An Irishman's Diary

A frightening din greets the accused as he is dragged into court. Angry faces surround him, grunting and hissing. Some of those in the mob tear at his clothes. Other scream with shrill voices: "Kill him! Kill him!" The judge settles down on the bench and gives her hammer a light tap.

"Dublin!" Her piercing Donegal accent fills the room. "You stand here accused of the most grievous crimes against the community." She glances at the prosecutor's bench. "The floor is yours." A portly gentleman dog-ears a page of Keane: The Autobiography and rises to his feet. The courtroom falls silent in anticipation.

"Your honour," he begins. "The county before you is guilty of destroying our most ancient traditions. His evil influence. . ."

"Satan," a Clare voice screams. Hushes quickly follow.

"His evil influence," counsel resumes in the sing-song tones of the Leeside, "means we can no longer have a pint and a smoke in peace. Thus, he heaps insult upon injury, having previously denied us our inalienable right to drive home from the pub three sheets to the wind."

"Shame," the crowd howls. "Shame."

"Next Dub-l-in," - he spits out the word like a piece of dirt - "next he will have us destroyed with speed cameras and low-fat diets and. . .and gay marriages."

"Satan! Satan!" More voices join Clare on this occasion.

"Through his wicked servant, Beelzebub's apprentice An Taisce, he has obstructed our God-given right, nay duty, to erect bungalows on well-known beauty spots."

"But," mumbles the accused, "An Taisce's a national institution. And as for the smoking ban. ."

"Silence," the judge barks.

"This county harbours the worst deviants," the prosecutor continues. "Hill-walkers, animal-lovers, Frank McDonald, arty-types, the Labour Party. Criminals and hoodlums of every description."

"Yeah!" Limerick cries - and then quickly buries her head in the crowd.

"And then he has the nerve to lecture us about our way of life, and make no mistake" - counsel thumps the table in front of him - "he lectures us, and he bullies us, because he holds all the power in this land."

"Nonsense," Dublin replies. "If anyone has control it's Kildare. He holds on to the purse strings."

"Kildare?" The judge cocks an eye at the prosecutor's bench. "Where is Kildare to answer this charge?"

Counsel's Junior pops up beside his ear and whispers: "He's in the bookies."

"With our money," counsel splutters.

"Ahra, he's one of us." Cork nods to himself before addressing the bench again. "I regret to inform your honour," he declares morosely, "Kildare is not here because he has been eaten. Eaten alive, your honour, by the accused through unregulated development."

"Shame!" The crowd howls. "Kill him!"

"This county's greedy tentacles know no bounds," counsel concurs sadly.

"He's coming for me next," Offaly shrieks and then faints into the arms of his neighbouring counties.

Dublin smirks and shakes his head. "Where do you think the developers come from?"

"Do you wish to speak?" the judge asks.

"Well, yes," the accused replies. "If anything, I'm the victim here. I'm in the middle of a housing crisis. There are parts of me so badly neglected it's scary.

"And, to make matters worse, the traffic has given me arthritis. Even the smallest movement is painful. And where is the money going? Down the country for conference centres, boat clubs and beauty pageants. Sure them boys even win the Lotto more often than me."

The courtroom falls into a nervy silence.

"Are you saying the Lotto's fixed?"

"No, I was just. . ." "Blasphemer! Blasphemer!"

"Your honour," The soothing voice of Munster returns. "for these crimes alone the county before you deserves to be punished. But I have not told you of one final, and grotesque, sin committed against this community. Goody Wexford and Goody Louth" - two figures shuffle forward from the crowd - "have admitted to falling victim to Dublin's spell."

"It's true," Wexford squeaks. "I was listening to Joe Duffy the other day, and I found him quite entertaining." "And I paid the tax on me car," Louth pants.

"Your honour, it's clear the accused is guilty of mind-control. His Dublin mindset must be eliminated."

"Yes! Yes!" The crowd chants. "He's in our heads. He's controlling our minds."

"Who is?" The judge asks.

"He is! He is!" They scream and point at the dock. "Dublin! Dublin!"

"I've heard enough," the judge says. "I hereby find Dublin guilty of the dark art of witchcraft. His body is to be taken from here and torn asunder and its remains scattered to the winds."

As she slams the hammer down, those present surround the condemned and carry him away.

"Well, that's decentralisation sorted," chirps Cork as he files his papers away. "I'd kill for a smoke and a pint."

"I know just the pub." Kerry winks at his Senior: "It's 10 minutes' away but, if we put the foot down, we'll make it in five."