I've got to admit that I like"Irish" pubs. And I mean, by those inverted commas, even those whose only claim to Irishness is a Guiness tap. For example I was in one in Rijeka last week called The River Pub and it was full to the brim with all that shite that you'd never see in any self-respecting bar in Dublin. You know the kind of thing; old pressing irons and broken sewing machines, copper kettles and saddles and any kind of a thing that looks vaguely rustic, not to say rusty. Well that was the River Pub, choc-a-bloc with "Irishness".
But here's the thing. On the wall upstairs was a huge picture of Winston Churchill. Now I'm no expert on Irish history but ... well you get my drift. Anyway the whole place just looked fucking stupid, but I liked it anyway. It wasn't even owned by an Irish person, it was owned by a Croat and the barmaid had not a word of English, or Irish I'll bet. But the place had a nice atmosphere and the music was good old rhythm & blues.
And then I get to Trieste and find out that there's an "English" pub. The "London Pub". Now what kind of a shite name is that. Anyway it does serve good Guiness and there was the best selection of malt whiskies on the gantry that I've seen outside of Glasgow. So we tried some, and then we tried some more, in the interests of scientific research you see. And we discovered a very strange thing. That no matter how much we hated this "English" pub, and no matter how much we absolutely detested the fact that they put so much fucking herbs on your steak that you
couldn't eat it, that we began to like this place too. And the barman, who last night was the surliest bastard you could ever hope to punch on the face, was now just the nicest person who ever graced this good earth. And he even gave us a scarf, courtesy of Guiness, to keep the cold wind at bay while we wound our way back to the hotel. Now is that not amazing?
I've got to admit that I like"Irish" pubs. And I mean, by those inverted commas, even those whose only claim to Irishness is a Guiness tap. For example I was in one in Rijeka last week called The River Pub and it was full to the brim with all that shite that you'd never see in any self-respecting bar in Dublin. You know the kind of thing; old pressing irons and broken sewing machines, copper kettles and saddles and any kind of a thing that looks vaguely rustic, not to say rusty. Well that was the River Pub, choc-a-bloc with "Irishness". But here's the thing. On the wall upstairs was a huge picture of Winston Churchill. Now I'm no expert on Irish history but ... well you get my drift. Anyway the whole place just looked fucking stupid, but I liked it anyway. It wasn't even owned by an Irish person, it was owned by a Croat and the barmaid had not a word of English, or Irish I'll bet. But the place had a nice atmosphere and the music was good old rhythm & blues.
And then I get to Trieste and find out that there's an "English" pub. The "London Pub". Now what kind of a shite name is that. Anyway it does serve good Guiness and there was the best selection of malt whiskies on the gantry that I've seen outside of Glasgow. So we tried some, and then we tried some more, in the interests of scientific research you see. And we discovered a very strange thing. That no matter how much we hated this "English" pub, and no matter how much we absolutely detested the fact that they put so much fucking herbs on your steak that you 
couldn't eat it, that we began to like this place too. And the barman, who last night was the surliest bastard you could ever hope to punch on the face, was now just the nicest person who ever graced this good earth. And he even gave us a scarf, courtesy of Guiness, to keep the cold wind at bay while we wound our way back to the hotel. Now is that not amazing?
1 comment:
he was probably ecstatic that you thought so highly of him :)
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