“The bus for town left days ago…
Damn them that brought me here”
—The For Carnation, A Tribute To
Preliminary note: for those unacquainted with the Fair City, please watch this video as a primer.
An aeon ago, as a youngfella from the treacherous streets of Sandycove—where one’s wits and guerrier disposition adjudicated the prospects of survival—I contemplated the nature of Dublin town.
What distinguishes Dublin from other cities? Does it have an essence incapable of adequately being captured and categorised by language, but nevertheless extant? And does this essence have anthropomorphic characteristics?
Dublin has undoubtedly changed. A noxious and alien composite of deleterious phenomena has flooded the Pale since the 90s. A cancerous plurality of new and unwelcome faces, the retardation of our collective psyche via edicts that delimit acceptable thought, and an equally contrived and absurd Afrocentrism that has no relation to our nation’s history—aesthetic Afrocentrism is actually a conjunction of West African culture and the cracker culture of the real blacks of Europe: the Ulster Scots.
As well as such unsavoury novelties, there is a subtle but pervasive miasma that colours our experience of the capital for the worse—and I’m not referring to the “bleedin’ smell of piss” (to quote a friend) so unfortunately common around town. I speak, rather, of an atmospheric soullessness.
The dearth of distinction, the sense that you could be anywhere and hence you’re nowhere. Dublin is trapped in a state of dislocated limbo, bereft of a vision beyond a collage of imitation, resulting in a city suffering from visual disequilibrium.
This feeling reaches its apotheosis when one ventures into Grand Canal Dock. Here can be found building after building of visually and structurally homogeneous office blocks, each donned with a wall of glass panes—a landscape befitting cold and rational automatons, it was created with the aim of doing incremental violence to man’s spirit.
Dublin’s wage cages are typically accompanied, within a hundred square metres, by at least ten ‘bespoke’ coffee shops that all look the same, five burger joints that specialise in coronary heart disease, and one gastropub—the perfect venue to be subjected to your colleague’s boasts about his secondary school rugger exploits, and his new hot Moldovan secretary.
Recently, I revisited Grand Canal Dock. Resting on the benches adjacent to the Bord Gáis, I surveyed my surroundings. Suddenly, my eye singled it out. Its spectre transvaluated my critique of Dublin—my eulogy was now moot. In the midst of a thrall of yuppiedom, the Ringsend flats defied the post-youngfella society.
Punctuating my vision of the flats, a figure came within my purview. Like Hegel, I witnessed the world spirit on horseback—saddled upon a piebald, he was shroud in a bona fide Canada Goose. “What are you looking at, ye bleedin’ mongo?”, he mouthed off to an unwitting Punjabi security guard.
Aisling was a genre of poem common from the 17th century onwards in Irish literature. Envisioning a beautiful woman who laments Ireland’s entropic conditions, these poems mirrored the decline of Gaelic Ireland during this juncture. Befitting of its essence as an ignoble city comprised of toerags and session moths, Dublin possesses its own female archetype: Molly Malone, a voluptuous prostitute.
Dublin is the city of the Monto, ultimately. Neither the Legion of Mary nor today’s radlib NGOs will cleanse its subaltern and antinomian character. As Neal from Crushproof put it: “We’re the Old Tribe, the old ones. We’re the bleedin’ Bedouins. We’re the toerags of the North. We’ve got the warrior blood. They’ll never crush us cause we’re crushproof.”
After an exhaustive introduction, what follows is an alphabetical guide to “the town that I have loved so well”.
Probably the most noticeable activist group in town since the abortion referendum, anti-vaxxers are notable for being stalwart proponents of empiricism and the scientific method, and concomitant adversaries of a credulous deference to so-called experts. They have proven themselves to be consistently on the right side of history since the scamdemic began.
Comprising a cross-section of society, some of the more colourful characters include:
- Dara O’Flaherty: A qualified engineer and capable orator
- Dr. Stephen Brannigan: At one time the chess champion of Ireland; proud patron of the ‘Café Express’; key quote: “what sort of man has a dog?”
