A pisshole at the foothills of the Dublin Mountains. Middle aged men wearing full tracksuits. Elderly men reeking of revolting cologne (perhaps trying to mask the fact that they no longer care for their monthly bath). A repulsive punter scar-faced and fully tracksuited walks up and down with hands in his jocks looking more imbecilic than threatening. Exclusively male in the bar save for one broach-wearing lady all in green who could easily pose as Molly Ivors from The Dead. Betting is big and they all tap an app and howl for a horse. (The solo lady was not adverse to checking the odds either, casting longing glances at the betting boards while sipping her lonely martini-cum-cocktail concoction).

A pool table and a dart board are available for the sporting. A slight grace: Beamish bonds at €4.10. The lounge is considerably larger with a little less scum. It has an amusement park style smoking area which includes a mini course of crazy golf. Formerly known as Bridget Burkes, a massive water mill sits on the side of the pub, hence its current name. A tiny off-licence is attached where an elderly, decrepit witch by the name of Rose [1] works. 

A story of note so goes: a few years back a dim-witted barman was changing the light bulbs in the smoking area when he failed to notice that the bulbs he had installed were high-watt sun lamps for use only in solariums and tanning booths. A public investigation was later launched via the Tallaght Echo after a portion of pickled patrons awoke to find themselves mysteriously sunburnt.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Rose, who once was connected to Vaughan’s Eagle House in Terenure, has wilted and transmigrated off our earthly sphere to only God knows where. R.I.P.

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