Oh yeah? Well, let me tell you something, Professor Flop-enheimer. Our deceased forefathers have had enough to contend with lately.* We will not have Livin’ La Vida Loca in Croke Park! And so it is that with a shillelagh under my arm, and a defiant twinkle in my eye, that I’ve dropped by Dublin’s diddley-iddley-iddliest bar to raise a toast to the Ireland and our proud, unashamed (and possibly entirely fictional) Celtic heritage.

Well, I couldn’t have chosen better a better bar. The Celt is so Irish even the napkins are green, white and orange. And I couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate time to visit either. The Irish rugby team have just clinched… some sort of rugby trophy. I’m not sure which. But it’s all very exciting. Their victory has inspired some staunch, patriotic and intermittently tuneful singing at the bar.

It’s a bar that has a homely atmosphere, with a nice mixture of natives and tourists. Joining me today, in her second outing as the Evening Herald’s unofficial teetotal pub co-reviewer, is my mother Anna Butler. Readers may recall that our first joint outing ended in somewhat acrimonious circumstances, when Mammy accidentally barged into the men’s toilets in the South William.

Sufficed to say, security staff here have been tipped off in advance of our arrival, and I will be working closely with them to help avoid any repeat of that incident. So what’s her verdict on The Celt? “It’s very nice,” she replies. Pressed to elaborate, she notes that “it doesn’t seem very clean though”.

She rummages in her pocket. For one sublime moment, I think she’s going to pull out a cloth of some sort and actually start dusting.

We order a pint of lager and a cup of tea, which sets us back €6.10. “You’d hardly have any tapas or anything like that?” I ask the barman. He looks at me as if I’ve got two heads. I heave a contented sigh. All is right with the world. We’re gringos to a man here. That Oppenheimer guy, whatever his story might have been, was clearly talking out of his arse.

We sip our drinks. Behind us at the bar, the drunken choir have run out of material. There are no more songs anyone knows the words to. They confer momentarily. What starts as an isolated chant at the far corner of the bar, quickly gathers momentum until soon the entire room has joined in.

“Ole-ole-ole-ole… Ole-ole…”

Christ, this shit runs deeper than I thought/

[* Article was published not long after the "historic" first performance in Croke Park of God Save The Queen.]

He has a point. I order chicken breast with stuffing and gravy. The lads both go for steak. This is going to run me a few euros, but it’s the best pub food in Dublin. Hands down.

It’s four years since I started this column. That’s also about as long as it is since Aidan and I hung out with Johnny for any length of time. His presence only serves to underline that, despite appearance, Aidan and I have actually grown up a bit in the meantime.

Johnny expects to pick thing up where we left off. Exactly where we left off. He starts by teasing us about a failed carpet cleaning business we set up in college. It’s not “Go home and get your fucking shine box.” But it’s not far off.

The final straw is when he inquires after Aidan’s mother. “Actually,” I tell him, “Aidan’s mother is in the hospital. Broken hip.” A sly smile spreads across Johnny’s face. He performs an understated pelvic thrust. “I’ve still got it, wha?”

“I’ve got a shovel in the boot of my car,” I tell Aidan, when Johnny excuses himself to use the bathroom. “Good,” he replies. “We’ll be digging holes tonight.”

Luckily for Johnny, he can’t stay long. He’s got a flight to catch in the morning. So Aidan and I repair to the bar. One for the road, I tell him. Aidan asks why I chose The Bull & Coach for my final column. I tell him it’s because I came here once before. Had a lovely meal, a great chat with the barman and gave the place a nice write up.

The only snag was that, in the review, I identified the pub as The Lord Edward, which is actually the name of the place next door. I run a tight ship ordinarily. But these sorts of minor mistakes can be made occasionally even by the best of us.

“You feckin’ eejit,” says Aidan, shaking his head. “You know, you always made me out to be the fool. Every single week. But you were as bad… Worse even.”

“I mean, for God’s sake!” he roars, banging his fist off the bar. “Would it have killed you to…”

There’s a sudden crash and Aidan momentarily disappears from view.

He picks himself up. “There’s never a good time to fall off a bar stool,” he says. “Is there?”

