Sideline Cut Keith Duggan It is traditional at this time of year, when Dublin are promising to win an All-Ireland, for all the other counties in this green isle to form a common emotional alliance involving the primitive and unimaginative but heartfelt hope that the Dubs get, well, f***in' hammered, to be honest.
In the old days, when Dublin was faraway and hidden under smog and had, as its chief attraction the country's first McDonalds, hating the Dubs was an inherited thing. If asked why we so desperately wanted the Dubs to get beaten, we would shrug and grow defensive and eventually come up with a sullen and unmistakably rural reply that amounted to nothing more than: "Because", or: "That's the why."
There was no simple answer. Because the Dubs got Funderland while the rest of us got Fossetts? It has been a while now since the bulk of the nation has had occasion to form this entente cordiale, but those of us with a nose for country matters have begun to smell it in the air.
The anti-Dub brigade have begun their weekend marches and are target practising in remote wooded areas.
But maybe before it all gets out of hand, it is time for the good people that reside in the Irish land mass that is not of Dublin to shout stop.
Surely we are all more generous of heart and sophisticated of nature now. For, as one of the many hundreds and thousands of privileged creatures that formerly trotted across bogs of terrible hue and substance but have since been delivered to the sanctuary of the suburbs, it is a pleasure to say with pride that this latest Dub revival has been delightful.
Yes, we are learning to love the Dubs. Unless you have seen them, you cannot appreciate the simple prettiness of the little Dub flags and bunting fluttering gaily from the cheerful red brick artisan cottages (300k, chrming, bijou, ptntl. attic conv., gen.frplc, ptntl.rm.to.swng.ct.) of the north side.
It is pleasing also to note the proliferation of those stick-on car flags that have become the summer season's haute-couture accessory for all self-respecting taxi men across the city.
Sociologists have come to find a corelation between these cute vehicle embellishments and a dramatic improvement in the general mood of the taxi fraternity. The fraught relationship between the once maligned taxi licence holder and the passenger laden with a week's worth of Dunne Stores bags has just vanished.
Spy a cab now and all you have to do is offer a jaunty thumbs-up and a cheerful yell of "C'mon, the Dubs" and he will screech to a halt, more likely than not bellowing out a verse or two of Molly Malone as he helps you on board. It is simple and stress free.
Inside the taxi, all the old conversational staples - Why I Became a Taxi-Man, Why This City Is Going Down the Bloody Drain, Why I Won't Under No Circumstances Be Voting, Why I Have Nothing Against the Immigrants - have been postponed.
Now, all the talk is of The Dubs.
As well it should be. Sometime around February, it became common to hear the opinion that Dublin needed an All-Ireland title. You could be sauntering through any of the fashionable boutiques, admiring the Jack Yeats room in the National Gallery or feeding the ducks in the ponds at Stephen's Green when you would hear the words, "this city needs an All-Ireland".
In fairness, everywhere needs an All-Ireland. Leitrim could use one, for instance. And they wouldn't turn their noses up at one in Carlow.
But those places need one in a wistful, romantic way; Dublin needs one as urgently as it might require a new waste disposal system, a planning scandal or another motorway. There was a tangible need for an All-Ireland and it has been stunning to behold the swift moves towards actually attaining it.
THE true Dubs, the ones that just have to head west of O'Connell street to visit their granny as opposed to west of the Shannon, are excited at the moment. (I have yet to hear, to my eternal relief, as much as one true Dub profess him/herself to be "excira and delira" as Uncle Gaybo so regularly did). Dub fever has swept the city and it would be rude not join in.
So we are loving the Dubs, or at least trying to, because Tommy Lyons is a noisy and brilliant gust of fresh air and the players seem to be gentlemen.
But old habits die hard. We remember when the Dubs first burst upon our consciousness in that dark September of 1983. Terrifying, ogres of men.
'If you're not good," all the rural mothers used to warn us then, " CiaráDuff will come and take you away." Jesus. The thought still gives me shivers.
The Dubs of 1983 anchored our fleeting impressions of the actual place - big and bad and best left alone.
We could not have imagined then that it would take them until 1995 to return. By that stage, perceptions had shifted greatly and we had actually grown slightly weary and saddened by a succession of insolent country teams arriving in Croke Park and trampling over a series of fragile and not-at-all-the-stuff-of-kiddie-nightmares Dub teams. We (almost) wished them that All-Ireland.
And now comes the latest year of the Dub. We have heard it rumoured that the excitement has wafted across to the more sedate climes of the south side, where hand-made royal and sky blue flags line the lamp lit and leafy driveways.
It is, of course, only a rumour.
The rest of Ireland has been forced to doff his grimy cap at the manner in which the splendid Dubs of 2002 have swept aside all before them.
After Donegal were lectured, one humbled fan decided to go celebrating with the Dubs.
In between, the verses of several lusty and mournful ballads celebrating the perfect state of Dublin before the mass influx of boggers like himself, the Donegal man was told that Croker was, in fact, a disadvantage for the Dubs.
It was a disadvantage because the new goal posts in front of the Hill were not located where the old ones had once stood. Hence, the Dub heroes, reared in Croker, could no longer kick points blind. The Donegal man could but shake his head.
Tomorrow, the Dubs will fill out Croker again. Some of them will travel anything up to 15 miles just to be there.
Our leader, a fervent supporter of the Dubs will be among his people, hope shining brightly in his own sky blue eyes.
The Dubs will be everywhere, swarming merrily among nervous, orange-clad Armagh lads. The inclination for all of us boggers will be to cheer for Armagh because that is what we have always done. To be against the capital.
But can we not be bigger this time? Can we not just say may the best team win? Can you not be happy for the Dubs? Can you not shout, from the bottom of your lungs, "Come-on, you boys in blue"?
Nah, me neither.
