22) Whelan's of Wexford Street, D2

Famed as Dublin's premiere music venue, endorsed by the likes of Jeff Buckley, Kíla, and Glen Hansard - although its heyday has past. Cavernous and multistoried and probably qualifies as a 'super-pub' though on a hellish night it's anything but super. Only in the smoking area is it possible to have a chat, fleeing from the bone-shaking horror of the din within, and even here overcrowding can lead to asphyxiation, to say nothing of the toxic fumes and plumes of fags.

On a quiet Monday afternoon one could possibly grab a seat in the bar downstairs where warm wood and an open fire can be enjoyed, but not for long, for crowds will start to stampede just before the sun sets. Once, on a mid-winter night, Stephens and Coll resorted to the said smoking area as most everywhere else [1] had closed and there was still a terrible thirst. Stephens, pleased with himself for completing the hellish task of a full day’s clothes shopping, ended up so boozed that he left all four fat shopping bags behind whilst off in search of the nearest late-night kebab shop. The shirt he wore that night was sadly soiled while the bags of fresh clothing were never found. 

Many scenes from the Cecelia Ahern slush-fest P.S. I Love You were shot here. Onetime regulars included Alan Cummins, the melancholy editor of The Sun, taciturn photographer Gavin Herbert, and scruffy Raymond Kinghan, a slightly egotistical ('I am the only genius you will ever meet') yet ultimately good-hearted sculptor whose artistic career was sadly curtailed by the onset of viral arthritis that badly afflicted his hands and ruled out any further carving of wood (his primary medium). Even a mere gentlemanly handshake is painful for him now, alas.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Other pubs to ignore on this street include: Against The Grain - so called because they don’t sell Guinness, (not original in the slightest, the Porterhouse went against the grain years before these little charlatans), hugely overpriced crafty beers available for weekend wankers. Next, The Jar (not to be confused with The Jug of Francis Street), swanky cocktails and a trendy beer garden packed with lads on the lash and drenched in vomit inducing cologne.

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