There are no Irish People Living in Dublin.

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The receptionist at the hotel was from Mauritius. The taxi driver from Hell was from Nigeria. The Grafton Street waiter was from the Far East. The people swarming on the open-decked buses were from the far corners of the Earth but of an Irishman or woman there was not the briefest of glimpses.

They are gone like the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fir Bolg before them. They have likewise become mythical. There has been wave after wave of invasion, and the Irish, who once lured unsuspecting gullible Americans to look at the ‘Fairy Hill’ in Aunt Maisie’s field in return for a few coins; or sold them empty milk bottles featuring the shamrock; or even offered Americans ‘ancient’ Shillelaghs for sale that they’d manufactured the night before, this proud race is gone.

The Irish in Dublin are mythical beings being kept alive in spirit only by the tour guides who point out the doors that once opened for the King of England and which were built for such a purpose by the Irish.

Like the lost Irish crown jewels, the Irish, the real jewels of the land, are likewise lost.

In Kilmainham Jail the legend of the Irish is most fiercely defended. There was a group of them once that their fellow Irish hadn’t much noticed who were shot by firing squad in the jail and who were thought of only after one of their number was tied to a chair to face his executioners.

The monument to those that were involved in the Easter Rising is in the Post Office building on O’Connell Street. Their declaration with its proud words is powerfully moving; as is the statue of the glorious hero Cúchulainn who is betrayed by ravens that are about to peck at his dead body as he hangs from the rock he is tied to.

Nobody stops to look or read the declaration. It is Sunday evening, the night is young and the city is drawing the young towards the sticky web of its centre.

Too traumatised by the fervent description of life in Kilmainham Jail, the many senseless executions that took place there and Cúchulainn’s brave death, I walk back towards my hotel.

At the top of O’Connell Street there is a church. I wonder if this was the church the men of the Easter Rising prayed in. People are going in. I decide to join them. Perhaps here I will meet the Irish.

The church is packed. The two men I’ve just squeezed past look disgruntled. I slide onto a pew. The service is already in progress. A group of men are singing. From time to time a few other late comers arrive. They slip onto their seats and then pray.

I don’t understand the language. With a thrill I wonder if this is Irish Gaelic. This would be a fitting place for the resurgence of the language, right at the top of O’Connell Street. How the men of the Easter Rising would rejoice. I listen more closely to the words hoping to understand a word or two, but they all elude me. I wonder where the priests are: the black gowned priests I learnt about from the Dave Allen sketches. I’m puzzled that I can’t see any.

The speaker calls them to pray and the whole congregation sinks to its knees. I’ve never heard prayers like it. Each individual is praying their own prayer and muttering.

It’s an unholy endless sound.

I look around at the kneeling congregation which is mainly composed of men and imagine brave Irish warriors, an army of men sinking to their knees before a battle. This must have been the sound that men made as they knelt on bog and grass before they went to their deaths the next day.

Somewhere at the back of the hall someone with a more pressing prayer raises his voice in a high falsetto imploring his god for aid. Thus the men of old would have prayed. The next day probably brought no hope but only despair for the men who went into battle, likewise I fear there is no hope for these prayers either.

They chill and unnerve me.

There is a new speaker that follows after a girl has sung a song almost beautifully; and another has read a poem; the latter stretching her hands out as if she is able to summon the dead to rise and follow her.

There is no cameraderie, no warmth, no friendship, no smiles in this church. It is as if each person is sitting in their own invisible stall as they are preached at.

A two handled bag is being passed around for the congregation to drop coins and notes into. It's passed swiftly from person to person as if the handles are too hot to hold for long, or as if no one wants to be seen holding it when the music stops. The men next to me feign dropping their offering into the bag, moving their hands over the mouth of the bag like apprentice magicians.

I'm appalled. Shocked that they did not pass the bag openly if they did not choose to donate that day.

The man at the front of the church is loud. His face is magnified by a camera onto a screen behind him.

The loud speakers send his voice reverberating around the hall. There is a harsh quality to his words. Every sentence is loud and condemnatory. He goes on and on. I wonder why the congregation don’t walk out on him. I don’t understand a word but whatever he’s saying it’s ugly and tiresome.

I yearn for silence, for the holy peace of carpeted quietness. I decide I will walk out and reclaim my freedom: the birthright of the atheist.

It is a relief to have escaped.

In the vestibule are two ushers.

‘Did you understand any of it?’ one of the men asks.

‘Not one word,’ I reply.

‘Our translator is on holiday,’ he says apologetically.

What's the speaker saying now?’ I ask

Oh, it’s something from the Bible,’ the man says. ‘You know, the Bible.’ He emphasises the last word as if it’s likely I’ve never heard of it, almost spelling it out.

‘And what language is he speaking?’ I ask.

‘Rumanian,’ the man says.

‘Rumanian!’ I say.

No wonder I couldn’t understand a word. The headscarves worn by the girls make more sense now too.

And I walk out lighter than air with laughter! Rumanian!

I am right. There’s not a single Irish man any left anywhere in Dublin.

Dublin has been captured and taken over by Rumania.

Dave Allen must be chuckling in his heaven with his gods.

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