"Stop. Immigration". It's not the sort of sign you expect to see on a Monday morning as you go to work - especially if you have just alighted from a train which arrived, not from Romania, but from Belfast. But there it was, hung over the gate at the bottom of the platform. I counted three plainclothes gardai, IDs slung around their necks, watching as we foreigners made our way to our various destinations. No one asked us for passports. Not yet, anyway.
One garda was standing by the platform gate looking at us the way a farmer regards heifers and bullocks. You could see him sizing us up: who to stop? The other two looked bored. They undoubtedly were bored. It's not a very glamorous job for a plainclothes policeman.
Excitement
After all, the whole idea of getting out of uniform and into the detective business is to have some excitement, be at the cutting edge, take on the mobsters. What a let-down to have all that experience and expertise swept aside and be ordered to stand at a gate and check out disembarking Northerners.
Still, as inspections go, I've had worse. I grew up with foot patrols of armed squaddies stopping you with a cheery, "Where are you going, mate? What's in the bag?" Having the once-over from a garda is not so bad.
And yet: "Stop. Immigration."
I'm surprised the gardai didn't simply arrest the lot of us. I know for a fact that the morning train from Belfast is packed with economic refugees from the North. I have spoken with a plasterer from Coalisland, a brickie from Magherafelt, a computer expert from Armagh city, an accountant from Newry. Every week these people make their way south to earn a living.
I admit to being an economic refugee myself. I leave my native territory two days a week, cross a border and come to work in Dublin. I am one of the lucky ones. I have a university education, I have a skill and, most importantly, I speak very good English. My accent is impeccable - a bit Belfast, but recognisably Irish. I won't have any difficulty convincing anyone of my bona fides.
Better still, I am a taxpayer in this State. Charlie McCreevy gets his pound of flesh from my salary. I don't hide my money in offshore accounts. I don't have the opportunity. My employers (God bless them and may He always be good to them) conspire with the State and tax my refugee dosh at source. It's called PAYE. It should be called PAIN.
As refugees go, I am a productive and honest one, so I suppose I could, if stopped, be ratty in the best enraged taxpayer's manner: "It's people like me who pay your wages, officer." (I could also give the boys in blue my best "cupla focal", but given that I speak Ulster Irish, they might mistake my pronunciation of the first national language as Johnny Foreigner talk and cart me off.)
Lord Dark Hound
Still, I'm glad that something is being done about this problem. And how appropriately named too is the Minister of Justice: O'Donoghue/O Donnchu, meaning dark hound. Lord Dark Hound's watchers are at the gate. They sniff out the shifty and the suspicious. Do you feel safer? Do you sleep better at night knowing they are out there, guarding freedom, democracy and Irish solutions to Irish problems?
Of course, you can understand Lord Dark Hound's anxieties. There is no doubt that the whole of the North, given half a chance, would be down here in the blink of an eye. Thankfully, the peace process and Yankee dollars should keep most of them north of Newry for the foreseeable future.
But what of those other economic refugees, those crafty Romanians and sneaky Albanians? Are they slipping through Larne and Belfast in their droves? If they are, no one seems to have noticed so far. There have been no horror stories in the local press about truckloads of foreigners being found on the docks. You're still more likely to be accosted in Belfast city centre by a born-again Christian preaching salvation by than people in shawls selling the Big Issue. By the way, did you know that Vietnamese boat people were relocated in the North by the British government in the 1970s? You have to feel sorry for those asylum-seekers, cast adrift on the South China Sea and washing up in mid-Ulster during one of the most vicious bouts of violence Ireland has ever seen. Can we call that a rescue?
Emergency action
But we Northerners understand that in times of emergency, action needs to be taken. Might I make a suggestion to the Minister of Justice? If you really want to make an impression and halt this tide of economic refugees, I suggest you arm the Garda to the teeth. Get the Uzis out, big fellow. It's the only thing that'll impress us. You have to understand that we grew up among SLRs and armoured cars. A few plainclothes officers just doesn't cut the mustard in the intimidation stakes.
Park an armoured car or, even better, a tank at the bottom of the platform. There's nothing like an armoured car to grab the attention and engender a bit of respect. Any chance you could liaise with the Defence Forces and get a few Paddy squaddies on the job? Now make sure they are ill-mannered and rude. It'll make us all - Northerners, Romanians, Albanians - feel like we're at home.
Stop. Immigration. Here, here.