Tag Archive for: Murraygroup

Fibber Magee’s

In the early hours of a Friday morning somewhere on Parnell Street in the middle of the first decade of the new millennium, you might have found me in the time-honoured sweaty skirmish that I’m sure you’ll still find long-haired leather-clad rockers in to this day.

With pint glass firmly clasped like all should be when mosh-pit adjacent, I’d be quaffing some unholy concoction sold to me as a loss-leader – aniseedy and tinted in shining glowstick green – you’d still be able to smell it in the morning afterward.

Fibber Magee’s

Having arrived early, as to avoid the bouncers, I’d generally be garbed in building site-safe attire, content that at least my steel-toe boots were half on par with the dress code. Eventually then the gang would spill in and the night would while away into that green aniseed haze and you would find yourself in that menagerie of boots, chains, leather, denim and all the sweat and beer spilt therein.

And as the drinking-up hour would close in you might be going hoarse from defiantly shouting the repeated lines of the last song spun – it usually being Rage Against The Machine. “F**k you, I won’t do what you tell me”… you’d howl it as you swayed arm in arm with any number of sweaty metallers… “F**k you I won’t do what you tell me.” Then the bouncers would move in to clear house – and you’d do what they told you.

There are but a handful of widely accepted institutions in Dublin City and the place mentioned above – Fibber Magee’s is certainly one. Dublin’s premier Metal bar, it was a rite of passage for young trainee rockers like myself who found that their fondness for music could no longer be confined to unlicensed premises way back when.

Though ultimately I’d find the tunes in Fibbers a bit on the heavier side and transfer up to Eamon Doran’s, and given that it’s not somewhere I’ve ever frequented in the true sense of the word, I’ve always retained a fondness for Fibbers and the foundation it provided to me to learn the trade of drinking pints.

Being the likely best example of a Dive bar on offer in Dublin’s portfolio of pubs, Fibbers is cut into a sizeable number of defined sections – a medium-sized bar runs along the left side of the room as you enter, toward the right side you’ll find an alcove containing two or three bays of semi-circular couches which snugly house a circular table apiece. Moving toward the back of the room you’ll come upon a bank of pool tables and as you move right from them you’ll end up in the venue section complete with a stage and dancefloor. Beyond all that, there’s a vast smoking area out back which we wouldn’t normally bother commenting on only for the fact that it is contained in a common courtyard with two vastly different styles of bars/restaurants – Murray’s and The Living Room. This lends to a sort of Gangs of New York – Five Points vibe, the likes of which are found nowhere else in the city.

Pint-wise, we can’t really comment in any great certainty as we generally find ourselves here when our tastebuds have been rendered less sensitive than they would’ve been before a hearty sceilp of pints. But I cannot say that our last visit is remembered as being one where the pint was below an acceptable level. I’m told the pint is at the fiver mark here but we’ll stand open to correction there.

We last visited of a Halloween night which ended somewhat acrimoniously. With a sizeable crew of costumed and costumeless in tow we’d awarded the night’s best-dressed award to Pintman №7 who had ignored all advice of it being more of a 2009 thing and decided to dress as Heath Ledger’s incarnation of The Joker from The Dark Night… as a nurse… in a dress… I think he might have even shaved his legs for the occasion.

Pintman №7, who despite being a long-time subscriber and attendee to the cause, has heretofore gone uncredited in the annals of DublinByPub. A man caught in a never-ending cycle of giving up and getting back into drinking strong IPAs, he would, as it turns out, have made a fine character actor.

For, you see, it was on this fine October night that Pintman №7 had truly engaged his inner Heath Ledger, Jack Nicholson and Cesar Romero all in one. And the timing of this couldn’t have been more perfect. We’d been unfortunate enough to find ourselves having made the acquaintance of some nasty, uncostumed upstart in the course of playing pool. And it was just as this little bollox was smack bang in the middle of his twenty-somethingth ill-advised insult of the evening when he felt five of Pintman №7’s knuckles speedily settle into his cheekbone. It was so perfect a hit that some of us even swore we saw one of those 60’s Batman pop-art graphics depicting the word POW right before our eyes. Needless to say, the boy went down.

Next of all, we’d found ourselves witness to one of these wonderful Halloween scenes where Donald Trump and Wonderwoman beckoned bouncers as Obie Wan Kenobi attempted to barrel The Joker out of sight. The bouncers did arrive and when Pintman №7 freely gave himself up they informed him that he’d have to be thrown out. He went peacefully. He went so peacefully that the bouncers even cheerfully bade him good night and the best of luck for good measure too.

Unfortunately, our hopes and prayers that footage of this melee would eventually surface on the national airwaves as part of Crimecall’s CCTV segment have yet to bear fruit. We continue to live in hope.

