214) Joxer Daly's/ Long Island of Lower Dorset Street, D1

A poxy scummy bowsie kip. A dark and foul den of sin. Cheap but not cheerful – watch your back at all times. Indoor smoking seemingly is allowed, in brazen defiance of the laws elsewhere – our sole visit saw a cackling band of witches lighting up with impunity. So pungent and acrid and fetid was the musty tang of the smokiness (among other stenches such as wet farts and dried puke), seeping ineluctably into the pores of one's skin and threads of one's clothes, that Andrew Stephens (a man of fine sensations and the possessor of hypersensitive and refined nostrils), oppressed and distressed, could not finish his pint and beat a retreat for air.

(Did somebody say Juno and the Paycock by Seán O’Casey?) No.

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