“Wherever you go , always remember you’re an Irish man.” said my father, sagely as I boarded the €19.99  one way flight to Stanstead and left my home some 10 years ago , never to return except for every Christmas and the occasional Paddy’s day .  It wasn’t exactly Cobh  1845 in terms of desperate emigrant hardship . But still a poignant moment. (And  one could argue that the Ryanair flight was a slight  upgrade on the coffin ships for one thing ) 

But then again my father told me many things:  he said  he had to watch the RTE 6 o’ clock news everyday in case the Germans decided to invade via Kerry  this time   and that  Paul McCartney was  by far the best Beatle (who were all Irish , except for Ringo, the shitest one , coincidentally).  So,  advice best taken with a pinch of salt .

However, when travelling abroad , something stuck . I remembered I was an Irish man! This was done  primarily  through using my passport and  being forced to repeat and  spell my name over  and over again .  And yet , there was more …..  I  had always kept an eye out on my travels  for that ever -present unofficial Irish Embassy abroad- the Irish pub.

Some sort of perverse curiosity compelled me to venture inside each one  , even though it felt  culturally wrong ,like having a Big Mac in the Vatican, or a piss outside the Louvre . I had  once met a lad who worked in the Grand Khaan Irish Pub in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, further stoking the embers of my interest. ( On occasions I will attempt to use artful metaphors  like that in honour of the great Irish literary giants. Only sometimes though , as they are hard. As hard as….. a trout on a windshield, you could say .   Ah, but that’s a smilie , not a metaphor you’re thinking . And a terrible one at that .  I am sorry )

I had the pleasure to see  the pirate- themed Irish Pub in Paris , the  Istanbul Irish pub which was the quietest place in the whole city and had old Extravision posters up ,  and who could forget the grand majesty of the Randy Leprechaun in Gran Canaria where I dared not set foot inside . So my plan became thus; Every town has Irish Pub. Check out said Irish Pub when abroad . Document and record for future generations .

This isn’t really about rating the bars , more just a curious little look at the people , the places, and the overall stories associated with these bastions of Irishness . There will be no ‘Craic-o-meter’ . I might rate the Guinness though , just to be a bollix . As for authenticity, if their hearts are in the right place, that’ll do . So come with me on a confused journey of spills , quills and general ruaile buaile