Aidan wants to play pool. I hate pool. He always beats me. We find a table. On the dance floor, two heavy set ladies are busy shaking what their Mammas’ gave them. (“Break for the border,” mutters Aidan. “That’s what you tell the taxi driver tomorrow morning.”)

He taps me on the arm. Christ. It couldn’t be. Bill Byrne? I whisper. “Groundskeeper Billy,” he chuckles. Bill Byrne is the groundsman at our football club. He is also one of the more intense human beings you’re ever likely to encounter.

Reckon it’s him? “It fucking looks like him.”

Must be his wife then. “Gotta be. They’re bored sick of each other.”

Some of the lads in the club say Groundskeeper Billy has metal plate in his head. I never really believed that. But one night after training last summer, Billy was out lining the pitch when a thunderstorm erupted.

Billy legged it back to the dressing room like a man posessed. Weirdest thing was, he ran in sorta zig-zag lines, like a soldier dodging sniper fire.

I’d now say I have more of an open mind on the question of that metal plate.

Shite, he sees us…

We wave politely. Groundskeeper Billy returns the salute. Then he says something to his companion and she reaches for her handbag. They stand up.

They’re not coming over… Are they?

“Hardly.”

They fucking are.

“How’s yourself, Bill?”

“Lads.”

We’re introduced to Delia.

“I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene, Bill?” offers Aidan. They’re a good twenty years older than anyone here. “Oh, I’m a fan of the modern music,” the groundskeeper replies. “The rock. The pop. The hip-hop.”

The hip-hop, seriously?

There is silence. I try another tack.

How long have you and Bill been together? I ask Delia. “This is out first date,” she replies. “We met on the internet.”

There is an even longer, even more awkward silence.

“Grounds are looking great this weather,” I offer. “It’s dry,” Bill nods sagely. “All that fucking rain last year and five and six games being played a week. Then these fuckers come asking why the pitch is cut to shit.”

He laughs bitterly. More silence.

“The new nets are looking great,” Aidan ventures.

Silence.

The markings are all in, erm, straight lines, I chip in. Bill just nods. More awkward silence. Then Aidan leans over.

“C’mere Bill,” he winks. “Would you say you have ninety-nine problems but the pitch ain’t one?”

The groundskeeper mulls the question for a second.

“I suppose I would,” he says.

I stand up rather abruptly at this point.

Okay, who’s for a game of pool?

I’m telling Aidan about Christmas in my house. On Christmas Eve, I picked the turkey up from the butchers but forgot to bring it inside. The bird froze solid in the boot of my car overnight, causing bitter recriminations at breakfast the next morning.

After Mass, we drank wine and argued. By means of creating a diversion, my sister suggested a game of charades, to which my mother bitterly replied, “The whole bloody day has been a charade, I suppose, why stop now?”

Well, we didn’t stop laughing until New Year’s.

Aidan has repaired to the bar when Pothole sidles up. “Happy New Year, you guys,” he says. If you don’t think it’s possible to wish someone a Happy New Year in an annoying way, well, you don’t know old Pothole.

Last time he got in touch, Pothole wanted me to write an article in the newspaper about his glamorous lifestyle. I politely declined that exciting opportunity, although not before Aidan and I pitched each other a few possible headlines. (“Obnoxious Rich Idiot Ponces Around City, Secretly Hated By All…’)

Now that he no longer wants anything, he feels even less compunction to turn on the charm. I inquire about his Christmas. “Skiing in Verbier with the folks,” he sighs. “Met up with two really hot French chicks, got a bit of a threesome going. Y’know yourself…”

He trails off.

“Oh, I know exactly the way,” says Declan.

Pothole senses he’s being mocked, however mildly, and rounds on Declan.

“Fuck off, you cunt,” he says. “I’ve had more women in the last month than you’ll have in a lifetime.”

Aidan accidentally-on-purpose spills about half a pint of Guinness down Pothole’s back.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” barks Pothole. “That’s a fuckin’ Prada shirt, man!”

Aidan smiles apologetically. “Didn’t see you there buddy,” he smiles.

Pothole is furious.

