118) The Padraig Pearse Tavern of Pearse Street, D2

Upon entering the bar, we two, hardly tourists - being ourselves ginger of hair and pale of skin, were met with threatening glowers and sinister glares from the drinkers and pool players, as if we had barged starkers into their kitchen. The lounge proved more welcoming, if warily so. As the name hints, and the numerous flags strewn outside make explicit, this spot has a markedly nationalist 'vibe going on' – nationalism of a more extremist and fiery variety than mere mumbling along to the anthem. This did not deter eccentric young Englishman Theodore Douglas Holt, who bravely (or naively) made it his go-to local for some years, and who (plummy accent, artistic pretensions and ignorance of history notwithstanding) emerged mostly unmolested with no cautionary tale to tell.

Tiocfaidh ár lá, and all that jazz

Two signs of note affixed to the premises: ‘Dublin the city that fought an empire’ - they can’t be accused of not showing the colour of their money. And this bold boast: ‘real people, great company, real prices.’ It’s truly a comfort to know that the zombies inside are in fact real human beings. A Beamish sign stands proud outside, yet inside no barrels of Beamish. An early-house for those inclined - it’s recommended you decline.

Republican mathematics

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