It is understandable, in these dark times of trauma and identity crisis, that the bewildered Dub would interpret the cleaving of his beloved metropolis as a conspiracy hatched by embittered Rural Gaels, standing around their byres and wheezing over poorly-rolled Sweet Afton writes Keith Duggan.
Country people who have had the privilege to observe The Dub in his natural habitat over the past few years will realise that certain Rural preconceptions are badly misplaced. The Dub has nothing at all against the country provided it doesn't impinge on his God-given Dub rights. In fact, the Dub often extends a warm hospitality towards the non-Dub, happy to explain the ways of the world to him over a casual pint of stout.
The Dub taxi-driver will, unprompted, breezily divulge his life's secrets to even the most Rural of non-Dubs and charge him not a penny above the going rate for the honour.
The Dub bus driver is confronted, at least 30 times a day, by the panic-stricken non-Dub who peers through his plastic screen and shouts: "How do I get to Busaras?" The Dub bus driver will then patiently reveal the complexities of the Dublin bus system to the Rurally Confused as the Dub passengers shake their heads in sympathy.
On All-Ireland championship Sundays the Dub will sit in the sanctuary of his local bar and utter not a word of protest when it becomes overrun with excitable non-Dubs.
The Dub will watch on in amusement as these likeable visitors animatedly discuss, in a high-pitched hybrid dialect, their adventures of the previous night, when their eyes were opened to the kind of nocturnal delights that, for the Dub, are a birthright. When they leave, stumbling herd-like through the sturdy oak doorway, the Dub and his barman will gaze silently after them. They know that all of mankind is entitled to a little of the good life and the Dub is only too happy to share.
The Dub is supportive and even protective of the non-Dub who aspires to become a Dub. Often, the Dub will show an interest in the earlier existence of the would-be Dub.
"Where-a-ya from yerself, pal?" the Dub will inquire in a gruff but friendly manner, beaming heartily as if to communicate that there could be no question as to his own place of origin.
"Ahhh, Donegal," you might reply, a hopeful lilt in your voice.
Of course, you might as well have answered "Roscommon" or "Horse and Jockey" or "Dowra" because the reaction of the Dub will rarely deviate from a thoughtful grimace and a pause followed by a succinct "Jaysus."
Occasionally, though, the Dub will find himself in expansive mood and indulge in a few moments of conversation about places that are beyond his recognised stomping ground.
When you reply "Donegal", the Dub's beam will grow wider than the Liffey and, chest swelling with pride, he will announce: "Donegal? Ah, sure I was there meself. Beautiful place."
Encouraged by this, you will attempt to move the conversation down a more intimate avenue and tease from this Dub frontiersman through what regions of the Rural hinterland he might have adventured. But the Dub will be lost in a private reverie and after a silence he will utter, profoundly as Captain Boyle: "Ah, a beautiful place. But wild, what? Jaysus, it's wild up there pal."
The Dub knows intuitively that while it is good to visit such places, it is wise to do so only once and to later give thanks for a safe reunion and a resumption of a blissful Dub existence. In short, the Dub understands that not everyone can be a Dub and he not only tolerates this, he tries to make life a little more bearable for those who aren't.
PATIENT and magnanimous as the Dub most assuredly is when it comes to the haphazard reasoning of the non-Dub, he draws a line at some things. The bumbling habits of the non-Dub motorist have on many occasions left him demented. The sight of non-Dubs gathering noisily on O'Connell Bridge to protest about concerns alien to the Dub, such as "livestock", is something that depresses him. And the distressing presence of non-Dub politicians has left him with many a sleepless night.
So the news that a bunch of non-Dubs have decided that the Dubs should be split into two opposing football camps has understandably left the Dub on the street as close to speechless as he could ever become (which isn't really all that close to speechlessness at all).
Tidal has been the wave of indignation that has swept through the veins of the outraged Dub. These past few days, the Dub is easily identified by the way his mouth is permanently agape, shocked by the effrontery of the Rural Revolutionaries. He has studied pictures of the leader of this heresy in the newspapers. In black and white, the man looks normal and could almost pass for a Dub. They learn that he is of "Fermanagh." The Dub shudders involuntarily at the very word (he is not alone in his regard).
These are days of solemn contemplation for the Dub, whose culture is threatened in a way that extends beyond sport. There isn't a Dub in existence who has not stood upon Hill 16 Sunday after Sunday celebrating not just his football but his way of life.
The city is a sad and reflective place these evenings. Warmed by the twinkling lights of rush-hour traffic, a tear springs in the eye of the heartbroken Dub, the Blue, as he sits in his D-Reg and imagines his fine city torn and sundered. And all so the non-Dub, those from the region known as the Rest of Ireland, can have a laugh.
Tomorrow, he decides, he will phone Joe on the radio. He hears that Ronnie Drew, a true Dub if ever there was one, has bravely spoken out against the splitting of the Dubs. "Ah, good man Ronnie," sighs the Dub.
"Toura-loura-loura," sings the Dub softly, the tears falling openly now. He can see a train rattling its way out of the city, carrying a load of non-Dubs and their bargains back to the country. He imagines them lining up at the buffet counter for the ham sandwiches and strong tea. He does not blame them. They know not what they do.
"As the light declines," he continues, the authority returning to a voice that is ragged but unmistakably musical.
"I remember Dublin City . . ."
