised. Then fell. Expecting more pushback, Woland stuttered before declaring:

‘Imagine a system in which…no one could betray another. No member could backstab their colleagues’

The faces looked back at him neutrally. This was a good sign, he thought, they were missing his genius behind it.

‘Shared veto, for all — each member, of each party, in each debate — can veto any proposal at any time! Why introduce proposals which any of our valued, esteemed members may have some transgressions with? Oh, the injustice of it all…’It was working. Elate, he brought the crux of his policy:

‘Most importantly’, he announced, ‘is the principle of perpetual loyalty. Not a single member shall be permitted to deviate from the mandates of their party. We must not undervalue the profound significance of unwavering allegiance to one’s own convictions and collective identity. This is no mere affiliation; it is a lifelong identity, a shield against the incomprehension of the other, whose perspectives can never fully grasp your needs or intentions. By removing all temptation to betray yourself or your principles, this proposal safeguards the very foundations of trust, fortifies the bonds of community, and enshrines the shared values this chamber intends to profess’.

Satisfied, Woland allowed himself to silently envision the aftermath of the approval. Clerks, weeping quietly into the night beneath towering heaps of futile paperwork; ministers wandering the corridors, searching desperately for members only to discover that they had long abandoned all pretence of governance and resigned; Relentless, endless debates, in which no member can ever hope to sway the consensus, each argument countered or absorbed by another, every proposal endlessly dissected, amended, footnoted, and reconsidered, until time itself seems to stretch on and on and…

‘Excuse me…’

Taken out of his daydream, Woland was met with a small, unassuming little man. His voice flat, he spoke dryly, as though just slightly inconvenienced by dear Woland’s interruption.

‘That, my good sir, we already have implemented. It’s called Power-Sharing.’