A hellhole off George's Street. Once reputed to offer the cheapest pint in the city – not sufficient incentive to return. And while the pint is cheap, €3.70 for a Guinness as of 2018, it might get knocked over by one of the walking dead – patrons are putrid. The spirits are kept in a cabinet under lock and key – a warning sign, darkly suggestive of the clientele's latent volatility and capacity for violence. Doubles as a sleazy hotel for the more desperate of travelers who can find nowhere else in a hurry. Neon lights abound at night time. A jukebox propels drivel (a pukebox, if you will). We once sat uneasily at the bar and gulped some of the dark drink when Stephens noticed the Republic of Loose platinum record Aaagh! framed on the wall. When lo, from out of the radio came forth the same said band, known for its flawless funk and embarrassingly adolescent lyrics [1]. The Snug is so central that it’s hidden in plain sight - which is quite right. And yet, this infernal pocket unlocks a morbid curiosity...

FOOTNOTE

[1] See entry for Brady’s Terenure for some sorry examples

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