The Irish Pub
by Tatiana O'Toole • About 10 min read reading time
Tools: Procreate
Brushes: Mercury and Tinderbox
Based off of National Geographic photo I saw in a book I got from a garage sale.
Irish pubs have a special air about them that just isn’t quite captured by the American recreations. For one thing, in an Irish pub, the light fixtures don’t all match. Probably because one was broken at a bachelor party in 1982, and Davey had a spare one kicking around in his shed that he brought down and gave to the publican for a few quid. Another was probably knocking against the new entry door to the women’s bathroom because someone did not measure and therefore failed to see the issue before installing it, and it was replaced with a narrowest one that was available at the local pound shop five doors down. The other two match, but one has just stopped working four years ago and no one has fixed it yet because it hasn’t really changed much about the space. But it’s grand, it does the job anyways.
In modern times, there’s an absurd amount of tvs for every sport on in one evening, but they’re all mounted on walls and in between cabinets of old trinkets, bottles, memorabilia, crates, and framed images of anything from etchings of sheep and an old tower to a photo of the 1979 women’s bowling team of Tipperary. The layout meanders and travels from seating area to seating area to bar to seating area to smoking section to bar to seating area. Sometimes there’s even a snug, but most of them have converted theirs into more bar or seating area space. Ours just did a few years ago, and I miss it. But I think that’s one of the key things: the light- or rather the lack thereof. As the floor space coils around and into itself, it’s dark like the folds of a pocket, and everyone and everything in it seems have been tossed in to rest, wait, or be forgotten for a little while as the world passes by outside. Through the frosted and dirty windows sometimes framed with stained glass, the world seems somehow further away than before, especially if it’s raining as it often is. With every drink sipped, it begins to slowly disappear altogether.
During the work day, it’s quiet except for the regulars who trickle in at their usual times- a man with a work related disability in at opening, a mailman off his early morning shift next, a retired brick layer casually strolling in, a business owner on his usual extended lunch break. They talk about the golf, local gossip, who died, the news, golf, and even dive into existential things before slipping back into golf. I know this because I listen to their chatter in the bar through the barman’s doorway from the neighboring lounge, a place meant for the women, non bar centric regulars, and the occasional lost tourist. I’ve been to the other side, but only for visits. You can feel the dynamic of the room shift when a tall, midwestern American woman in her early 30’s takes up space in a place not formed over a century with any intention of her existing in it. It’s like you stumble into a wood and all of the living things look up and back at you in quiet and reserved observation before deciding what to do with whatever has barged into their ecosystem. But everyone knows they’re not leaving, you are. You’re a blow-in, a person plonked down in where you don’t originate from by the winds of fate, and your opinions, needs, and thoughts come second to those who have been here their whole lives. They make sure you know it one way or another.
Sometimes there’ll be one who’ll want to challenge your boldness- you could call them a messer. But the soft-heartedness of his friends leads to them distracting him while each takes a turn telling you not to mind him and his crude antics, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads before self soothing their social anxiety and embarrassment by proxy with another drink of cider or Guinness. I’ve been around Irish people for nearly half my life now, and messers are everywhere. You just need thick skin and a sharper, faster tongue- which can be very difficult, given the natural skill of the Irish. The Irish are better at English than the English. They just want a bitta banter and to see what you’re made of. You give them a bit, know when you’re beat, and accept it humbly. It helps that I’m American, for whom the Irish have a soft spot.
The ambient music played in pubs is mostly American. It’s not the diddly diddly stuff that’s played in Temple Bar for the tourists. If an Irish pub has that, it’s played live and loudly to the great delight and excitement of the locals and the general exhaustion of the regulars, who can no longer hear their shared regular conversation. Live music is banned at my local, but the barmen have told me there’s a guitar in the back just in case someone comes in who they know can handle it. I smile, thinking how there’s a musical instrument waiting in a “break glass in case of emergency” situation hidden from all patrons’ views. But the music quietly pumped over the speakers is largely American classic rock music played on repeat. Living here has taught me one of the greatest exports we have is our culture, for better or for worse.
