‘In his absence, Dublin feels a bit less remarkable’

ONE evening in the spring of 2003, Ulick O’Connor was in a good mood. I had just offered to reprint an extract from his diaries — he loved a bit of publicity — and we were going to dinner in the Lord Edward, his favourite restaurant.

As we walked across town, he spoke about the poetry of William Butler Yeats and the mischief of Brendan Behan. Ulick had the gift of all great Dubliners: he made the city smaller and more intimate, but also larger and more remarkable. In his company the dirty old town felt like one of the great literary capitals of the world. But he could also be an awful bollocks.

No one will ever campaign for a statue of Ulick O’Connor, because he managed to alienate most of his champions. I say this as someone who put him on stage, on the radio and in print for many years. I was a willing Boswell to his Johnson because he knew so much about Dublin, the subject of our professional and personal affections, and because I usually loved his company.

He was a pugnacious figure until about 10 years ago, when age caught up with him. In 2013, he pulled out of a lecture at the last minute, as I had failed to remind him of the appointment more than three times. He did not have adequate time to prepare and I would have to tell 120 ticketholders that it was all my fault. I cursed him that day, and yet, like many other people, I mourned him last week, because I admired his knowledge of Dublin’s literary and cultural heritage, his old-world charm, his sparkling intelligence, his fierce patriotism, and what might be called his pugnacious conversational style. Like the boxer he once was, Ulick was all jabs and hooks. It wasn’t for everyone, indeed many fled his company, while some resorted to actual violence.

This week, all of the obituaries have referenced Ulick’s legendary belligerence. Few have touched on his essential sweetness, and perhaps that is only fair, as he was most comfortable in the role of provocateur. But there was another side to him, and it also deserves to be remembered.

After dinner that night in 2003, a Dublin man stopped him on the street. “Jimmy,” said the man, turning to his son, “This is Ulick O’Connor.” Clearly bemused, young Jimmy shook the old man’s hand. The child was cute enough to admit the presence of someone important, without really knowing why. As the two strangers set off, Ulick smiled. “Lovely kid, wasn’t he?” There was no ego in this comment, which ignored the gushing father — just humanity.

Then he whispered a line by the greatest Irish poet of the last century: “The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.”

The restaurant in the Lord Edward closed a few years ago. Now Ulick is dead. In his absence, Dublin feels a bit less remarkable. Trevor White is the director of the Little Museum of Dublin