309) The Marble Arch of Benbulbin Road, Drimnagh, D12
On the edge of the Grand Canal and the Luas line lies The Marble Arch, formerly known as The White Horse, so named in contrast to the Black Horse Inn (now shut) just 5 minutes west along the canal. We chose to ignore the large and loud modern lounge and sat in the old bar instead. There we celebrated seeing the Beamish tap hard at work as most drinkers were sipping the stuff. And no surprise as to why, it’s €3.70, a pint making the Marble Arch among the cheapest for Beamish in Dublin.
The bar is spacious and relatively nondescript with just a dartboard and some sports photos on the walls. Most patrons were fine except for one paddy-capped arsehole of about 75+ years who for a full 20 minutes talked the wax out of everyone’s ears. One would think at that age one would have mellowed, but his snarl was strong about his obnoxious violence: ‘I’ll bottle that bastard. He wouldn’t fuckin come outside when I fuckin put it up to him, the prick. If I see him on the street, I’ll stretch him. Fucking cunt. I’ll break him in half, are yiz listening to me, are yiz listening eh?” But those around him had stopped listening years ago. They were more interested in checking their bets on the races. (Subsequent inquiries have revealed that this loudmouthed bollocks is the father of a notorious gangland figure – what's bred in the bone, etc.) We decided to move away and sit by the bar.
Once perched comfortably we got chatting to barman Martin who is most amiable and served us several more delicious pints. According to tabloid newspapers and corroborated by Martin - this was Conor McGregor’s local. It’s here where he allegedly assaulted a customer one night which saw him become the subject of a Garda investigation. McGregor ‘lost it and threw a punch’ after being goaded by the comment “the Russian battered you!” Martin confirmed that he’s been barred from The Marble Arch permanently.
Whist sipping at the bar we observed a glorious light spill in and gave a wave to the mirrors. It wasn’t long either, before a pelt of fat rain fell down which gave to the bar a sheltered atmosphere and we all felt obliged to stay and have another, guilt free. Having put it off for long enough it was time to micturate and Stephens was apprehensive about using the facilities. The stink in the gents would stall an engine. There’s a sawn-off hosepipe dangling over the urinal that’s connected to a tap somewhere which washes away a portion of the piss. ‘IRA’ is carved into the outside of the only cubicle door and the floor is layered with a sandwich of filth. It was thus confirmed: the jacks should be ejected! Even still, the positive attributes outweigh the negative.
We took another Beamish as Martin explained that McCauley’s (briefly: The Anchor) was shut down by the Gardai due to drug deals taking place on the premises and for serving drink to people underage. This confirmed our impression of it being a kip. More business will hopefully ensue for The Bird Flanagan and the Marble Arch as a result. The latter goes through 4-5 kegs of Beamish a week. For a pint that tasty and a price that cheap, we’ll be back, Martin.
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