- Graham Carey: Just about qualified to drive around Finglas; could probably beat McGregor in a straightener outside his local Apache Pizza
- Iano: A memorable member of the ‘Ireland on Lockdown Voice Chat’; yes Iano, I will have cans with you in Ballyer
- Dee Wall: The Baron von Sternberg of the Liberties—don’t be misled by her height, this Dublin matriarch possesses a thunderous voice and indefatigable will, capable of raising Dublin’s dormant lumpen-Kern gangs to action; some speculate that restrictions were lifted for fear of a total Dee victory next general election
Brazilian Deliveroo Cyclists
Arguably more pervasive than seagulls, you can hardly walk five minutes before encountering these auxiliaries of heart disease and diabetes.
They are many things to many people. For inner-city scangers, they’re a target to be egged, robbed, and terrorised. For NGO anti-racists, they’re a godsend; is there a better argument for the wondrous benefits of immigration than cheap fast-food deliveries to the doorsteps of middle class striver scum? For overweight gombeen landlords, they’re an opportunity to be exploited: grab a flat, fill it like sardines with thirty Brazilians, and if one of them gets uppity, put out your cigar on his forehead—congrats, you’re now the Monopoly Man.
For insular racists who spend too much time on ‘Internet Archive’, perusing positive appraisals of de Gobineau’s magnum opus, Brazilian Deliveroo cyclists are a conundrum. Many of them are middle class. Stemming from southern Brazil, quite a few have a significant degree of European ancestry too—a mark of social prestige in Brazil. Why, therefore, do they come here to wageslave, get berated by borderline-retarded ruffians, and be rackrented by slumlords?
It seems a predilection for masochism is missing from de Gobineau’s otherwise accurate diagnosis of the Brazilian people.
Canada Goose Jackets
A cause for bemusement among those possessing rudimentary aesthetic standards, Canada Goose jackets are a mark of social standing among Dublin’s native lumpenprole strata. Not merely overpriced raingear, they signal to other aspiring drug dealers that one has earned their stripes, so to speak—the middle-class equivalent of buying a wax jacket from ‘M&S’.
There have been a string of unsuspecting youngfellas who’ve been hopped and left bereft of their Goose. For instance, there was a recent case in Drumcondra of a teenager whose Canada Goose Jacket (€600) was stolen by a group of young fellas. He had worked all December to buy it.
Personally, I don’t feel sorry for him. The Goose has deep symbolic value to Dublin’s working class. The perpetrators likely perceived him to be a bourgeois cultural appropriator, apathetic to the ancient rites of Canada Goose accruement—robbing them from Brown Thomas when the clerks aren’t looking.
Concomitant with the standing it confers, there’s an expectation that one should be capable of asserting their ownership without resorting to judicial avenues. The Dublin scanger is a learned creature; an avid reader when he isn’t riding fat moths. He is certainly cognizant of Karl Ludwig von Haller’s defence of private warfare in Restauration der Staatswissenschaft and Nigel Carlsbad’s critique of Bodinian sovereignty. In a similar vein, the Dublin yob abides by an ancient adage: if you won’t have a knock, your Goose deserves to be fleeced.
A colleague once stated: “If you come across an African with a London accent in Dublin: run.” For these Afro-Saxons, aural sublimity comes in the form of drill music—popularised by their racial compatriots overseas. The lyrical content of ‘drill’ consists of the rapper boasting, describing, threatening, LARPing, and fantasising about slashing the poor denizens of neighbouring Eircodes—leaving aside the lyrical content, it’s exciting to see how enthusiastic Nigerians are about the new Eircode system; they’re a vanguard of civic duty!
Unlike many on the Right, I celebrate the emergence of drill music as one of the many ‘positives’ of Bantu immigration. So, in keeping with the spirit of cultural interface, I have decided to become a drill rapper. I want to thank Plastic Bag Records (a Burkean subsidiary) for assisting my entrance into the rap game.
My first mixtape is dropping this year. Equally conceptual and personal, it details the lived experience of black and brown bodies “from within the captured neoliberal state”. Accompanying such hard-hitting social criticism will be several Juju curses against University Times contributors.
