Hailed by Jacques Wedgwood Young [1] as 'the finest bar in western Europe' – though admittedly, he saw precious little else of Dublin during his short time here, nor can his knowledge of western Europe be called comprehensive. A glorious local not far from the Grand Canal, boasting prices of a cheapness unheard of in this region (they jack it up at 7pm, but if you've started at €3.70 per Beamish, it's all negligible!). Notably, Beamish is the preferred beverage, and vintage Beamish ads adorn the walls. Friendly to the occasional outsider and mostly hospitable, though far from being without its mordant side – some of the clientele would appear to be in need of IV drips, and even the same Jacques described the counter dwellers as resembling the survivors of an atomic explosion.

Regulars include 'Cyrano', a mild-mannered red-faced newspaper-reader boasting a worryingly bulbous proboscis replete with many a wart and pock; 'Flann O'Brien', a sad sack with a discomfiting resemblance to the pissed-up writer (frequently seen, all too early in the day, in a wasted condition being refused service and later trying his luck up the road at the Lower Deck, with dwindling degrees of success); and 'Pedo', a grubby cap-wearer with filthy fingernails and even filthier stained trousers, wont to grant newcomers with a filthy (and uncomfortably probing) glare and slurred exhortations to inform outsiders about this rundown gem (he earns his malicious nickname due to the likelihood, given his appearance, of his frequenting online chatrooms and befriending juveniles by aping their mistyped discourse) [2].

Avoid during karaoke hours – noise aside, you will all too likely be summarily ejected from whatever seat you are sitting in by some entitled bag who feels she has designated ownership of said spot – and perhaps she does anyway, so interloper beware. The sport of darts is popular, particularly with an old ghost who can barely drive a fork into a sausage let alone throw a dart at the bull. This pub sits largely unchanged and we’re very fond of it. We’re especially fond of the front, semi-private area by the window in the bar which gives a lovely light at the right time of day. Staff are amiable and they gladly drop down the drink. Pints are delicious and silky and smooth and the hush of day in here is alluring. 

However, what has let it down on occasion is a certain bully, nasty and nosy, who isn’t happy to see younger upstarts (such as ourselves) enjoying the delights of the House and has contrived stories in an effort to force us out. In December 2018, for instance, he eavesdropped on a conversation between Sam Coll and schoolfriend Ben Slye, and chose to misinterpret one of Coll’s remarks (who had been quoting John Huston in The Other Side Of The Wind) as some kind of endorsement of child molestation, using this as a pretext to tell the younger man to drink up and get the fuck out ‘if you have any decency’. (He might have been better off challenging his fellow patron ‘Pedo’, who better fits the profile.) Coll has subsequently avoided this otherwise excellent bar on account of the likelihood of this scumbag making a scene and threatening to ‘slap your face’. [P.S. The merry barman of the Wind Jammer has also warmly recommended the Harold House.]

Update as of 2020: The House has received a weird makeover opting to style like a can of 7-Up, or a Loop the Loop ice cream with its new lemon and lime-ish look.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Younger brother of the aforementioned Enrique. A bit of a rogue and a tearaway in his younger days, now respectably married and teaching English in Hong Kong.

[2] And we can offer further proof that he conforms to the kiddy fancying type – Sam Coll and his girlfriend Larissa Silveira Cabral Vilhena were once enjoying a serene Sunday in the Iveagh Gardens, when up he popped out of the bushes and loped around as if sniffing for something. Said Larissa, without any prompting from Sam, 'O my god, he looks like a pedophile.' Her spontaneous remark speaks volumes about the vile vibe he gives off. Small wonder he was scouting around there – Sunday is reputedly the day for cruising and soliciting.

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