The lounge is empty for most of the day besides me with my laptop and pint of Guinness. A older, married couple comes in nearly every day to share a bottle of wine before stumbling back out in each others' arms with smirks on both their faces and out the door waves to the barmen and all who remain inside. Two sisters share a few bottles of wine and giggle like back when they were kids, trading quips with the staff and the other lounge regulars who trickle in as the day goes on. Here, I have met people who have lived in this small village their entire lives, and I learn about its history. The Irish find it very important to tell you the names of very important people who used to live here, but they fail to realize that I will struggle to remember just their names alone between the drink and social anxiety. I excuse myself and step next door to grab a cold sandwich before the village store closes up their small deli. The conversation has gotten me drinking more, and I need something in my stomach to absorb the alcohol, or I'll say something embarrassing before stumbling home on a workday.
Pub food ranges from full menus to cold sandwiches to packets of crisps. Our local is a packet of crisps pub even with a full kitchen in the back. The owner doesn’t want the hassle of the kitchen. He’s an older, traditional man who runs his pub like an older, traditional pub, and the main focus is that people can come in and drink and talk and behave themselves and spend money. People try to tell him that food would bring in more money, but he’s cautious and been in the pub business for a long time. He says that it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I say that it’s a shame there’s not hot food place in the village, but again- I’m an American blow-in, and I’m probably missing something.
Many pubs in Ireland are under threat as all small businesses are with the rising costs of everything, and you’re left facing an emotional conundrum. On one hand, I am angry that such a sacred thing can be even begin to face some sort of extinction; the pub has long been the cultural center of all Irish villages and towns. It is internationally famous, inspiring copycat pubs in nearly every country in the world. Even getting too drunk in Ireland is referred to as being “locked”, a term coined from when pub owners on particularly good nights couldn’t manage to send drunk patrons home at closing time, so instead they just locked them inside the pub and went home themselves to sleep. They’d return the next morning to either let them out or to continue to serve them. You’ll hear, “ah, jaysus, I was fucking locked last night.”
But on the other hand, I understand what alcohol is and what it has done to all people and cultures who have wholeheartedly embraced it. The Irish stereotype of the drunkard is rooted in a very tragic reality, and it stems from the horrifying 700 years of British occupation where their lands were pillaged, people tortured, language almost erased, and parts of their culture forever lost and permanently unrecoverable. Pair that with some good ol’ Catholic guilt, the Irish love of community banter, and the pub is where you end up. Suddenly the Guinness in my hand isn’t just a beer in a bar, but a sacred sacrament in decades and centuries of sweeping emotional processing and healing under the rug. I can clink this glass against the pint of my tablemate, and we can laugh off whatever woes befall us. It’s intoxicating to participate in because the Irish struggle along with their relentless dark humor and wit shaping camaraderie is so glorified in America. So glorified that it somehow sidesteps the cause: the violent occupation, war crimes, and attempted genocides of the neighboring nation. And, to be fair, the Irish are sidestepping it too because it is so very Irish to not bring up uncomfortable subjects just when everyone is starting to have a nice time.
I love the Irish pub very much along with all the people in it- the barmen, the wine sisters, the regulars, the messers, the lost tourist, the golf enthusiasts, the man in to replace the light fixture, the women’s bowling league, my friend sitting across from me who is cheering to my good health. If I go home and step into an American Irish bar, it’s not the same, and I have tried to tell you why here. I think whatever it is, it is in the dust has been swept under the rug and the pocket lint left in this dimly lit, safe space.
So if the pub goes away, what replaces it? Personally and sadly, I have given up the drink and no longer frequent the pub as often as I used to, and I know that I am not alone. Many Irish have done the same as more healthy (and unhealthy) alternatives arise, but there is also a movement to drink more cheaply at home. Is the Irish pub going away from rising costs and or are the Irish discarding the cultural coping mechanism of drink as the next generation moves towards healing systemic trauma? I hope the later, and in that light, I hope the pub stays as a third space for communities to connect and bond. The magic of the pub is not the sparkle of the alcohol but the bonds of the people inside, and when people mourn the loss of the pub, it is accompanied by a fear that it will not be replaced by something as sacred and meaningful. I share that fear, but I also worry about the misinterpretation of it.