Historically stationed at the old Central Bank, Stephen’s Green is now the main hub for Dublin’s Emos. This migration of former Bankies to the once idyllic Green is discernible by scent alone, with a pungent hash smell being a constant reminder of their presence.
There is a tragic aspect to the Emo phenomenon. Some may protest, finding it absurd to attribute such a term to what they view as a passing, adolescent fad. However, this subculture is interwoven with transgenderism, drug use, leftist politics, an apathy (at best) toward religion, furryism, and self-indulgence. Though most grow out of it, aspects of this lifestyle subtend into adulthood, to the detriment of themselves and the nation.
A facetiousness pervades the Irish Nation at present, and the Emos are only one instance of it—and by no means the worst. They’re young and born into an age where proper, paternal pedagogy is conspicuously absent—they have an excuse; a minister whose office is adorned with Funko Pops does not. That we allow them to waste precious years of their life is an indictment of Ireland’s social order—an order that specialises in the production of alienated and dejected youth.
In the aftermath of the Veronica Guerin murder, my father noticed the sheer number of garages that closed shop. I mentioned this to a friend from Finglas recently, to which he responded: “You know, I’ve always wondered why there are so many garages in Finglas.”
Although it was the site of an early Christian abbey, there is nothing particularly holy about Finglas. Drugs, occasional murders, Canada Goose Jackets (a must in any wurkin’ class area), girlos sporting fake tan, and a depressing and dour haze are emblematic.
But even the staunchest snob is forced to concede that Finglas is janus faced; it’s undeniably endearing. The last cowboys of Western Europe, the youngfellas of Finglas, have an urban horse-riding culture—Crushproof best captures this echo of primordial warbands. South Dublin may have nice scenery and Avoca delis, but it could never produce grainy 2008 YouTube videos of lads joyriding in Nissan shitboxes. Nor can it match Finglas’ rebellious spirit—not a soul would deign to don the mask on the 40 bus; yup the lads.
Grace Anne Kelly
“She was fearless and crazier than him. She was his queen, and God help anyone who dared to disrespect his queen.”
A bougie outpost in the north inner city, I’ve had a blinkered view of Henry Street for as long as I remember. This is unsurprising in hindsight. With Abbey Street to the south, O’Connell Street to the east, and Parnell and Moore Street to the north, it served a functional purpose as a reprieve from Town’s dysgenic morass.
City life is deeply psychologically damaging to individuals. Its wounds are starkly dissimilar to the gory gashes and sadistic slashes of a junkie’s boxcutter. Instead, one’s spirit succumbs to a thousand incremental cuts; each slash administered to the psyche upon encountering a callous scumbag, gaudy West African hair extensions, Parnell street’s piss aroma, the duplicitous countenance of a Romani, and the LED glare from the wares of a Madrasi tech-trinket merchant.
Between that and a bougie shopping street—I choose the latter; between middle class consumerism and race, blood, and history—I choose the latter.
A species common to any Flyfit in Dublin, Indians gymcels are an object of mockery for even the most ardent anti-racist activist. Cognisant, either instinctively or via blackpill Youtubers, of their position in the racial dating hierarchy, Indians (to their credit) take proactive steps to acquire a ‘moid with physical characteristics reminiscent of SS propaganda pics.
Yet even productive measures are mired in a karmic inter-generational curse that afflicts the Indian nation. The esteemed scholar, ‘Team 3D Alpha’, astutely notes in his video on Indian genetics that the progenitors of vindaloo are the lowest in the racial totem pole, on average, when it comes to building muscle and losing fat. It can be said that Indians, bar the occasional gigamogger (an anomaly), are a nation of horny, skinny-fat, phone reviewers and software tutors.
My anecdotal experience corroborates the science. I recently witnessed a crew (ranging from four to eight men) of subcontinentals huddled together, encircling their compatriot—each of whom bore an expression of awe and admiration, befitting a witness to prime Arnie in the flesh—as he struggled to curl five kilos.