“Watch where you’re going then, you moron. Do you know who my father is?”

Aidan shakes his head.

“Ask your mother,” he suggests. “She might remember.”

Pothole stands there, mouth agape, in mute apoplexy. Then he turns around and flounces away.

“Nice guy,” says Declan.

Oh the salt of the earth…

It’s lunchtime. The shopping bags have been discarded. And the Westport train doesn’t leave until six. Auntie Geraldine, though, is putting the G&Ts away like they were on special offer. There something I’m anxious to talk to her about. A friend of mine is joining us later. And I’d like to lay the groundwork in advance. But she just won’t let me get a word in edgeways. “You’re working anyway,” she says, between sips. “Keeping busy?” “I am,” I tell her. “I am.”

Within our family, opinions differ as to how old Auntie Geraldine actually is. Some say she must be ninety. Others mention a story about her once taking on a detachment of Black and Tans in hand-to-hand combat. So its hard to know. One thing is for certain – whatever her age, you wouldn’t want to antagonize her unnecessarily.

“Your work,” she inquires. “Legal, isn’t it?” “Am… mostly,” I reply. “Why do you ask?” She eyes me quizzically. “You’re the solicitor, aren’t you?” “No, I’m the journalist.” She squints over her glasses and snorts. “Arrah, for the love of God…”

From the stories I’ve heard, she should probably keep legal representation on permanent retainer. Just last week, she borrowed a Child of Prague statue from her sister-in-law’s kitchen. (God knows what she needed it for – probably an exorcism…) This would have been fine and all, except that she also left behind a note:

“Dear Patricia,” it read. “Have taken COP. See you later.”

Geraldine’s handwriting was never the best, so it wouldn’t have been too obvious that the C, the O and the P were in upper case. Also that COP abbreviation wasn’t something that Auntie Pat was too familiar withh. (What sane person is?) But she did have a younger son in the guards. And that morning, he was not contactable on his mobile phone. Being an excitable woman, Pat immediately assumed that a person or group was holding her son for ransom.

If Auntie Geraldine hadn’t arrived back when she did, the Emergency Response Unit would probably have been on the case.

“Now listen,” I try to tell her, because Auntie Geraldine is not a tactful person and I want to get this smoothed over in advance. “My my friend Denise is going to be here shortly…” But Auntie Geraldine is having none of it. “What do you think of these Jedward lads?” she asks. “I think they’re gas altogether… Don’t you think they’ve gas?” “Auntie Geraldine, listen…” I beg her.

But it’s too late. Denise has arrive. I stand up to greet her, all the while bracing myself for disaster. “Lovely to meet you, a gra,” says Geraldine, embracing her warmly. Then just when I think I’m out of the woods, she turns to me and says…

“Jaysus Eoineen, I see you’re going out with a…”

I should explain something quickly here… Self-restraint has never been one of Auntie Geraldine’s strong points. She’s certainly seen the Cork Dry Gin people through some lean times, that’s for sure. So she’s almost certainly going to make some reference to the colour of Denise’s skin at this point. That much is obvious. But at the very last moment, and quite inexplicably, she suddenly gets it in her head that this would not be a good idea. So instead she finishes the sentence…

“Jaysus Eoineen, I see you’re going out with a… woman… now?”

Only 371 shopping days till Christmas 2010. And I know they’ll just fly by…

There’s more Auntie Geraldine here and here.

“Would you say I’m getting fat?” he asks, eventually.

I look him up and down.

“You are fat,” I reply. “I’d say you were getting fatter.”

His gives me a wounded look.

“Just tellin’ like it is.”

“Well, thanks for that” he says. “I appreciate your honesty.”

I try to steer the conversation around to other topics. But Aidan just sits there with a face on him.

“They asked me to play Santa Claus.”

“Who did?” I ask.

“The parish. They want me to give presents out to the children at Christmas.”

“Christ…”

“Twenty six years old… Santa Claus! What the fuck do you think that says?”

“A bit of a blow to the ego alright,” I concede. “What are you going to do about it?”

(Does he intend to join a gym, I mean? Or cut back on the old Supermacs?)

