A step back in time

The world does not march uniformly into the future, each nation advancing in lockstep with its neighbours.

Rather, much like children on sports day, some countries glide toward tomorrow with poise, while others trip, stumble and stagger their way through today.

Even on this wee rock we call home, the velocity and angle of our cultural evolution varies from province to province, county to county, town to town, all the way down to house to house. For example, if Tyrone is the Terminator, Fermanagh is Tarzan.

(Only joking ye, Fermanagh. You’ve lovely lakes, even if ye are a bit naked and grunty.)

Anyway, the same principle of asymmetric progress that differentiates one place from another also applies to pubs. However, in the case of watering holes, keeping up with the latest trends is not always synonymous with progress. In fact, I would argue that the reverse is true. A public house should not aspire to stay in vogue, it should strive to stay in 1985… at the latest.

There are several establishments locally that consider themselves to be at the cutting edge of today’s hospitality industry.

Owners who position their pubs upon this new frontier believe that pints should be imported from far-off galaxies, cocktail menus must come with an index and several appendices, and the idea of live music is nothing more than an antiquated affect that belongs to a bygone era.

However, just as there are bars that have leapt eagerly into the future, with the gales of modernity at their back, there are also those that have tried to shelter themselves from the winds of change.

These are the places you want to go for a pint.

I was in a tavern like this over the weekend.

Concrete floors, a toilet out the back, and nothing on tap that travelled further than a donkey could carry it; this place looked like it had pickled itself somewhere in the 1950s.

It was a spot in Donegal Town that has a session on seven nights a week. I would say the name of it, but some people cannot parse praise from scorn, so it shall remain unnamed.

Anyway, we landed through the doors at about half nine expecting to meet a healthy crowd, but we did not anticipate to find it in such a salubrious state as we did.

It was bunged to the rafters. Sardines. They were falling out the door. And what a mix.

Smiling Yanks sipped half pints of Guinness, while, two tables away, aul’ toothless locals, wearing threadbare Celtic jerseys and hats too big for their heads, tried their best to drink themselves sober.

A guitar and banjo made fire in the corner, the two lads having nailed the knack of making even a slow song fast.

However, there was one feature of the scene that stood out from all the others, calling attention to itself like a GAA jersey at an Orange parade.

Dancing around the concrete was a rather hairy, six-foot tall, Pamela Anderson.

Platinum blonde wig, swimming costume, complete with prosthetic breasts, this big eejit was boogying about with all the chemically-obtained energy of a 1990s raver.

“No bother to Pamela,” I remarked, as she took her wig off and scratched her at least 70-year-old bald head.

Next thing, another tune started; a song so sad that even the two maestros couldn’t manage to speed up.

“What’s she going to do with this one?,” we all wondered, keeping our eye on Big Pam.

Not to be beat, the bronzed beauty lifted her bottle of Heineken and poured the remaining suds into her gob, before placing the mouth of the empty vessel against her fake breast and gently rocking around the floor, cooing to the green glass like a newborn baby.

“Must have been an ancient Celtic tradition to dress up as woman and breast-feed beer bottles back in the day,” said my friend, before lifting his pint of stout, finishing the last and saying, “My baby has a wile big mouth”, and joining your man for the last few verses.