78) The Lower Deck of Richmond Road, Portobello, D8
Come a sunny day, there are few to beat this. Erroneously yet ultimately accurately described by Andrew Stephens as 'The Harbour Inn' (he wasn't far wrong – Ryans of the Harbour is written on the side), this offers a sublime view of the canal under the right conditions, and to perch outside on a stool by a barrel is to be privy to sunset and swans and seagulls and skateboarders falling on their asses (the last mentioned becomes an especial chore after prolonged observation of their antics proves how mind-numbingly stupid the ‘sport’ actually is).
Bar staff are prompt and always drop down the drink with familiarity. We were once, long ago, asked to quieten down by the barman (subsequently revealed to be Colm, the son of the owner - who was in the right for we were wrong, oblivious to the racket we were making given the nearly numbing levels of alcohol previously consumed), and we subsequently objected crudely to his mild reprimand (an upright middle finger was needlessly raised at one point), which we regretted. That we have since been accepted and even welcomed back inside is testament to the open-mindedness of the place and its love of 'the sinner, not the sin'.
The owner is a tall gentleman by the name of Liam who is an excellent barman, quick witted and hailing from the county Tipperary causing him to proclaim ‘I was born to suffer.’ He has no patience with the summer revelers who clog the banks outside, and has said: 'Sure what do they be doing only pissing and shitting and fucking?!?' (We've seen numerous instances of the former two activities but none of the latter – peeping toms please apply with binoculars.) A typical instance of Liam’s quick wit: says a chap hopping out of a van: ‘I’m just popping in for a bit of lunch!’ Says Liam: ‘You’ve come to the wrong place!’ God love him! His lounge is liquid-based.
The pub has a unique way of getting a helping hand behind the bar when it gets busy. They allow the odd certain customer to do the unthinkable: cross over the threshold and step behind the bar to occasionally assist. One patron called ‘Paddy’ (who was once refused from the kip Cassidy’s because he ‘looked too dirty’), is very partial to this special rite of passage and takes full advantage of it. Between supping at his own pint he staggers around the pub collecting empty glasses and proudly returns them to the glass-washer. As the years have passed, so Paddy's duties have extended accordingly, and he has been seen both rolling barrels, gathering barstools and acting as a surly doorman-cum-bouncer, an effective discouragement to any new custom for who would want to enter the establishment after being barked at by such a face? (He used to be an O'Connell's regular, and was described by a barman in that institution as 'not the sharpest tool in the box'.)
A blind man (with girlfriend) has a regular post at the counter and the Bello Bar is a popular music venue that operates underneath, catering to a mix of auditory tastes. The famous local alcoholic Dmitri (see O'Connell's) has often been seen here in the earlier hours of the afternoon or indeed morning, sinking back a quick few or nursing a morsel of bread before his home from home across the street opens at 4pm. Another O'Connell's fixture fond of The Lower Deck is barman ‘Freddie’, skulking over to sit in a corner and gobble a skinful before slinking back to his post, considerably tipsier (and gruffer) than when he started. Indeed, the traffic between the two neighbouring pubs is much in evidence – barman par excellence Michael is another regular off-duty visitor, as is ‘Chewbacca’ with his brother ‘Han-Solo’ in tow (see O’Connell’s for more), Chewbacca, called 'Georgie', has an uneasy penchant for starting conversations in the toilets with boyos).
If one is sitting outside and drinking in the view of the harbour, one may also bear witness to the ponderous perambulations of an impressively bearded, bespectacled and black-hatted old geezer nicknamed either 'Gandalf' or 'Dumbledore', depending on whatever franchise takes your fancy. Though scruffy in attire and apparently without any fixed abode, he nonetheless carries himself with a distinguished, almost professorial air, yet is also not adverse to occasionally walking barefoot and pissing in public. Civic minded, he makes a point of picking up and binning other people's rubbish. He is regularly to be spotted at any point along the Rathmines stretch (usually outside of Subway, where he would seem to have a fond and familiar female confidant, an interlocutor to whom he pours out his heart in a mild country accent), and though technically not a regular of this pub (he's more partial to tinned stout from the offie), he has been sighted in the vicinity more than often enough to warrant a mention (and has also been seen on Henry Street, Marlborough Street, O'Connell Street and Wolfe Tone Square) [1].