“Ah, I said I’d do it,” he replies. “You know me, I live to give.”

I eye him suspiciously.

“They paying you?”

“Not at all,” he says. Then he kind of mutters. “Well, there might be a voucher or…”

He trails off.

“A voucher?”

“Am, dinner in the Belmont, I think.”

“Very nice, very nice. I hear they do a decent steak there.”

“So I’m hearing,” he smirks. “So I’m hearing.”

“Why isn’t yer man doing it? Whatsisname? The Pillsbury Doughboy? The Blubber from Ballintober? What happened to him? He go on a diet or something?”

“No, no…”

He pauses a beat.

“Heart attack actually.”

“Jaysus, is he alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. He just has to lay off the, er…”

“The steak dinners?”

“Well, yeah – the steak dinners – for a while.”

We sip our drinks in silence. Then he changes tack.

“Where’s your bird tonight?” he asks. “I thought ye were going out?”

“So did I,” I admit. “She cancelled at the last minute. A surprise birthday, apparently.”

Aidan sniggers.

“Who was it a surprise for? The guests?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Why? You hardly think she’s…?”

“Two-timing you left, right and centre? To be honest Butler, I’d be more surprised if she wasn’t. Look at ya – you’re a bum!”

I put my drink down. That was over the line.

He raises his hand to shush me.

“Just tellin’ it like it is,” he winks.

Well, touché.

“Thank you”, I tell him. “I really appreciate your honesty.”

I stop off at the bathroom out the way out. Someone has very graciously vomited in the sink. Not to worry. I can wash my hands another time. We stroll down George’s Street in search of a taxi.

“You ever considered bulimia?” I ask.

He frowns.

“It sounds familiar,” he says. “Why, is it any good?

He flags down a cab, but he’s not the nimblest of movers. I squeeze past him into the passenger seat and shut the door. As the driver pulls away, I roll down the window.

“Look it up,” I advise. “B-U-L-I-M-I-A… I hear it works wonders!”

This story originally appeared in the Evening Herald, December 2008.

Hell, even that crazy, obese Scottish lady on my street – who has recently taken to wearing white see-through trousers over a skimpy white thong – is, for once, quite blameless. It’s the decor in The White Horse. Dear God, mine eyes are bleeding. Remember those infamous white suits the Liverpool players wore to the F.A. Cup final in 1996? Well, imagine if they’d been flattened out and somehow… Somehow turned into a room.

That’s the effect that’s being created here.

Speaking of raucous displays of white power, I spot my friend Aidan at the bar. He’s on time, for once. Which by his standards makes him practically early. I sidle up beside him.

“So I hear you’re a racist,” I tell him. “Is this the new thing?”

“Ah Christ… Who told you?”

“Tina. I met her in Tescos the other night.”

“For fuck’s sake… He was a Malaysian fella in a Malaysian restaurant wearing a black shirt… Anyone could have made the same mistake.”

For once in Aidan’s life, I actually sympathize. Whatever faults the guy has, there’s not an ounce of badness in him. Unfortunately, there are several ounce of badness in me. And this is too delicious an opportunity to pass up.

“What I heard though”, I tell him. “And by all means, correct me if I’m wrong… But what I heard is that, even after you found out he wasn’t a waiter, you demanded he serve you anyway.”

Aidan buries his face in his hands.

“Lies” he says. “Pure lies.”

“What did you do next? Click your fingers at him?””

He shakes his head.

“Yes, I asked him for the bill. Yes, he said ‘I don’t work here’ – that’s also true. But, but, but… And this is the bit you have to understand… He was pointing at the ground when he said it.”

“I don’t follow?”

“Well see, I assumed he meant he didn’t work in that section of the restaurant.”

“Right… So?”

“I said ‘Look, we’re kind of in a hurry here. Would you mind getting it for us anyway?’”

This could only have happened to Aidan. No one else.

“And what did he say to that?”

“Well, he looked at me like I had two heads for a second or two. Then he went back to his table and finished his dinner.”

We both laugh.

“Needless to say, I never heard the end of it from Linda. Or her sister. Or her sister’s boyfriend. But to be honest…”

He’s gone into persecuted martyr mode now.