So that’s about all we have on Fibbers for now. Let us conclude by saying that if you’re the type of person who’s looking to accompany a pint with the aural pleasures of the more advanced sub-genres of metal, or if you’re just a lad in a dress who wants to shoot some pool and watch the world burn, Fibbers might just be the place for you!

Jimmy Rabbitte’s: Camden St.

Lately, I’ve been finding myself lying awake at night pondering a big question. This question isn’t of an existential variety, no, no. I’m fine with reflecting on the afterlife and the greater universe for the moment, the one question that’s currently interrupting my sleeping pattern is that which queries whether Jimmy Rabbitte’s, the pub on Camden Street, was named after Jimmy Senior, Jimmy Junior, or both. There’s also the frightening prospect that the pub might have been named after someone other than one of the two characters in Roddy Doyle’s Barrytown trilogy.

Jimmy Rabbitte’s: Camden St.

It might be reasonable to assume that Jimmy Junior is the man in question here, given that his band – The Commitments do in fact rehearse in the space sat above the pub during the movie adaptation of the book which bears the band’s name. But it can’t be that simple really. I mean, who wouldn’t want to name a pub after Jimmy Senior? Colm Meaney’s portrayal of the foul-mouthed, pint-drinking loveable family man is one that is beloved by the entire population of this country. Ah, alas – maybe some questions are just too big for this life.

A relatively new pub, Jimmy Rabbitte’s is an establishment which myself and Pintman №2 have darkened the door of no more than three times and no less than two. Upon our first attendance within the boozer, we found it sparsely populated with the exception of a table with what sounded to us to be an English lad. This particular lad, who wasn’t the worst looking chap to be fair to him, was a bit of a hit with the ladies who at the time, one and all, seemed to be making it their business to approach his table for a chat. Feeling a pinch of inadequacy from the whole situation, Pintman №2 and I reminded ourselves of our inner beauty and made for a table with two pints of plain.

Pint-wise we recall the standard as being nothing too above average but of an acceptable level all the same. The last note of price we took, put the pint of plain at an even fiver. But we’d expect that to have risen by now given the time elapsed since then. Aside from stout, the range of gargle was pretty plentiful and seemed to have something to appeal to a wide range of the drinking public, particularly those who fancy a gin from time to time.

The appearance of the pub is what we might describe as modern-retro. It might seem hypocritical of us to say that we liked the place given our thoughts on its nearby neighbour – Devitt’s. But as the installation of this boozer did not require the tearing out of an old gem we’re happy enough to figure that this is one of the few times that we’re not contradicting ourselves.

With its solid wooden flooring underfoot, wood panelling on the walls and exposed wooden rafters overhead – the pub keeps a certain rustic charm. For decoration – there is any number of quirky surreal scenes framed upon the wall space while enough postcards to stock a souvenir shop sit affixed to the rafters. Snug lovers can rejoice in the knowledge that this pub boasts one of the capital’s newest snugs, the modest-sized compartment sits toward the front of the pub. Not stopping there with older conveniences, the underside of the bar offers the option of hooks for jackets and bags. Interestingly, too, beneath the bar sits a definite sign of the times in the form of USB ports. The modern hook perhaps?

I suppose we could put a bit more effort in and actually figure out specifically whom this boozer is really named after. But maybe the mystery is half the craic. Oh, and we eventually found out who that English fella was when the women in our lives put two and two together. They wasted no time in berating us, angrily asking “How on earth” we didn’t recognise Jude Law “sitting right in front of yis!!??” – a question we each could only possibly answer one way…

… I’m fucked if I know, Terry!

The Long Stone: Townsend St.

The Long Stone we hardly knew ye.

You stood proudly on Townsend Street for over 200 years and now they’ve decided to knock you down. We never even took our chance to photograph you while you were open and now it’s too late. Soon you’ll follow your neighbour – Ned into the dusty abyss and take your rightful place in Valhalla, and all we can do to console ourselves is to think of cliches – you really don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

The Long Stone: Townsend St.

We went to visit you on your last day and came to realise what fools we have been not to have spent more time drinking within your confines. We were like flies scutting along the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – ignorant of the beauty upon which we were standing.

It’s true that I’ve said things in the past that you mightn’t have liked. I was no fan of the hot nut machine that sat atop your front bar and bathed all around it in an uncomfortable fiery hue. I certainly bemoaned the price of your drink on more than one occasion, but none of that matters now.

How we wish you were still open. How we wish we could saunter into the back bar and sit at the mouth of a 10ft sculpture of Odin’s head and gaze upon your bespoke wooden features, your slate flooring, your ancient hanging banners.

But we can’t visit you anymore. The newspapers say that a wrecking ball is due on-site in January, They’ll probably build a hotel on the ground upon which you currently stand. Tourists might come to stay and they’ll ask if there are any good pubs around. No, we’ll respond… Just hotels.

Rest in peace, The Long Stone. We’ll miss you.