Mulligans

Poolbeg Street, Dublin 2

Mulligans of Poolbeg street. The dark cavern of the belly hordes. The Tiger does not hold sway down here amongst the fir bolg. This venerable stout encrusted establishment has squatted for countless years on Poolbeg street. A murky shrine to Arthur Guinness. A yellowing monument to Dublin’s past. Nominally a ‘literary pub’ with the likes of Flann O’Brien and Con Houlihan as past regulars and that bit in the Joyce fella’s book. It attracts many unwary tourists who stray within clutching Rough Guides and Lonely Planets looking for the genuine ‘Dublin Pub’ experience. And they will find it here oh yes they will. Great pot roasts of men slumped against the bar. Bloated bellies bulging with piss and guinness, rheumy eyes and alcohol blasted faces like sandpapered shite. Horrified they shy away from these shambling manbeasts and slurp nervously at “the best pint of Guinness in Dublin.” And indeed a fine pint of the Black stuff can be had here. Whether it be the best served within the precincts of Dublin town may be a matter of dispute but of its merits there can be no argument.

It has (as all proper Dublin pubs should) a septuagenarian publican with a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle and a general clientele of gougers, gurriers and mashed alcoholics. By God what a place. The nicotine drips off the walls in long yellow streaks, the Guinness; poured by skilled and honest hands is rich and tasty on the palate. The signs on the walls say ‘No Mobiles’ and pity the poor amadán who fishes out some shrieking, vibrating banshee box in the wrong company. The floors are bare, the seats and tables spartan and time worn. This pub knows what it is and knows what it is not.

Unfortunately being that this is a genuine pub and famously so, it is inevitably packed to the gills every night, with punters regularly spilling out into the streets in the summer before being herded back inside by the aforementioned disgruntled septuagenarian. Don’t argue with this chap. He bites. As you may have gathered the Gurrier has spent many a pleasant evening within Mulligan’s smoky confines seriously shortening the working life of his liver and generally having a bloody good time.

The clientele of this establishment are a mixed bunch of printers and local office workers, real hardcore alcoholics and a smattering of meeja fuck knuckles. The latter gutter trash congregate there in the hope of spotting some pissed up celeb slumming it for a night or maybe to gain inspiration from sniffing the arse rut of Con Houlihan, who the fuck knows but there they be chattering and yawping like jabbering pigeon headed monkeys.

But these eejits and the general overcrowding aside Mulligans is a fine and much admired pub. It steadfastly refuses to change in the face of all the cultural barbarism that is perpetrated around it. It warms the cockles of the Gurriers heart to know that these establishments still exist in this filthy city and that they exist and thrive in the shadow of the superpub, the barn bar and the craven greed of the Tiger pubs. On any night when he ventures out to review the shocking whorepits of The Q-Bar, Fireworks or— God forbid!— Knightsbridge. He knows a good pint and suitable refreshments can be acquired just a short crawl away.