The unintentional hilarity of their gym presence is the only cogent argument for mass immigration.
I originally intended to devote the list, the entire A-Z, to enthusiastically celebrating the wondrous fruits of Nigerian immigration into Ireland. From slam poetry to their mercantile initiative, they’ve been nothing short of a godsend. Yet, the retrograde pale, male, and stale Gaels that still linger around the Burkean HQ objected on grounds that it would be exhaustive. Thus, the ambit of Nigerian excellence has, unfortunately, been severely circumscribed—only the cream of the crop has made the cut.
Nigerians have challenged the Eurocentrism so deeply and insidiously entrenched in Irish society. Against the Oyinbo supremacist conception of causality, Nigerians have arrived at our shore with an ideational import so groundbreaking, yet primal, that it has overturned even our most foundational philosophical assumptions—I speak of Juju.
It displaces physicalist causality through an understanding of the intermittent punctuation of the tangible universe via arcane Juju curses. Concomitantly, the idea that one can, of their own volition, create good or bad Juju subverts philosophical determinism, and its moral aspect undermines ethical subjectivism. In sum, Juju is a revolt against European nihilism.
Furthermore, it is reminiscent of an older intellectual import—afterall, everything of worth on this island is exogenic; native genius is a fascist myth. I am referring to ‘Imperium: the Philosophy of History and Politics’, the magnum opus of the American classical pianist, genius, lawyer, and womaniser Francis Parker Yockey—who was a plus-sized black woman btw.
Yockey’s great philosophical debt was owed to Oswald Spengler. Spengler alots the first seventy pages of his work, or thereabouts, to distinguish the laws of nature, governed by causality, from the laws of history, which are directed by destiny—civilisations rise and fall in accordance with the latter. Given that both Spenglerian destiny and Nigerian Juju are an affront to the Western philosophical consensus, a synthesis of both is proposed as the philosophical foundation of rightist anti-modernism.
Born to be blacked, Polacks are unfortunately worshipped among nationalist circles in Europe and North America. Possessing wide and short skulls—to me, they resemble bulldogs—they’re the IE-descended group that phenotypically departs most from the Nordicist aesthetic ideal.
Nor will their being domiciled invigorate or re-masculinise Irish society: despite their pretence of toughness (a classic cope common to middle-aged bald men irrespective of nationality) their Irish-born progeny tend to be finooks—“catching, not pitching”.
A decline of the Dublin dialect is a further deleterious effect of their presence. The phenomenon of pidgin speak—a cancerous composite of scanger slang atop a layer of robotic East-Euro English—common to Poles who grew up here is virtually unknown among the older generations, but to parochial youngfellas with astute hearing, Polack patois (aural AIDS) is readily discernible.
Almost every other Eastern European nation has had their geographical integrity contested by reflexive, baseless Polack revanchism. Given their unsavoury history of irredentism, it’s for the best that we preemptively deport the Poles back to Kraków—we don’t want them to start asserting their national proprietorship of Clongriffin and Ashtown, do we?
A brief Luas trip is a corrective to a contrived and idyllic conception of Dublin. Often swarming with commuters, such wagecucks unironically subject themselves to being squashed against windows and the backs of seats by fellow travellers who suffer equally from the congestion.
And for what? To get home an hour after work is finished, finding yourself waning in spirit and will-power due to the monotony of your office job—the base entertainment of Netflix, a favourite of dejected wagecucks, is your only prospect of joy left.
Your wife’s increased weight has coincided with the advent of online working; her big chungus mouth makes sure to remind you, for the fifteenth time this month, that she is “embracing her curves” and of the compliments she’s received from her bulldyke peers. Also, you find out that your kid is gay and retarded. Netflix doesn’t cut it anymore, only sleep will suffice to quash reality.
But the Luas isn’t solely characterised by the slow incineration of wagie hope and resolve. A more noble race, that of the Dublin junkie, has also left its mark. Gaunt, loud, and brash, the Dublin junkie’s inner relationship vis-à-vis the Luas is starkly aristocratic when juxtaposed with the spiritual servility of the wagie—no wonder the Anglo-Saxon Berkely perniciously exhorted the Irish to wagecuck. We agree with Aristotle: work is slavery. And we agree with John Mitchell: the Irish should be slavers rather than slaves.
