On the occasion of our visit, the bar was quiet, full of some solemn old men watching sport. A single female, entering from the larger lounge via the smoking area, seemed like an event. The decor is very basic and unostentatious, unadorned and homely. No karaoke here thank christ, but a dartboard is in evidence. An open fire lends warmth and visual stimulation, and customers are not shy about stoking it or dumping on more faggots to feed the flame [1]. Beamish is four euros and ten cents, a plus point. It's not a bad place to sit in modest comfort and feel oneself die slowly and serenely. Some overheard raillery: 'What would you do if a queer jumped on your back? Would you leave him there? Or pull him off?' O WEPT! IRISH WIT AND HUMOUR IS ALIVE AND WELL!

FOOTNOTE

[1] ‘P.C. Police’ can cancel their being deeply offended, and Social Justice Warriors can dry their precious little tears, for: FAGGOT (noun). A bundle of sticks bound together as fuel. Put that in your smoke and pipe it!

DISCLAIMER: The contents of this blog represent personal opinions and perspectives only. Read more.