327) The Pimlico Tavern of 61/62 Pimlico, The Liberties, D8

A threatening exterior meant that we passed this waterhole too many times due to apprehension regarding its reputation. But like many pubs on the list we needn’t have worried for as soon as we plucked up the courage to cross the threshold we discovered a timid tavern. It was a bright Monday afternoon in November [1] and the sign on the door read: ‘Neat dress essential. NO tracksuits OR shorts allowed after 6pm. NO exceptions.’ As it was only 3pm, were we to find the pub crawling with Adidas, Nike and bare-legged imbibers? We found only two souls aboard, one of whom sat sipping at the bar clad in black, and the other was Steve, the barman. He welcomed us warmly, bade us take a seat and even offered to drop down the drink.

The beatific Beamish bonds at an even €4.00 thanks be to Matt Talbot - Patron Saint of Delicious Stout and Porter. The lounge is large with long windows and comfortable couches. The upholstery is in desperate need of repair. It looks as though an arsenal of arses have farted on these seats for centuries. A charming feature of the bar is a large statue of a Mexican man clutching a bottle of tequila and leaning up against a cactus plant. The most humble of libraries can be spotted on high: a dusty shelf containing less than 5 books – one of which is a collaboration between Stephen King and Peter Straub (perhaps the doorstopper Talisman). The bar in the adjacent room was left in darkness throughout our visit, but we noticed it was home to a pool-table, a dartboard and an off-license that’s connected to the pub. On exit we remarked how it was harmless, not charmless, and that we’d definitely be back. (Little did we know how soon our return would be)! 

We decided to leap over to Cork Street to ‘make a hole in a pint’ in Morrissey’s. But when they only had a Guinness (our palates having been refined), we determined to return to our new found home in the heart of the Liberties - The Pimlico Tavern - no frills, just spills! Once again we found but two souls present. This time Barman Steve (who was pleased to see us) had a certain Sarah for company, a haggard old mannish woman with a face like a melted wax candle, a coarser and more ancient Mrs. Brown of Mrs. Brown’s Boys. When she heard us ask for a Beamish she started to bawl in a deep guttural tone: ‘ahh that’s my fuckin drink, it is!’ (True to her word she was drinking a pint of the stuff herself). ‘Two fuckin bowsies drinking my fuckin Beamish. You better fuckin leave some for me!’ She was of course testing us by teasing, and we quickly made friends, but alas, poor Sarah was too drunk to continue with her interrogation and left soon thereafter. [2]

A characteristic salute from the charming Sarah of the Pimlico

A slow trickle of patrons eventually dripped in and Steve (who had just apologised for serving us a Beamish in a Guinness glass [3]) clocked out for an older, plumper, balder gentleman who was kept busy operating the lounge and the off-licence (the alert of the latter is via a ding-dong doorbell). All present watched the evening news and we two, despite being blow-ins and a pair of fuckin bowsies, were included in the discussion about a particular unpleasant bulletin. The salt of the Earth was put into Pimlico, and this seasoned Tavern is a worthy ship. We'll be back!

...And so we were. A second visit of a Sunday revealed that they refreshingly do not follow the lead of their noisy neighbours, and instead confine their crappy karaoke to a Saturday night. (It must be said that their toilets are in abysmally poor condition, with loose wall tiles precariously poised atop the cubicle, on the point of toppling down to scar an unsuspecting skull.) One interesting regular was dubbed by us alternately 'Confucius' or 'Mr. Miyagi', on account of his ethnicity. A man of perhaps fourscore years or more, he entered shuffling on tortoise's feet, a slow gait that hauntingly reminded one of the late 'Matt the Jap' of Trinity College. [4]

The Pimlico Tavern (in the very distant background) as seen from the Dude under the Dome [5]

Clad in a grubby raincoat, subsequently removed to reveal a much suaver denim jacket. Well known and respected by the barkeeps (no racists in the Pimlico, no sir), a pint of Guinness was ceremoniously brought down to him without his even asking. In a corner he sat, enjoying the match with a veteran's solemnity. A limping female (who shall be known in our notes as Gerty MacDowell, god love her), much younger in age, hobbled in the door and showed herself to be his especial companion, sitting cosily by his side the better to enjoy a familiar natter, the content of which eludes us. A plastic bag of takeaway tins was later brought down to him, the better that he might enjoy them in the secrecy of his homestead – he must have a bit of money to burn, if he's forsaking the budgetary delights of the offie for the costlier brand of can from the bar.

Mr. Miyagi was the picture of civility, but the same could not be said of a Dublin native, a thirty-five year old tracksuit type who began a shouting match down his phone. 'He's only having a wee domestic', the quaking chicken barman assured us, unconvincingly. Some domestic spat! He threatened no less than fucking bloody murder on whatever unfortunate was on the other end of the line, going back and forth from the counter to the door as his voluble altercation continued. Later he began to loudly lament his misfortunes to the few counter-side crew who would listen (the bar having steadily emptied the longer his harangue went on and on and on), professing that he did not shoot up anymore, and expressing outrage that GOD was DOG spelt backwards. One braver barfly counseled caution, whispering urgently in his ear that here and now was not the time or place for any rash disclosures, with a glance over his shoulder to the corner where we sat – perhaps we had once again been mistaken for undercover cops. All in all, we enjoyed an animated and eventful return, witness to a rich display of both the Pimlico's inclusivity (witness the respect accorded Mr. Miyagi) side by side with its darker, seedier aspects.

UPDATE as of 2021: Alas, it is with a sense of great sadness to report that we can never ever go back, for the pub has not recovered from the Covid-19 pandemic and will not be reopening its doors. See the miserable list in ‘Extras’ for more pubs of the same.

R.I.P.

FOOTNOTES

[1] The day and hour of our visitation to the Pimlico Tavern is not insignificant. Late nights at weekends will bring forth monsters clawing for Fosters and crooning at karaoke. In this case: Terms and Conditions Apply.

[2] For more about Sarah, one may watch this short and modestly haunting film courtesy of Areaman Productions on YouTube – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du94_bf1EUQ Judging from the video, it would appear that ten years ago Sarah had a job dispensing the Evening Herald from a kiosk at a corner of Thomas Street. Day in and day out she would slouch by the newspaper stand, the traffic speeding by as she was by and large ignored by passersby, occasionally making eye contact with the camera and breathing an apparently deep and bottomless loneliness (and according to Dennis the DJ, she has in the past done time in a Drumcondra mental institution). Her current residence in The Pimlico may be explained by the speculative comment of 'Mr EoinK': think sarah got the sack, theres a fat knacker working there now. Another film in this same series focuses on a more famous Liberties resident, none but Christy Brown's heroic mammy, Bird Lady from the Home Alone sequel and Bull McCabe's silent wife – Brenda Fricker.

[3] See Kavanagh's The Temple, where the same thing happened but the tosser barman made no apology.

[4] His full name was Matteo Matubara, and he died in 2007 at the age of 73, peacefully at his home off Mount Street. Fondly hailed as 'the eternal student', he was remembered by no less than then-President Mary MacAleese, and was reputedly on the guest lists of half the crowned or elected heads of Europe. Apart from a few reported instances of harassment (which led to his banning from the Hist) and some scuffles with the library (where he was in the habit of defacing books), he kept himself largely to himself and little is known of him – his origins shrouded in a mystery he actively encouraged and no doubt enjoyed. His full obituary may be read here: https://www.irishtimes.com/news/trinity-remembers-eternal-student-matt-the-jap-1.987349

[5] For more about the ‘Dude under the Dome’ see pub 228: Grainger’s/The Fountain.

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