dublin pubs

You know the way life isn’t fair, right?

It’s Aidan. I might have guessed. “You know the way life isn’t fair..?” he asks. As opening gambits go, this is one of his better efforts. (The last time he rang with bad news, he said “You were never too fond of that coffee table, were you?”)

Immediately, my mind races through all sorts of horrific possibilities. Aidan has run over my dog. Aidan has impregnated my sister. Aidan has murdered my pregnant sister and run over my dog while making his getaway… It’s almost a relief when he coughs up the truth. Read the rest of this article.

“Jaysus, that Kathryn Bigelow is some woman, huh?”

He throws the newspaper down in front of me. “You would, wouldn’t you? Go on, admit it,” he says. “It’ll go no further than the two of us.” “She’s old enough to be your mother!” I reply. “It’s mad that, isn’t it?” he shakes his head. “Although, of course, my mother has had eleven children, so it’s hardly a fair comparison.” Read the rest of this article here.

Let’s just say, teenage boys will be teenage boys…

“You mean he’s…?”

“Every fucking night. As soon as the lights go out.” Read the rest of this article here.

THE MAN WHO WALKED INTO WALLS

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 across its 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. Read the rest of this article here.

Published: Evening Herald, January 2010

Dakota

We call him Pothole. His dad is a property developer. The nickname derives from that fact that Pothole’s personality is so grating, his manner so repugnant, people will go to almost any length to avoid bumping into him. Read the rest of this entry »

“YOU KNOW THE WAY LIFE ISN’T FAIR, RIGHT?”

My phone is ringing. It’s Aidan. I might have guessed. “You know the way life isn’t fair..?” he asks. As opening gambits go, this is one of his better efforts. (The last time he rang with bad news, he said “You were never too fond of that coffee table, were you?”)

Immediately, my mind races through all sorts of horrific possibilities. Aidan has run over my dog. Aidan has impregnated my sister. Aidan has murdered my pregnant sister and run over my dog while making his getaway… It’s almost a relief when he coughs up the truth. Read the rest of this article.

“DEAR PATRICIA. HAVE TAKEN COP. SEE YOU LATER…”

“Your work,” she inquires. “Legal, isn’t it?” “Am… mostly… 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…” Read the rest of this post here.

“HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED BULIMIA? I HEAR IT WORKS WONDERS…”

“Do you think I’m getting fat?” he asks, eventually. I look him up and down. “You are fat,” I reply. “I think you’re getting fatter…” Read the rest of this article here.

MISCELLANEOUS AMUSING ITEMS I’VE COME ACROSS #12

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PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ

‘Probably the Smallest Pub in Dublin’, boasts the Carlsberg sign outside The Dawson Lounge.

Dublin pubs are places where men can go to drown sorrows and nurse grievances. So it is only right that its smallest pub should this afternoon be the venue for two of the city’s pettiest citizens to air their shallowest grievances.

“Arjen Robben,” I announce, out of the blue.

“What about him?” asks Aidan.

“If I had an identical bald twin, I think that’s who it would be.”

Aidan doesn’t give a shit.

“No way is this the smallest pub in Dublin,” he says, shaking his head in disgust. “I’ve been in way smaller places. Way smaller! What a fucking con…” Read the rest of this article here.