1004 gets on top you sometimes
all those bleating voices
sometimes you need to escape...
and for better or worse you've made it a habit to escape some 50 metres north to the swan, regardless of time or company
safely installed in the snug, you leaf through the guardian and get to unwinding
blair: my promise to quit may have been a mistake (a strange way to form that sentence, an indirect quote subbed by a sarcastic labour rebel)
message to smokers: just get over it (fuck off you smug bitch)
pro-life militants turn on schools (more on that later)
18 iraqis killed in clash at mosque (and turning to page two you start to wonder why you just didn't bring a novel)
anti-abortionists turn sights on schools and hospitals in US-style campaign (dear god its worse than you thought, someone abort james dowson, quick, it's not too late)
friends defend kember against accusations over iraq mission (why is this a news story? how can someone not commenting fascinate people so?)
UK will meet emissions target, says beckett (what odds?)
scientists warn of high rate of vCJD infection (i'll have my meat sent from meath street)
big questions that won't go away (a PM that won't go away)
US politicians to view play on guantánamo (send the fuckers there, make them view guantánamo, let the media view guantánamo)
rwandans to see genocide on big screen (i'm starting to see a pattern)
jailed afghan christian could be freed as court reviews case (nuke the world, let's take our chances and hope we evolve with perspective next time)
girl aged nine stabbed in face as russian tension spreads (the terrorists in 24 are right)
'honour' attack leaves woman fighting for life (you've just finished your second pint, you're on page 20 and you're losing the will to live)
seal hunt gets off to a bloody start (not even maccer'n'mills can stop them, "blame canadaaa")
gunman kills six at zombie-themed party (if you were armed, drugged and in a room full of people dressed in zombie costumes, sadly you may have done the same)
you're too depressed to venture in to the financial pages
during all that time spent unwinding, a guy in black slacks, shirt and jacket (with a tattoo covering the entire left side of his neck) keeps coming in the side of the snug and looking across at the church
he apologises, once or twice
the church bells begin to peal and the pub collectively moves towards the door
watching the owner don a suit jacket and all but the barmaid leave, you assume it's a regular that's passed
as if on cue, halleluiah begins to play over the speakers...
this is likely a coincidence rather than design, a quirk of that hard drive jukebox behind the bar, which is also why it's not cohen or buckley singing but some god-awful elevator version
still, there's a degree of pathos to it that your third pint makes you appreciate all the more
a combination of curiosity and propriety leads you outside to smoke
you watch as the crowd, most of them with drinks left unattended inside, file in to the church
the majority stoop to give money to a troubled-looking girl of about 20, dressed in a dirty white bubble-jacket and sitting on the side steps of the church
and like it or no, this scene, and specifically this pub, are part of the dying reason this town will tug at your heart when you leave...
it's a scene that's uniquely dublin, and something london won't give you
but then london will give you something different, something dublin can't
sometimes you feel like this city is lost to you, then something simple brings it back
half an hour later, twice the volume that left return
as it happens you're outside smoking again, so holding the door open for the majority of the mourners you're back observing
the older generation, done up like you'd expect and being linked by daughters... their brothers in suits of a sort that aren't quite formal... their kids, some of them not old enough to look comfortable in their white shirts, black ties and shoes with creases at the toe conspicuous by their absence... the younger children, dressed either in communion suits or clothes so inappropriate but fancy they must be christmas outfits...
back inside, the pub is swarming
you still have the snug to yourself but every other table is full
there's enough peroxide to choke a horse
the older of the kids are doing their best say mannish things
they're as uncomfortable doing so as they are in their suit, and each comment is followed by a shy sort of smile, testing the water and seeing if they're doing it right
the younger kids wander about with strawed bottles of cidona and packets of crisps
who knew they made levi's that small?
it soon devolves in to a very dublin kind of funeral, where no one really talks about the deceased
it becomes, and you've seen this in your own family too, not a celebration of the life or whatever it's supposed to be, but a kind of reunion
your families aren't that close
you're so detached from the event that someone will even venture, half joking, half in earnest, that he, now, is the head of the family
you can't get away from this, fly as you might
smoking at the side door, you're joined by a man in his late 50s
y'know bogart shop' der?, with a backward nod
slightly confused but thinking anything is possible, you take "shop" to be a strange synonym for "frequented" and the overall meaning of the sentence to be humphrey bogart used to drink in the swan
really?
there follows a moments silence, and a minute or so later it becomes clear he's talking about a clothes shop on camden street called bogart's
i was up there doin the plasterin a few years ago and y'know they have laurel in the window, stan laurel, well then they had laurel and hardy and the next day i was up there and it was just laurel and i sez to yer woman, i sez, where's the other fella?... where's the other fella, i sez, fumbling with a match
you reach out and light a small cigar whose depletion suggests the filter end should be more moist
you wonder how long it's been in his pocket
she sez, i had to put him up on the landing, they were always fighting...
hearing this story several more times before you can reasonably excuse yourself doesn't make it any less endearing
and leaving dublin will make it all the more easy to forget the bullshit and remember just this, the unsolicited stories and jokes from folks you won't find anywhere else on the planet
back inside, sarah brightman is singing time to say goodbye on the jukebox
sure it's no wonder the titanic sank with her singing on it...
the demented nature of this town, this pub, has a hold on you you don't like to admit
A mail went around today saying that we're having a class night out, but not in The Swan. Fair enough, let's get dressed up and go for cocktails, but if you're asked to remember this year - asked what you've taken from it all - with all due respect it won't be formal, organised, class nights out. As dear as those nights and all those people are to me, this year took place in The Swan.