Unlike wagies, Dublin’s junkies have enough self-respect not to pay money to use the Luas. At full capacity, there is a silence that echoes, intermittently punctuated by a junkie screaming at his spaced out moth about the latest sales at ‘Dealz’ and Heideggerian philosophy. No junkie in the Irish State’s history has ever properly worn a face mask on the Luas, inciting the ire of low-T, beta wagies.
Finally, I must disclose that I should not receive full credit for my articles; they’re the product of Socratic dialogue on the Red Line about an array of high-brow topics with scaldy Adidas-adorned heroin fiends.
I’ve never liked Moore Street. It has always had an off-putting stench. As a child, whenever my mam would bring me there, I’d cover my nose with my shirt. Maybe this was the genesis of an undue and persistent lower-middle class striver snobbery. Nationalists lament its decline. The few remaining Irish stalls are swamped by Asian phone shops, Nigerian wig and weave merchants, and a prominent gypsy element.
Contrary to those that seek its conservation, I long for the entire street to be levelled. In its place, I envision a bougie-maxxed Moore Street, one comprised of South Dublin gastropubs, an Avoca, bespoke sandwich shops that only use sourdough bread, and a ‘Donnybrook Fair’ perhaps. In sum, a rugger bugger paradise where the horseplay never ends.
‘No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish’
Along with the infamous line from the ‘Commitments’, this cliché—and it is clichés, rather than ideas, that form the bedrock of Ireland’s hackneyed intellectual ‘life’—has been imprinted on a generation of barely literate apologists for immigration. Last summer I spotted it on a wall in South Dublin while on a stroll.
However, it’s a mere myth, concocted to engender an ahistorical narrative of black and Irish unity which never existed, nor is it desired by any party bar Irish liberals—even blacks in America scoff at the notion.
Its spuriousness is proven by a glance at the views of Irishmen such as Flann O’Brien, Arthur Griffith, Martin Corry, and Thomas Clarke. The anti-bussing riots in Southie, the New York Draft Riots, and the Chicago Race Riots of 1919 suffice to highlight the true nature of race relations between both communities in the New World.
In the ‘Communist Manifesto’, Marx states: “National differences and antagonism between peoples are daily more and more vanishing, owing to the development of the bourgeoisie, to freedom of commerce, to the world market, to uniformity in the mode of production and in the conditions of life corresponding thereto”.
The vision of modernity as a caustic development, the outcome of which is the liquefaction and dilution of all formerly extant bonds, relations, and structures, is astutely captured by Marx, but this contention is by no means exclusive to him. Similarly, it pervades the thought of an array of theorists, both of the Left and Right alike.
Thomas Carlyle, for instance, lamented the status quo of 19th century Britain—its only bind, after the onslaught of Capitalism, was the cash-nexus. Nick Land, contrastingly, views the dissolution allegedly endemic in modernity in positive terms; he states: “Deterritorialization is the only thing accelerationism has ever really talked about”.
An interesting perspective was offered by the French dramatist and Action Française member, Thierry Maulnier. Although he considered modernism and traditional social bonds to be in dialectical tension, Maulnier nevertheless was optimistic that elements of each could be reconciled in a higher, progressive synthesis—namely, fascism.
Yet, there is a profession that defies modernity’s acidity: prostitution. Though it may have shifted from street corners to OnlyFans, its essentially seedy nature remains unaltered. Dublin girlos, as well as their middle class counterparts, have swarmed to take up the world’s oldest profession.
The rationale for engaging in self-pimping varies from the desire to accrue gross (volume-wise and aesthetically) amounts of fake tan to simply endeavouring to swell their Revolut account with money swindled from broken men (based). Some are even deluded enough to believe that e-thottery is the golden ticket to buying a house (spoiler: not going to happen) and starting a family (your offspring will consider you a ho).
