23) Molloy's of Talbot Street, D1
Once rumoured to be the most addictive pub in Dublin. Guinness here ought to be served with a strawberry. Beamish too bonds benevolently. David Saunders [1] refers to this pub as the ‘The Vortex’ summing it up aptly. This is one of Dublin’s few remaining early-houses and was once owned by a set of chuckle brothers from the West of Ireland who used their pub as a snare and knew how to set it! They would give a pint on the house at the night’s end (a rarity in those days, even in these) to anyone they suspected was ‘partial to it.’
A generous grace period followed last orders which often bled into a lengthy lock-in for selected fools far too fond of it. Down came the shutters, out slid the ashtrays and beer taps saw no sleep. A besuited businessman was wont to emerge from clouds of smoke to buy the house a round. Many victims returned voluntarily each night for more happy punishment. One such sufferer was bus driver Craig, who was more mead than man, and preferred to go by the name of ‘Mayo.’ He frequently had arguments with himself and was known to fall asleep mid sentence only to reawaken several minutes later to continue his grumble. A jet engine refueller would drink quadruples whilst standing at the bar in his luminous orange overalls. Not unfriendly he would move up and down engaging in slow and slurred conversation with anyone and everyone. Benny, as brittle a little man as ever sat on a stool, and whose name was synonymous with Molloy’s, was the only patron so honoured with eighties prices on the pint - ad infinitum. Barman Paul, a disgruntled Manchester United supporter lamented having to clean the daily shit left scattered in the gentlemen’s small room. Once, alcoholic Derek, who worked day and night on making his oleaginous nose alabaster, got into trouble for stalking the only star in the sky: a young and very attractive barwoman whose number he managed to slyly acquire. This did not end well for him. Stephens was once interrogated about whether the notes he was taking bar-side were to eventually form a book.
A fine specimen of Irish manhood with drink of choice in hand
Following a revamping, this 'local pub for local people' also attracts a lot of outsiders by dint of its nearness to Connolly station – accommodation is available upstairs. A video was released during renovations showing incredible footage of the catacombs beneath this pub. A network of dark and narrow tunnels, doors and the remnants of old Dublin buildings and streets (at a much lower level) can be seen. It is rumoured that one can reach Connolly Station via Molloy’s pub using one of these underground tunnels.
Stephens and Coll once made a visitation before the cock could crow and sampled their early-house strong-water before hopping onto a bus for Furness in the county Kildare. It took an immense amount of self control to limit their intake so as not to have a wet problem en route. Each visit has been enlivened by something unexpected – be it a police raid to arrest a mumbling runaway and escort him outside to the waiting van, a rejected female customer bawling outside and all but smashing the glass door down, several overheard drug deals, a drunk dancing or dozing. But a more recent visit in 2019 showed a bar in terminal decline – especially disgraceful was a stumbling barman far more drunk (or stoned) than any of his customers. A further visit proved this mealy barman of skin and bone was a disgrace to the establishment yet again. Clearly over-medicated (possibly tripping balls), he spent most of the night on his phone and was barely able to serve. A false snug called ‘Jimmy’s’ is available with a hatch to the bar but is missing a door. Of marginal interest is a sign displaying the pub's patented 'Hiding From Wife Rates', a sign of the eternal complicity between the faithful publican and the sheltering henpecked hubbie of hoary yore and bore’s lore. One euro will get the barman to say on your behalf: 'Nope, not here'; two euros for: 'Just missed him'; three euros for: 'Had the one and gone'; four euros for: 'Not been seen today'; and a fiver for the capper: 'WHO?' You're welcome.
FOOTNOTE
[1] David Noel Martin Saunders, known to many as ‘Dotsie’ (1982 – present): A Dubliner in voluntary exile, oldest and most cherished friend of Andrew Stephens. A talented bass player formerly of the bands Leisure Tank, Sebastien-H, and Screaming Skies. A one-time busker with hammered dulcimer. A former man-about-town and Casanova-cum-Lothario. A part-time pintman (but has since fallen victim to the daft craft beer craze). Currently living in London with Lady Eva and working with computers.
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