Statement of Intent

Welcome surfers and seekers, welcome to Beer And Loathing. Who knows what brought you to our door; frankly, who cares? We ask no questions of our arrivals here. Why anyone would wish to paddle in this nauseating sump of bile and vitriol is beyond even our considerable powers of deduction. But nonetheless here you are: down among the filthy freaks and the bottomfeeders, the mad and the gibbering, the warped and the strange, all who reside here deep within the realms of the unwell.

To what end are we wretched few gathered in this cyberslum of our own creation, ranting and screaming incoherently into the night? We seek to educate and edify, to enlighten and to aid the weary masses of Ireland in that perennial question of where to go for a pint. To assist the unwary visitor, ignorant of the savage customs of the "auld sod". To impart the horrifying, appalling knowledge we have gleaned in our travels through the drink-sodden streets of Dublin. Placing our persons in mortal danger, we have sought out every pub, bar, shebeen, snug, flophouse, tourist trap, and vendor of potable refreshment this capital can heave up. No stinking stout-encrusted filthpit is too low, no grossly engorged Celtic temple of Mammon too unspeakable.

Fear us, Publicans, for we will go anywhere and we will say anything. We will not shirk our responsiblities. We will not shy away from the bitter word. There is sharp practice abroad, my friends, and we will root it out and expose it in no uncertain terms.

Wince at the rabid uncouth manners of The Gurrier Murphy, raised in a tenement shebeen by psychotic juiceheads!
Tremble at the mad rantings of The Bastard Kesey, alcoholic genius and dangerous criminal!
Gain bleak and terrible insights into the sociopathic mind by reading the crapulous screeds of Heinous Ingoldsby, a freakish monstrosity rejected by God-fearing society and pitched into the sewers by his own mother!
Sense the fell presence of the one known only as Dirty John behind it all, pervert and dope-fiend; the only Webmaster ever burned in effigy by his peers!

But these men, though ruined by the drink, grew up with it as their mother's milk. Suckled on the Black Stuff as weans, the dark brew runs through their veins; they have drunk their way to the top of their profession. They represent the last gasp of a generation savaged by the über-affluence of the Celtic Tiger. There is no one better qualified to sit in judgement on our city's public houses then these pitiful wretches. Mangled and maimed by years of intemperate abuse, they are born critics. Not for them the emasculated, sugary mewlings of the common critic, no! these men weave a web of dark poetry about their prey. To the worthy they can be generous, fair and forgiving. But the unworthy-- the greedheads, the rapacious money-maddened corporate establishments, the culture-plunderers and heritage-rapers-- to them they do not forgive; to them they are unmerciful and unrelenting in their criticism. And let's face it: these swine deserve every word. For have we not all at some time endured the niggardly hospitality of the modern Dublin pub? The grotesque overcrowding? The foul, bland piped pop music delivered at eardrum-rupturing volume? The mean, indifferent beer served by mean, indifferent staff? The outrageous prices? The sewer-like toilets where one is only a thin wavering piss-stream from typhus and worse? You deserve it all, you God-damned fucks, all of it!

No, pubmen, your reign of tyranny over the denizens of our city is at an end. You will be revealed as the lying, cheating, tightfisted, mean-minded mediocrities that you are.

The Emperor has no clothes and the citizens are all mean drunk.