131) Blackbird of Lower Rathmines Road, D6
A funky, retro, hot shot hipster spot. It opens late but doesn’t exactly sing in the dead of night. Over the years, this building has gone through several incarnations of varying dreariness, named, depending on your decade, Brady's, Quinn's, or the Rathmines Inn (in which guise former Corrigans regular Bernard Michael Palmer sometimes worked as a bouncer for drinking money). Its current facelift, however, would appear to be its happiest. Dark and atmospheric, heightened by melting candles, an open fire, complementary crisps (you’ve already paid for them as part of their exorbitant price for drink), a wall-sized still of Kubrick’s The Shining, and an array of board games for the bored or the juvenile or the 'delayed adolescent'. Model aircraft from the Star Wars franchise which hang from the ceiling strengthen and bolster this claim to childishness. A couple of false snugs can be obtained – a private space but detached from the bar. Especially fine at sunset when the light drips through in radiant hues of gold or scarlet. The pub functions almost as a millennial-friendly Bernard Shaw for the D6 crowd, but without the excess overcrowding and overpricing that is the bane of the other bar over the canal*, plus a far friendlier staff who reward regulars with significant deductions and not infrequent freebies.
*N.B.This was written in the days when the Bernard Shaw was on Richmond Street, and the ‘canal’ thus referred to was the Grand Canal. Nowadays, it is of course the ROYAL Canal that is meant, enroute to Glasnevin and Finglas et all.)
A pair of really nice chilled out guys with absolutely no interesting or controversial opinions about anything whatsoever
Beauty and affability seem to be key job qualifications for the barmaids. Benign barman Sean O'Neill (formerly of the former Sweeney’s) now works here. The infamous Mick Pyro, of the Republic of Loose, was once seen on a bench in the beer garden. He asked Andrew Stephens to mind his bag while he ran outside to buy skins for the hand-rolled cigarettes he chain-smoked without cease. A brush with greatness. But was Mr. Stephens tempted to sneak a peak over the contents of said bag which belonged to such a bona fide rockstar? Much like Mr. Spooner who never peeps on sex, I don’t peep in bags.
UPDATE AS OF AUGUST 2024: I still don’t peep in bags, except to puke in them - where one can, when one has a mind to so do, without hitting the pavement or the wall or the floor or the carpet or the ruddy dimpled cheek of whatever pisspoor peer happens to be in your barfing beeline. Such a projectile response might have been my reaction upon sampling the Beamish that is now served by the Blackbird. While one applauds and rejoices at the fact that this beatific beverage is now on the trendy and trending menu (in line with developing trends and perhaps helped in some small measure by our blog’s determined advocacy of this superior stout), one balks and cringes and heaves at the price (SIX EUROS SEVENTY CENTS - this in itself is vomitous - Temple Bar robbery has come to take root in Rathmines), and one heaves and cringes and balks still further (or so I did) at the middling to malodorous quality of the Beamish spat forth from the fat tap. I left the place feeling sickened, queasy, ripped off and robbed.
That was my first visit, my first sample. It is unfair to call it representative.
My second visit, in the interests of justice and a token gesture at pseudo-scientific objectivity (for all that our blog is unabashedly biased), took place a month later. This time the Beamish, while still lamentably expensive, tasted absolutely fine, no doubt helped by the later hour of one’s visit, at which time it would have had much more occasion to flow and settle and override the influence of dirty taps that have since been cleaned, or once-stale stout that now is merrily throbbing and pulsing and flowing along and making hay, bubbling and beaming as merry as ye may. And this visit reminded one of just what was so nice and beguiling about the Blackbird back in the day, the candles and the dimness and the sunset view and the slant of the rosy rays through the panoramic windows. All best enjoyed with a (costly) Beamish. So kudos, kids, by hell ye’ve done well.
Mr. Spooner (J. Gielgud) is not peeping on sex, he is instead peeping on Mr. Hirst (R. Richardson) as he blurts out the play’s title (No Man’s Land) before keeling over drunkenly
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