A good Irish pub, it is postulated, should be a microcosm of Ireland itself. It doesn’t matter if you’re in downtown Bujumbura, Burundi, once inside those walls it should be entirely plausible that you could be somewhere in the West of Ireland, around Sneem way, cocooned from the outside world, with nathin’ but a purple Schnack for sustenance.

Now, the overseas dependency of GIBRALTAR (they don’t like the “C” word *……Colony)  is a microcosm of England, despite being geographically in Spain, 13km from the Berber coast of North Africa and with its own language and a historic Muslim, Jewish and Genoese population. So any Irish pub here automatically becomes a microcosm within a microcosm. But with monkeys! Or Apes as they are known as here. Despite the fact they are actually tailless monkeys. Clear?

The Gibraltarians chose overwhelmingly in their last referendum to remain part of the UK, voting a Vladimir-Putinesque election-winning 98% in favour to stay. To which various Tories vowed to honor steadfastly. They then also voted 96% to remain in the recent EU referendum, to which Theresa May and various Tories choose not to give a flying flip, politically speaking. It is unclear as to how the monkeys/apes would have voted given the chance but one imagines there would have been plenty of swing voters.

Gibraltar town is like a theme park to Britishness, a EuroDisney  for Ukip aficionados, with sun, fish and chips, pints and a healthy distrust for Jonny Foreigner. As it positions itself as “Britain, how it used to be”, I decide to reside and dine  exclusively across the border in España in the fantastically titled and endearingly shabby border town of La Linea De La Conception. Each and every day, I am required to cross the border showing my passport to gain access to the promised land of Costa Coffee, Holland and Barrett and of course the most southern branch of Morrisons supermarket known to man.

Borderline! Each and every day! 

Originally, I managed to source not 1, but 2 Irish pubs to explore in the space of 3 square kilometers. I thought there were 3, but it turns out that the place called “Cork“ is disappointingly a wine bar, so that’s out.  The two locations on the menu couldn’t be more different, the marina-facing super pub “O Reilly’s” and the less salubrious “Venture Inn”, located at opposite ends of the metropolis, 10 mins walk from each other. Let’s venture forth!

 

To work up a thirst for pints, I spend my first day on the rock, in the nature reserve. The Gibraltarian taxi drivers switch from Cockney Geezer English to seamless Spanish, which is bizarre to hear. One big ape jumps onto a taxi and starts pulling at the aerial furiously. The driver looks at me and dry as a bone says ,”looks like he’s gone ape-shit”. Now, with the monkeys/apes, the dominant ones are located higher up, which makes me question why my brother always had the top bunk in the bunk bed when we were kids. And the dominant ape here is this guy called Gregory. Gregory is the king of the swingers – yes, he’s a jungle VIP. He’s reached the top, he had to stop, but he’s not bothered, so secure in his ape dominance that he’s really chilled; a top chimp-chap whom I come across later,  lying on a branch, kicking it like a ‘g’. In different circumstances, I would offer him a pint.

Gregory’s Bio

I managed to source Gregory.      *sitting on the right. 

Back on the ground after winning the hearts and minds of the ape community, I head to Ocean Village, to O’Reilly’s Irish pub. Now, unlike most Irish pubs, O’Reilly’s is situated across the way from a casino cruise liner, and just to the left is Roman Abramovich’s £65 million super yacht. So this ain’t your friendly cosy local. Their marketing blurb states the pub was designed “by Ireland’s leading design team who visited Dublin THREE TIMES!” This fact is emphasised heavily which makes me wonder as to why it took three times. Perhaps they were subconsciously aware of the symbolism of the number 3 as espoused by Saint Patrick and the Shamrock? Or maybe they just got too hammered the first two times they visited and forgot all their plans for road signs and old Guinness ads and had to come back? Who knows? Inside is dead, so I sit outside.

 

The crowd is older and skin-headed in nature. The clientele are mostly British ex-pats, (or immigrants), working in the financial sector. Next to me sit a group of 5-7 males. The dominant one stands while the others sit, prowling around them baring his tribal tattoos.  The alpha then proceeds to belch in the face of a lower beta male. “I have exxxxxorciiiised the demons” he yells, in a southern preacher accent. I miss the quiet dignity of my monkey brethren. What would Gregory think of this? There’s not much craic to be had here, so I finish my Guinness, have one more and then one more and leave Ocean Village and head for El Paso. I silently jog across the airport runway in the dark, through the border controls back to Spain, which is one of the more unusual pub walks home you can have.

The next day, disaster strikes as I ironically never make it in to the Venture Inn as it is bloody closed all day Sunday! I take a few photos outside to try to imagine what it could be like inside. Later, a friendly Yorkshire chap living there tells me that the pub is Irish “in the same way Ian Paisley is Irish, or William of Orange”, so maybe it’s for the best. I try to head towards Irishtown as a last gasp, but no luck. Turns out its only called Irishtown because that’s where Irish soldiers used to get  prostitutes. Classy!

The window of the Venture Inn, tantalizingly out of grasp

So, it looks like a wash-out for Irish pubs this time round. Heading back to Spain, just round the corner from my hotel, I  hear a massive commotion, (loud even in Spanish terms). Well, it turns out that my hotel is adjacent to an establishment titled “Molly Blooms” (named after the half Gibraltarian wife of Leopold Bloom of Ulysses! Brilliant!) and it is hoppin’! Hope restored!

Some notes on Molly Blooms of La Linea de  La Conception:
The pub is “Irish” in theory, in that way that a lot of Irish pubs in mainland Europe are geared as Alternative pubs, full of da youth drinking one-pour Guinness’s as they settle, in their innocence. The two main points I  would like to make in support of Molly Blooms are: a.) Pints are €2.20 a go, and b.) You can bring your pint glass back to the bar for a refill to be served faster, which I shouldn’t agree with but I do. The previous incumbent of my glass appears to have been on the cider. They have live music too, Spanish guitar with one of those boxes that you sit on and tap with your fingers. You know the ones. They’re boxes. You sit and play them. You definitely know the ones I mean. The party goes on till about 3-4 in the morning, Spanish style and is full of lovely Andalusians who can’t speak a word of English but are drinking Caffrey’s Irish Red and those weird Irish beers you can’t get in Ireland.

So it turns out, in the clichéd style of a 1980s teen romantic comedy, the very thing I was looking for was right in front of me all along. The best Irish pub wasn’t in Gibraltar, with Molly Blooms capturing a raucous night out despite its tenuous Irish connections. Ultimately, Gibraltar is a nice old spot for sightseeing. But for Irish pubs? Couldn’t give a monkeys.

Colm Dalton