Pub

Published: Evening Herald, July 23 2009

HARTIGANS

It’s six o’clock on a Thursday evening and Hartigan’s – an old fashioned, family-run boozer on the doorstep of Stephen’s Green – is filling up with after-work drinkers. I’ve heard a few stories about this place. But this is my first time over the threshold.

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.