398) Thomas Clarke’s of O’Connell Street Upper, Rotunda, D1

A nouveau olde pub - it flops like a soft penis, very much the little appendage to the capacious Murray’s Bar and Grill next door (previously the stuff of a sniffy footnote), and named after the famous Fenian (born in an English artillery fort, rared in county Tyrone and killed in Kilmainham Gaol). Dark and amber inside where many unique cubby holes are visible behind the counter, including niches for toothpicks, starch, keys, hinges, etc. Antique curios galore on the walls, with vintage ads for Parisian Hair Restorer, Clarke’s Snuff and so on. A nice hot coffee pot sat brewing on the counter’s corner as we waited for our slow round of sickly sweet Guinness - it cost five euros and ninety cents, which is hardly terrible for this part of town (and gawd knows a Beamish in Mulligan’s now costs the same, gawd save us).

The snug with the bar’s singular source of light

Notably, there is no natural light anywhere in the bar, save for the handsome snug by the front window, which was occupied at the time of our visit - even though it’s a false snug it’s still very fine, but pity about the bawling telly within it. A sinister spirit sits on the shelf, with the ominous name of The Kraken - Leviathan, eat your heart out! This bar is connected at the back to the monstrous Murray’s and one can enter, if one so chooses (we didn’t), to one of the biggest smoking areas in the town, shared by Murray’s, Fibbers and others, rank with the stench of hashish and other stronger substances. ‘Same again lads?’ asked the barman to which we replied ‘eh, no.’ Before we left, one of the Publopedians took a shit in the toilet. Huzzah, huzzah, something to remember ye by.

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