“I expected better from you, Eoin. I really did. I thought we were mates. Since when did you become this P.C. fanatic?”

“Arrah, I’m not a PC fanatic,” I reassure him, giving him an amiable thump on the arm to prove it. “In fact,” I can’t resist adding, “Some of my best friends are racists!”

With its rough-and-ready decor, bizarre zig-zag layout and curious blend of customers, Hartigan’s actually reminds me of nowhere so much (and I realise that this may be a pretty obscure reference for 99% of readers) as Julian’s of Midfield.

I step inside and look around for my friend. At the bar, there are the three or four of the usual suspects you find in a place like this. They might be here since five o’clock; they may be here since 1985.

Occupying most of the floor space are a couple of dozen civil servants and office workers.

The table by the window, meanwhile, has been requisitioned by a quartet of immaculately coiffured bankers. A couple of years ago, guys like these ruled Dublin. Nowadays, with their pinstriped suits and jovial manner, they look like dinosaurs, relics from a bygone era.

And somewhere in the middle of the throng is my old friend Aidan. I haven’t seen Aidan in a couple of week. Rumour has it he’s been off the booze. I punch him hard on the shoulder, as is our traditional greeting.

“Julian’s of Midfield,” he repeats. “Jaysus, you’re right Butler. It’s uncanny. The ceiling is a bit lower here, of course…”

“The ceiling in an aircraft hangar would be a bit lower than Julian’s.”

“True, true…” he concedes.

He orders a couple of pints of Guinness and we sit down. I notice a bruise on his right eye and ask him about it. “Ah, it’s nothing” he says. “Walked into a wall at home. You know yourself.”

Can’t say that I do, but I let it slide. “So what’s going on?” I ask him. “I thought Linda had you sworn off the beer?”

Aidan’s girlfriend Linda has a fearsome reputation. With both down to a three day working week and struggling to pay a mortgage, I can’t imagine he’d risk incurring her wrath.

“Hadn’t as much as a sniff of a pint in six weeks,” he spits. “Then I find a receipt in her purse. Forty seven euro she was after spending on lipstick and make up.”

He shakes his head.

“Forty seven euro!”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, I confronted her. I said, what’s the story, like? How come I can’t have a pint after work but you can spend the guts of fifty quid on make up?”

“What did she say?”

This’ll be good.

“She says, But sure, Aidan, I only buy that make up so I can look good for you. I says, Darlin’, you don’t have to do that… She goes, why’s that pet? I says, cos that’s what the booze is for!”

Yikes.

“I was joking, like.”

“She see the funny side?”

“Eventually,” he replies. “Eventually.”

We both sip from our drinks.

“So you walked into a wall, did you?”

“In a manner of speaking” he sighs.

Linda is already seated at the bar when I arrive. The Octagon, as its name suggests, is an eight-sided, windowless room. There’s a fire burning and a couple of tourists sitting at a table. I catch the barman’s eye. “Is himself around?” I ask. He shakes his head. “You expecting him in later?” He doesn’t think so.

It’s Monday evening and Linda, at least, has found what she was looking for: overpriced cocktails. We start with Flirtinis, Linda’s suggestion – vodka, cassis (whatever that is), raspberry, cranberry juice, citrus juice and champagne. They’re nice. But at thirty bucks the pair, they’d want to be.

Linda has been busy canvassing for the local elections. A rival candidate in her ward is an old paramour of hers, she tells me. Well, sort of.

Apparently, she attended a youth conference a couple of years back with this guy. There were drinks that evening and, afterwards, he offered to escort her back to the hotel. When she complained that she had terrible hiccups, he told her he might know how to cure them.

Innocent and all that she was, she said, brilliant, fire ahead.

“Oh my God,” she recalls. “He just sort of collapsed on top of me with his mouth open. It was disgusting!”

Two years on, the lingering sexual tension is now spilling over onto the campaign trail. “I’m pretty sure his crowd are pulling down our posters,” she says. “We wouldn’t sink to that level now ourselves. But we have been lifting their leaflets out of letterboxes.”