Another charming anecdote involves a wild-eyed man who complimented Sean O'Rourke's ass in the toilets. This penitent lecher, as if embarrassed by his own forwardness, and keen to deflect attention from his latent pederasty by posing as a political animal (albeit one with a deeply dated revolutionary-minded and pre-Independence agenda), then made it his business to sit beside said Sean, interrupting our conversation only to ask us, pointedly, 'I don't care what yiz do, lads, so long as you're willing to die for Ireland. Would you die for Ireland?'
The aforementioned toilets were recently renovated which deserve a bonus mention. There’s a curious framed photo behind the bar of a hearse bearing the pub’s name and is pictured parked outside with the following caption: ‘dying for a pint?’ It’s hard to beat The Lower Deck for a quiet pint of Beamish of excellent quality. It’s roomy enough to hide in a nook, and welcoming enough to sit at the bar reading a paper. Tipplers Tip: avoid the later hours on weekends when Shirley, a blond buxom of maturity bellows into a microphone, her bouncing breasts on the verge of bursting out – and as for all the auld lads – they come for the karaoke, right?
Update as of July 2020: This bar has triumphantly reopened, following the forcible closing thanks to the blight of Covid 19. Uniquely among pubs that we have visited in the P.C. (Post-Corona) era, no foodstuffs are forcibly insisted upon, nor is the 105 minute time limit observed. Apart from the simple matter of signing in the guest book upon entry (and providing a number for the sake of 'tracing'), the presence of hand sanitizer on the door, and the lack of stools at the counter, the pub is operating pretty much as normal, and rather shamelessly and flagrantly so. It's all the weirder given the prominence of the pub's position (far more so than the hidden Corrigans, which nonetheless fell foul of the fuzz – see next entry below), and the frequent sight of police on patrol around the harbour. Does barman Liam have friends on the force who have agreed to turn a blind eye to his blatant business? At any rate, long may it last! We who had been 111 days without a Beamish were not in a position to be picky or churlish…
Churlish we certainly were not. Due to staff not insisting that patrons purchase food we have drank more times in this, the very Lower Deck, since the beginning of the P.C. era, than the whole of the previous year combined. A hot day in August saw us sipping in sunshine at one of the barrels when a forlorn comedian by the name of David McSavage passes us by. This immediately spurred Sam Coll to shout ‘QUEEEEEEERS!’ (For the uninitiated, a reference to one of Dave’s comical characters.) But McSavage neither smiled nor nodded nor stopped nor turned around. In no way did the stodgy pudgy quipster acknowledge his acknowledgment. Ah go to God, McSavage! Coll got off lightly - McSavage has been known to kick his fans.
FOOTNOTE
[1] And once again, there is more to this 'character' than meets the eye. According to those in the know, this seeming vagrant (a man of eighty-odd who has been sporting the spectacular beard for as long as anyone can remember) is in fact a proud inventor – though the precise nature of what he invented is lost in the mists of time and unreliable gossip. Nor is he homeless, despite every appearance of so being, for he is said to own a respectable little house somewhere in Rathmines. The colourful tramp act is thus in part an affectation, and perhaps a clever way of evading taxes. He is reputedly a native of the county Cork, and indeed one could discern a country lilt in his gentle voice on the few occasions he deigned to speak to us – 'Fine day for a match!' he quipped from a canal bank bench one time; another time, when he saw us carrying cans to Stephens' flat, he wished us well, with a kindly 'Have fun!' But let us not romanticize overmuch – this is also a sad sack who has been seen to piss in daylight on his own bare feet. He is also said to possess a streak of religious mania, having been seen praying with manic fervour and clenched fists in the Pro-Cathedral many an odd time, genuflecting with a fanatic's verve. God in heaven save us from Himself.
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