Though there is likely a prostitute for every fetish, I doubt there’s a single hooker who specialises in my fantasy. My dark desire is to increase the number of young, left-wing OnlyFans e-thots to the point of saturation, to the detriment of most of the site’s “content creators”. After all, e-thottery is justified on laissez-faire grounds—it’s just a job, bro—so they can hardly complain about the outcome of the hidden hand—just consumer preference, bro.
I run multiple alt-accounts in order to convince Irish chicks to turn down—to invoke one recent example—their prospective €60k per year NGO gigs, and to instead embrace their inner girl boss—“ye, prostitution is liberating”, I lie. So far, I’ve thwarted the careers of at least seven up and coming radlibs. Feels good to be an ally.
With the recent and lamentable closure of ‘Chapters’, there is no longer any reason to go onto Parnell Street. I spent a significant portion of my adolescence, more frequently as a denizen perusing books than as a patron, with my friends there. Its passing, moreso than turning eighteen, marks discretely the end of my adolescence—adulthood is delayed in modernity by the unattainability of the trappings of normal, adult life, as well as by pervasive infantilisation.
Now, all Parnell Street has to offer is immersion and alienation within a throng of faces, half of whom are alien, the other domestic half are perpetually scowling—a countenance reflecting their decrepit surroundings. Throughout the street there are an array fast-food places that offer the chance to slowly commit suicide via stuffing one’s face—you’d feel like doing little else after five minutes of being on Parnell Street.
Ireland’s political, media, and civil society caste.
“I hear you’re a racist now, Father” the slovenly r/Ireland moderator chuckles aloud to his confused and cross-eyed hapa children, not yet aware that their father is a creep who waxes lyrical about white-male Asian-female relationships; their mother, an opportunist that finds him detestable, was a visa-needy bride from Thailand.
The middle class approaches matters of the intellect in a peculiar manner. Concerned with status, they tend toward political positions congruent with the reasonable status quo of their station. Further, their thinking is characterised by immediacy and common sense, and an attendant dearth of genuine inquiry and creative synthesis.
They hate the autiste whose mind possesses the key to new, dangerous vistas; for instance, the very idea of synthesizing pro-slavery thought and the descriptive claims of incels, a reasonable endeavour in my view, strikes the stupid middle class pig as absurd. Continue to oink oink, little piggy, as I stride toward new conceptual pastures—as Douglas put it,’All Pigs Must Die‘.
The appearance of reasonableness, rather than being reasonable, is what matters to these people. For them, the bearer of an idea is what counts. Luke O’Neill tells you to mask up and embrace a beta version of your future pod life—you do it. Iano asks you to go for cans in Ballyer, get tooled up “IMMEEEEDIATELY”, and to tell nosey women on the bus to piss off when they ask you to put on a mask—you castigate him.
But the comfort of centrist jokes about the immersion cannot last forever. The user-base of r/Ireland will be forced to take a side. The patron saint of Irish 90s shitlibbery, Glinner, was not tolerated—nor will they be. As Ciaran Brennan rightly put it, disbelief in the metaphysical is hardly congruent with the postulation that male and female essences can be trapped in the wrong body.
Which way Gyno man?
Popular among the nosey mothers of South Dublin, sourdough bread has upset entrenched European dietary standards—culinary preferences that have been intertwined with one’s economic and social station for millennia. A wheat-based diet was characteristic of the lower orders; inversely, a greater preponderance of meat paralleled status and wealth.
Yet, this has changed due to the popularisation of veganism among Europe’s transnational strata, as well as the assertion that red-meat should be abrogated from contemporary diets on environmentalist grounds.
Alongside a shift in the relation between class and diet, the scamdemic transmuted the competitive streak of bougie mothers; no longer able to boast about their adolescent, rugby playing son’s coke use, they were forced to outshine their peers via posting pictures of homemade sourdough.
Although somewhat lame, sourdough cultism among South Dublin mammies has unintentionally buttressed the quality of the essays penned by their pseudo-intellectual, xenophobic progeny.
