See, I do come from a dirty Dublin.
I come from a 2-for-15, “fuck the Queen” for any apparent reason type Dublin.
A tricolour with Silk Cut burn marks on a sleeve hanging out a window of D15 for a whole family to see, or a family that went off tenement housing on Queen Street to an old semi-detached surrounded by affordable housing type Dublin.
I come from a hands-down-the-trousers type Dublin.
Pigeon chest to express anger. “What are you looking at, you sap? Few slaps sort your melon out” type Dublin.
I come from a place where we pull wheelies on Raleigh bikes, with hoods up and faces covered in balaclavas.
Protecting our identity from coppers, for we cannot be caught if we are not seen.
And although the coppers themselves know that we’re not clean, they do nothing.
Nothing out of pure mean intimidation.
I’m talking about 40 Garda cars that drive by, but never get out type Dublin.
40 lads standing outside the shop waiting on prey to walk by type Dublin.
Turn your boy into a corner boy at 13 type Dublin.
Rob your gaff type Dublin.
Wouldn’t walk by me on a dark night type Dublin.
I don’t even like football, but I’ll still show up when Bohs and Rovers just for a scrap type Dublin.
I come from a place that we saw funerals just before confirmations in Dublin.
Mothers letting their morals dip and their head slip as they bury their kid, but that’s just the lifestyle that the working class choose to live.
Am I right type Dublin?
I come from a “How’s your ma? Is your da working?” type Dublin.
A “five strawberries for a euro” type Dublin.
With a concept of curfews for a few around these parts, we start our fun when it gets dark and spark up so many trees as our lackage of the paper type Dublin.
I come from a place that’s so filthy, it’s the 0.01% that Barry Scott couldn’t clean.
Like, Cillit Bang!
I come from a two-up, two-down mortgage, paid off the house with a family type Dublin.
A mother who drew the pain from me tears and wiped them with the heart on her sleeve to keep a crown on me ceann type Dublin.
“How’s your ma? Is your da working?”
“Absolutely, mo chara. Me da worked 8-to-10-hour shifts and cycled home with ice pops in his bag before they melted for me and me sister.”
Because a real man taught me to put the work and the class into the working class of Dublin.
I come from the pride of the Northside of Dublin.
Where we don’t hide our demons.
Didn’t have too many interactions with guards, and even when we did, they were peaceful.
And although I know people that died before the age of 21, and not out of pure evil.
You see, we’re everyday Joe Soaps.
40 lads standing outside the shop is right, because there’s no amenities for us.
So we wait until the older generation leave, then ask if they need a hand home with their shopping.
Keeping the flame of the community alive and breathing in Dublin.
And see, Dublin isn’t dirty because of the 99%, but it’s filthy because of the 1%.
The 1% that put three-piece suits on and sit inside calling themselves Teachta Dála, tearing our country apart and making us fight between each other.
Because they know once we fight between each other, they can continue to rise to the top.
Don’t let systemic classism ruin us.
So you do what you always do.
You let the rage burn inside your stomach.
Inhale and build it right up to your chest, and then exhale with one simple breath.
You look at her in the face and you say, “Do you know what, love? Yeah, you’re dead right, love. I do come from a very dirty type of Dublin, don’t I? It’s filthy.”
Leave a Reply