As with many popular myths, the notion that the River Liffey is Dublin's main social divider is not without a grain of truth, writes Frank McNally
You can make a persuasive case for it, just as you can for the existence of leprechauns. But any fool knows that the real divide on Dublin's map is perpendicular rather than horizontal.
In one half of the city, you have the eastsiders, with their beach-front properties and fancy restaurants and lives of untrammelled privilege. In the other, you have the westsiders: poor, downtrodden, and deprived even - thanks to the existing consensus - of understanding the role of geography in their misfortune.
The durability of the nortside-southside myth is partly due to its being almost equally popular with both of those supposed communities. Southsiders enjoy the snobbish jokes about northsiders, but not quite as much as northsiders do. After all, the northside's reputation gives people there a ready-made excuse for any failures in life, while making their achievements seem all the more remarkable.
Westsiders lack this comforting sense of identity. Worse still, they may be conned by the north-south myth into thinking themselves more fortunate than they are. If - like some of us - you live in the gritty south-west suburb of Kilmainham, for example, you may comfort yourself occasionally that at least you're on the right side of the river.
There may even be a temptation to feel sympathy for the poor, huddled masses of, say, Glasnevin, in the city's north-east. Yes, you've heard rumours about the tree-lined splendour of Griffith Avenue. But these are only rumours, probably, because such is the northside's reputation, you never risk visiting.
Thus do the ruling classes divide and conquer. Socialists used to lament that the national question distracted working-class people, Catholic and Protestant, from the real issues. So it is with the westies on either side of the Liffey, fighting each other instead of uniting against the common enemy.
The east-west model of Dublin has its problems, it's true, but then so does the north-south one. Well-heeled Glasnevin we have already mentioned. But enthusiasts for the traditional divide have always had an even bigger difficulty explaining the location of Clontarf.
The suburb is usually portrayed as a kind of outreach project for the southside, spreading enlightenment into places such as Killester, Donnycarney, and even Marino. But if Clontarf is the outreach project, Howth is the foreign missions. Cut off from the southside by Kilbarrack and the sea, its middle-class values had to be supplied by helicopter until the Dart established a land-bridge. Or so the north-south model would have you believe.
Throw in Dollymount, Raheny, Sutton, and Baldoyle, however, and suddenly your whole north-south model has hit a water hazard. I introduce a golf metaphor at this point lest you remain unconvinced that the impoverished northside is a legend.
Did I mention Portmarnock? The big problem with the east-west model is its lack of a natural meridian, à la Liffey. If you were erecting an Israeli-style security barrier between the two communities, the line would zig-zag wildly. It would probably be the eastsiders who would erect any fence. And in doing so, they would have to surround their settlements on the west bank, such as Castleknock (probably claiming the Phoenix Park while they were at it), while somehow excluding the north-east inner city.
Curiously enough, the east-west boundary would be easier to draw on the southside. The green line would go up Clanbrassil Street, and on through Harolds Cross Road and Templeogue till it hit the River Dodder, at which point it would head back to meet the sea at Greystones. Whatever few Eastie enclaves ended up on the wrong side of the fence could probably be bought off with visiting rights and postal votes.
Anyway, for every anomaly in the east-west model, you can point to one in the north-south version. Take, for instance, the always-pressing issue of who the real Dubs are. Under the existing divide, northsiders pride themselves on being the city's more authentic half - a reputation that rests heavily on the shoulders of Moore Street's traders. But frankly, I believe those traders have become a bit too knowing about how colourful they are. Between posing for tour groups and politicians, some of them have been photographed within an inch of their lives.
In a real Dubs competition, I would back the southside's Meath Street any day. There is so much authenticity among the huckster shops and arcades there, it's as if it fell off a lorry. The locals would happily sell it to you in economy-size packets for €9.99, no questions asked.
In my model, Meath Street would be part of the westside story. It's just hard to know where the story would end. While the eastside is limited by sea, Dublin's western suburbs now extend as far as Mullingar. The number of westies multiplies daily, swelled to some extent by eastside refugees born in places such as Sandymount and Fairview but no longer able to live there.
I meet them every morning while buying my papers in Heuston Station. The trip involves me crossing the concourse in a south-north direction and back. But if the 7.15 arrival from Newbridge is just in, I risk being washed away by the sea of humanity breaking on to the platforms from the west. When the tide is strong, you could be carried onto a north-bound Luas by accident - although the vicious cross-currents, shearing off for the no 90 bus or the taxi rank, can be even more dangerous.
The public transport connections at Heuston are excellent, whisking westies away in various directions as soon as they arrive. It's almost suspicious, in fact. If you were a conspiracy theorist, you might think that certain vested interests in the east of the city were trying to prevent us having meetings.