I find myself in Dublin.

My dad was born here and when he arrived in London in the 1950s, he really was one of McAlpine’s Fusiliers. I should feel a great affinity for Dublin but I don’t. Not because it’s too Irish but because it isn’t Irish enough. I strolled along Grafton Street this afternoon but among the faceless chainstores, there was little evidence that I was in the Emerald Isle. Of course, if I’d ventured outside the city centre or better still, outside of Dublin, I know I’d have been quickly immersed in green, white and gold. But Dublin now is just a smug little European city that seems to have lost its soul. Never mind. I’ll always have fond childhood memories of a time when, musically and culturally, Dublin was less about Ronan Keating and more about Ronnie Drew.