The Hairy Lemon

Stephens Street, Dublin 2

When this beautiful maddening city of ours lies in ruins and the Celtic Tiger is a dark bogey man scaring young children under the covers. When all the thieving whoors and greed crazed bastards are rotting in their graves. When "poor 'auld Ireland" is a giant Guinness sodden theme park, a special place in hell will be reserved for establishments such as The Hairy Lemon.

Years ago, in the dark pre-Tribunal era another pub stood on this spot. A savage and terrible place named the William Tell Tavern. This squalid, dilapidated slumhouse was little more than a tenement drinking parlour and a well known venue for underage drinking. I had occasion to frequent the establishment myself in my younger days and recall even the rats avoided being seen there. It was in such a state of decay some of the interior walls had collapsed. Huge blackened scorch marks gave evidence of the clientele's preoccupation with the healthy Dublin teenage pursuits of arson and criminal damage. When it finally closed down there were not many sorry to see it go, except maybe for a few teenage Goths addicted to the William Tell's bleak, alienated ambience and its astringent, gassy draught cider. I hoped the building might be razed to the ground and the rubble dumped in the North Sea. Alas this was not to be. Instead in a horrifying mutant-like regeneration it re-emerged, transformed into the pub it is today: The Hairy Lemon.

I had no high hopes visiting this establishment but, by Christ, I had no inkling of what awaited me. This pub is awful. I can't begin to describe here the ugly horrors contained within its grubby, bile-coloured exterior. Badness seeps from this establishment like pus from a septic boil. It's filthy filthy dirty. Not even the healthy grime one associates with Irish pubs but real hepatitis- and E. coli- friendly filth. The kind of dirt that makes obsessive clean freaks waken in pools of warm urine and gives health inspectors crotch tightening fantasies.

Madly, badly designed by some crazy Navan builder the cramped interior is festooned with masses of crap. Beermats, foreign currency, international soccer tickets, mouldering advertisements, bits of old carts nailed to every scrap of available wallspace. Why do publicans insist on this Yoda meets Stig of the Dump décor? Do they secretly long for the day when a drunken punter cries out in distress: "For the love of God if only we had an old ten bob note to staunch the blood" or "Bejasysus de wife's gone into labour. Be a good fella an' hand us dat copper calfing tub dere Michael!"?

The clientele of this pitiful establishment is strictly of the Rugger Bugger/ GAA maniac variety, their whooping mating cries can be heard throughout the bar as the alpha males attempt to gain dominance over the pack. The female varieties of these species can also be witnessed sniffing around the hulking backsides of these cretins. Nurses will also be spotted here drinking and cursing like sailors. Generally no one with any shred of self-respect, decency or cop-on should ever come here. I personally fled in wild uncontrollable terror after downing a pint of sloppy beer and seeing the past rise up zombie-like to greet me.

Dark, gloomy, smelly I saw the William Tell risen from the ashes, creeping slowly back into light. Like some ghastly tumour this bar is growing! Gorging itself on punters as it expands into nearby premises. I truly believe this bar poses a threat to public safety and happiness. Many will be the fruitless hours spent in this foetid armpit of a pub by the unwary and the ignorant in a futile attempt to enjoy a drink. Please make it stop.