The McDonalds of pubs, something of a late night standby for the desperate, though a sunny day can yield a pleasant sit outside with a radiant view of the Grand Canal. All too often, however, its only impoverished attractions are the lateness of its opening hours and the cheapness of its pints (and even now the latter benefit has been rolled over, given rising rents all round). But of course, the massive screens also provide diversion for rugby buffs and soccer sophisticates. The smaller bar to the immediate left is usually home to a gruesome throng of bad eggs. Cursing at a rate of one in two, these are early intoxicators, nose picking, dirt rolling, snot flicking, arse scratching, filthy foul faced gobshites. The old bar is olde worlde, while the new bar at the back is swanky with an emphasis on the wanky. A Nigerian man works in the toilets handing out tissues, often seen giving political lectures to any interested urinators – indeed, he correctly predicted Trump's election, among other things. Eccentric Donald Lenehan of Ranelagh has often been seen here, as has Anthony McHugh, dyslexic busker, formerly of Sweeney’s.

Sean O'Rourke [1] once offered a jet of projectile vomit all over the floor (back in greener days when younger stomachs were more tender and palettes more refined) which amazingly did not result in his expulsion or barring. It was instead oneself who was barred for a period in the '00s, all for being excessively foul-mouthed in one's well-intended attempts to break up a tedious argument about American foreign policy involving the same O'Rourke and one's own father – a groveling apology to the bouncers was necessary upon return. The notorious functioning alcoholic Dmitri (see: O'Connell's) was glimpsed late one night being rejected by the ruffians at the door, on account of his more than typical state of charmless inebriation. Andrew Stephens was once approached by an interesting married couple who perhaps were in quest of a threesome. Even barman Colm of Lower Deck fame enters these lower depths occasionally to imbibe in the small hours. It’s a ‘good man’s failing’ for when all others close their doors, these open them wider. 

We once tried a pint of Murphy’s seeing as they have it on draught. So very delicious was it, that before we had time to savour it even slightly, the drink had gone dry, so to speak, and we were on the edge of ordering another. And indeed we did! And it was just what the dentist doctored, for we gulped it down at a record rate. But soon into our third Sam found his caution and called an immediate halt to the whole experiment concluding that Murphy’s stout is ‘too sweet to be wholesome.’ We therefore agree to declare this sugary pint a danger to the middling drinker, because unlike other stout it gives not a hair of a hint of the purity of poison which helps keep a thirsty horse bridled.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Sam Coll's oldest friend, born a few weeks after him in 1989 – an early photograph shows the two babies being encouraged to sip from their fathers' pints (nowadays both of the drunken dads would be arrested for such skulduggery). At present, O'Rourke is a teacher of English to Brazilians and a prolific essayist and poet, author of an ongoing cod-Byronic romance called Albion, something of a Don Juan for the MeToo era. Mr. O'Rourke is frequently to be found in his local McGarry's of Harold's Cross.

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