My mother’s coffee and toast—toasted sourdough is delectable, especially when buttered on both sides and placed in a health grill; the juxtaposition between the tough crust and the soft, buttery centre is divine – assists in fomenting a state of internal nirvana; a comfy-maxxed apotheosis that is the prerequisite to communing with Martin Corry in the astral plane—itself a necessary step prior to even considering the contents of a prospective right-wing article.
At the Dame Street end of George’s Street, the words ‘poz vibe’ are spray-painted.
That’s all that needs to be said about George’s Street.
“Can’t wait for Ulick Fitzhugh’s hot take on why cunnilingus is anti Irish!”—@disco_Bolshevik
Like New Jersey goombah Wops, real Gaels aren’t cooze hounds.
Reparations for vaccinated people are necessary after two years of “lies, manipulation, cheating, stealing, gaslighting, bullying, insulting, and flexing” by unvaccinated gammons and covidiots, such as the infamous leader of the #AltShite, Dáibhí Ó Bruadair.
Luke-bros and Holohan plan-trusters like myself put an end to this pandemic. It’s time we received our dues.
(De) Wurkin’ Class
A people that have faced the brunt of Ireland’s ills and errors, whether we speak of mass immigration, the flooding of communities with heroin, or emigration. Although they subsist in a degraded state today, there was a time when trashiness and a reflexive antipathy toward improving one’s situation was not as predominant.
A video of Dubs who moved to Finglas from inner-city tenements in the 60s is emblematic. The people featured in the video are articulate; the sense of hope is palpable. In recent piece on this site, Dr. Declan Hayes aptly noted:
“[A] new swagger, epitomised in part by the Dubs and by the Dubliners, and underwritten by near-free education and the social discipline of the nuns and Christian Brothers, gave the grafters a new found swagger the tenements’ seemingly inescapable poverty had previously denied them”.
Dublin’s character and distinctiveness is bound up with our native working class; their absence from the city’s streets would mark the ascension of aimless drifters. However, their decline should not be interpreted as their death knell—so in the spirit of Yeats, I declare:
“We are one of the great stocks of Europe. We are the people of Baldy McDonagh; we are the people of Iano; we are the people of Dee Wall, the people of DT, the people of Graham Carey.”
A staple of my childhood and nostalgic Italia-90 nationalism, the days of the Celtic Tiger and Xtra-Vision should not be idealised on the basis that life was better back then. Our brief end of history was certainly more comfortable than today, but it was also an epoch in which degeneracy was in its nascency. We were wealthier then, so we could ignore increasing calls for legalised abortion and gay marriage, as well as an observable growth in the migrant populace on our streets.
Still though, renting movies on a Friday was comfy as a kid.
The Burkean is a far different publication today than it was at its genesis. Although initially committed to free speech and low taxes, it has since oscillated radically to its present editorial line: far-right Yoruba nationalism. Vitriolic rants about Igbo hegemonic control of the Moore Street synthetic wig trade are commonplace.
In an attempt to accrue academic credence, a certain Burkean writer has formulated an explanation for Igbo dominance which eschews the attribution of success to a conscious and overarching conspiracy. He posits that Igbo efficacy owes to their pronounced ethnocentrism, allowing the Igbo to act in a unified manner vis-à-vis their Yoruba counterparts.
Moreover, this writer contends that universalist appeals to fairness are useless to combat Igbo privilege. The Igbo may occasionally invoke universalism, but they do so in a unilateral manner that benefits them as a minority group. Such language is scrapped as soon as they hold the upper hand.
The road ahead for Yoruba-supremacism appears to be rocky, but the advent of the Burkean, as the meta-political wing of Yoruba-supremacist movement, is undoubtedly a critical step forward toward their end goal.
My handlers are domiciled there.
I have nothing else to say; it’s half four in the morning and my brain is half-functioning. My only wish is that you carefully consider the following statement by Anthony Cronin:
“And so an era came to an end. I do not for one moment believe that it will be the last era when figures whose importance is only partly, if at all, recognised walk the streets of Dublin. We might even be living through one now.”