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Of all the agencies that helped impose British values on Ireland down the centuries, few have had such far-reaching success as the Gaelic Athletic Association.
Yes, yes, I know the GAA was founded on nationalist principles. Far from promoting British rule, it has always been officially sceptical about the project. But in one area at least it has advanced it, persuading the Irish to abandon their old ways and embrace the colonists' world-view. I refer, of course, to the quintessentially English system of dividing land into counties.
The shiring of Ireland - completed in 1606 when the territory of the O'Byrnes and the O'Tooles was partitioned from South Dublin and formed into something called Wicklow - was once as foreign a concept in these parts as the Saxon tongue itself. English remains foreign to this day, at least within GAA circles. Yet within those same circles, the system of counties (their names always given in Irish) is sacrosanct.
That it has become a key part of every Irish person's identity is due mainly to the GAA. There may be nothing more than a dried-up stream dividing you from your neighbour in the next county. But this is often the line that makes him a loser and you a winner, or vice versa. Especially when the All-Ireland championships start, it might as well be an ocean.
Through the GAA, our former masters have achieved the colonisers' dream of imposing their system and then getting the locals to police it. During the summer months in particular, country boundaries are often marked with flags, erected voluntarily by GAA vigilantes.
The system was copper-fastened a few years ago when car registrations became abbreviations of county names, sparking a new form of inter-tribal competition and boosting car-sales in the process. Now, along with the bumper sticker, you can proclaim your loyalty with the bumper itself. And this too is a measure of the GAA's influence.
If county boundaries had been fixed by Brian Boru himself, the association could hardly be more zealous about maintaining them. Not even democracy is allowed to interfere. Well known is the case of Ballaghaderreen, the former Mayo town whose burghers voted to join neighbouring Roscommon in 1898, attracted by that county's low-tax regime. You'd think the GAA would have followed suit, but not a bit of it. A century on, Ballaghaderreen's GAA club plays in Mayo, whether it likes it or not.
Despite that precedent, Gaelic games can still be a factor in preventing administrative change. Two years ago, there were tensions on the interface between Waterford and Kilkenny, arising from Waterford City Council's plans to expand across the River Suir. The territory just north of the river is an important breeding ground for Kilkenny hurlers, however. And the possibility of the Munster county annexing more than mere planning control was a factor in Kilkenny's fierce opposition.
There was a proposal even within the GAA in recent times to divide Dublin into two counties, north and south. This would have been closer to the situation that existed in Gaelic Ireland and would also correspond to the division of the capital city so treasured by its inhabitants. But the proposal was dismissed, partly because - as one player put it - it would relegate Dublin to the status of the "weaker counties".
And there's the rub of the county system's popularity. You can understand why the supporters of Kilkenny or Kerry, or even Dublin, would be jealous of their territories. But what of the Wicklows and Carlows and Longfords of this world, forever trapped inside non-viable borders and doomed to follow losing teams? Consider Cavan and Leitrim, two counties once united as the principality of Breifne, in which form they might still have some chance of winning the odd game. Or consider my own county of Monaghan, formerly part of the ancient territory of Oriel, which also comprised much of current-day Armagh and Louth.
It has been noted that, in its shape on the map, Monaghan bears an uncanny resemblance to Iraq. And it can be argued that its borders are just as arbitrary, incorporating a sort-of Kurdish north - independence for which might have implications for neighbouring Tyrone - with a Sunni mid-west and a Shi'ite south. Control of oil resources would not be a problem in redrawing borders (except perhaps for diesel-rich South Armagh). And yet even a reduced-sized Oriel could be a football superpower.
In fact the GAA would improve both its cultural authenticity and the level of competition by relaxing the rules about county borders. This would mean allowing not just the use of older boundaries - so successful for the Munster rugby team - to create viable units. It would also mean returning to a truly Gaelic Ireland when borders were more fluid and could shift as needs dictated.
Imagine this scenario. Kilkenny are seemingly bound for yet another routine Leinster Hurling Final victory, against Offaly. But on the eve of the final, at a press conference to name their team, the Offaly selectors instead announce that they have formed a confederation involving Dublin, Laois, Carlow, Wicklow, and Wexford (with generous sponsorship from Waterford City Council). Who knows? If they got Kilkenny on an off-day, they might even win.
The system would still need rules, of course. For practical reasons, you would have to register all mergers in advance with the Games Administration Committee. You could only change sides once a year. And of course, it would have to be understood that no matter how ugly the competition became, nobody would go looking for help from England.