If that race is bitter, it’s nothing compared to our next order. Margaritas – tequila, tripe sec, citrus juices, sweet and sour (what?) and white wine. The Jimmy Buffett song is full of shit. These things are absolutely disgusting.

“You reckon I’d have a chance with that Labour candidate?” I ask, wincing from the taste of the drink. “Whatcha call her, Maria Parodi?”

Linda roars with laughter.

“Butler” she says. “That girl wouldn’t touch you with a bargepole.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well because you’re a bum for starters. And I know for a fact you don’t even care about social issues…”

“I could pretend to…”

Linda smiles and indulges me a moment.

“Okay,” she says. “It’s Saturday night. We’re in Coppers and you spot Maria Parodi at the bar. You walk up to her and say… what?”

“I’d say ‘Jesus, there’s a fierce lack of amenities in Ringsend, isn’t there?’”

Linda laughs.

“Okay,” she says. “If we ever run into Maria Parodi in Coppers. And you use that line. And it works…”

“Yes?”

“I’ll buy you back that Margarita.”

I take another sip and shudder.

“Make it a pint of lager, if it’s all the same…”

On the television in the bar, Liverpool are trouncing Villa, throwing the Premiership title race wide open again. Alas, I’ve been seated all afternoon next to a four-eyed, replica shirt nerd. Think Statto from Fantasy Football League, but minus the charisma.

“Don’t get me wrong” he’s saying as I arrive. “I’ve got a lot of time for Rafa, a lot of time…”

A lot of time for Rafa Benitez? Yeah, next time the Liverpool manager drops by Xtra Vision in Phibsboro looking for tactical pointers, I’m sure he’ll really appreciate that. Idiot.

Austin is at the next table. I tap him on the knee.

“How’d you end up on Paddy’s night?” I whisper. “Did I see you sneaking off with that American bird?”

Austin’s face turns white.

“I’ll tell ya later”, he says gravely.

The big man looks fairly shook. A few nightmare scenarios run through my brain.

She’s pregnant… They’re engaged… He’s facing charges of assault.

Actually, that last one isn’t so implausible. The girl was really hammered. If I recall correctly, she sort of collapsed on Austin at closing time and dragged him away into the night.

Meanwhile my friend Austin, great guy and all that he is, would not be the most experienced or (I’m speculating here) tender of lovers. That is, if his efforts on the hurling field are anything to go by.

Perhaps the girl woke up the next day, remembered nothing and accused him of raping her? Oh God, the poor guy.

When he nips out to the jacks, I follow him.

“What the hell’s going on, man?” I ask him. “What happened?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it, alright?” he looks embarrassed, maybe even a little ashamed.

“Spit it out man, I might be able to help.”

He looks at his shoes.

“We went back to her hotel. Got into bed. Started kissing, you know yourself…”

“And?”

He stares at the floor for an eternity. (That smell… There’s got to be an air vent outside the window. There’s no other explanation…)

Finally, looks me directly in the eye.

(Christ, I could really go for a chicken satay right about now…)

“She diddled herself…”

She what? My brain whizzes into overdrive. Sports injury? Drug reference? Eventually, it clicks… Oh, dear Lord!

“You mean she…?” I intimate.

Austin nods solemnly, miming the…

“Diddled herself, yes.”

I collapse against the hand dryer. “That’s it?” Tears are streaming down my face. “For fuck’s sake Austin, you had me worried for a second. So she diddled herself, so what? It’s safe, isn’t it? Shows a bit of initiative too… What did you do?”

He shrugs.

“You didn’t?”

“Well, if you can’t beat ‘em…” he says.

I roar with laughter, but Austin shushes me.

He hisses in a low voice.

“Now listen Eoin, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t …”

I cut him off.

“How long have we known each other, Austin? You’re a dirty, dirty man. But your secret is safe with me. I won’t breathe a word.”

We shake hands.

“Thanks Eoin”, he says. “I really appreciate it.”

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, it’s all over the bar.

“She diddled herself” says an auld guy on a stool, slapping the man beside him. “I never heard the like of it before. She DIDDLED HERSELF!? Lord have mercy…”

Photo: Delaney’s Bar, Ballyhaunis