378) Downey’s of Cabra Road, D7

This pub is putrid. We arrived to find it doing great business with a throng of questionable citizens passing remarks on each other once backs were turned. On entering we were greeted with the smell of acrid smoke in the false doorway where two smokers asked us: ‘are yous the musicians?’ Funny very! (They were half right, Mr. Stephens is a proficient drummer). No Beamo here, it’s strictly a Guinness shop. Cheap pints. Dirty lines. Our sickly sweet Guinness was really very poor, and an especial torment after having quaffed the Beamish earlier - it’s like going from burnt coffee to sweet tea. The red walls are decorated with memorabilia (this is a Bohs pub) including a fine caricature of Brendan Behan. There is much racing being watched and much betting being done and money lost and money won. There wasn’t a woman in sight. As Andrew said - ‘If I brought my wife to this place, she’d divorce me on the spot.’

The barman that served us behaved like a scumbag. A rude waster not worthy of the role and one of the worst we’ve come across in 378 pubs. Many patrons are troubled. There was an old fellow off his face everyone called ‘Snotty Nose’ who came in for much mockery. ‘Are ya bollixed or just losing yer marbles…?’ said one lad to the said other. An older Joesoap sat opposite us necking his lager very rapidly. He was on a kamikaze mission. Then, out of the blue and all of a sudden we were startled to see a stampede into the jacks. Perhaps the lads were partial to a few lines in between races? There’s an escape route at the side of the pub out onto Dowth Avenue if the Gardaí make an appearance. Downey’s is a real downer, definitely one of the worst we’ve visited. It’s up there (or rather, down there) with the ignoble likes of Clarke’s City Arms, The Ramble and Noctor’s.

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