1. There are precisely 19.99 reasons why I initially decided to make Cologne my first port of call for pub exploration in 2019 and all of them refer to the fact that this was the cost of the plane ticket, courtesy of those loveable folks at Ryanair . That said, Germany’s always good value every time I’ve been , and, following a little research, it turns out Cologne is a very worthwhile choice. 
Köln is a party city (der Partystadt), with the most pubs per head of any German city, which probably means most pubs of any place in the world bar Ardfert, Co Kerry which has one petrol station, a shop and 2.75 pubs for every man, woman and child of the village (give or take). Cologne is also twinned with Cork City, so presumably they too all have stupid accents and walk around thinking they are the Real Capital – (both have the colours of Red and White, so they have that in common) . Cologne City itself was extensively remodelled in the 1940s by the RAF but is now a modern, dynamic city probably best known for 3 things; its impressive Cathedral which dominates the skyline, its February Carnival, one of Europe’s largest, and being the home of 2 unique but equally intoxicating elixirs, Eau de Cologne,  which you’ve heard of , and Kölsch , which you probably haven’t… So call me the Köln Ranger as I head off to see the sights, sounds and of course smells of Cologne .

In Köln you’re spoiled for choice for those of my line of work , with over 10 prime Irish pub locations for your delectation. So even with the best will in the world we can’t see them all so we’re going to have to cull the sick & the lame , a time-consuming selection process not dissimilar to that of choosing of a new Pope . Our choices are , in no particular order : “The Corkonian, The Copper Pot , Buskers , Flanagan’s , Barney Valleys , Jamesons Irish Pub ™ , Sophie’s Irish pub, The Harp , The James Joyce, and lastly ‘Irish pub Schildgen Bergisch Gladbach’

Now , ‘The James Joyce “ advertises Guinness with ginger beer on its Facebook page , an act of moral turpitude so base , vile and depraved that it is instantly erased from contention . “Jamesons Irish Pub ™” is clearly a pub-sized whiskey advert , so that’s out . Some are a bit too far away to make it (commiserations, “Irish Pub Schildgen Bergisch Gladbach” – whether or not is a good pub isn’t easy to say. ) Ultimately, I decide ‘The Corkonian’ seems a likely enough spot what with the intercity connection where I can also catch the rugby action . Wurst case scenario , there are a couple of smaller pubs nearby in the old town

But my first pub of choice shan’t be from the isle of Saints and Scholars , oh no. Cologne has its own unique boozing traditions that, after a long, parsimonious month of Dry January /Irish Ramadan I am want to partake in. Much as Champagne can only truly be produced in that eponymous French region , and early morning splatterings of street vomit can only be found in a 100m radius of Abrakebabra , the local urine-hued weisbier named Kölsch can only be produced in a 30 mile radius ( or der dreizigmileradius) of Köln , and is served cask fresh in the numerous beerhauses. But what is Kölsch ?Well, according to Wikipedia, it is “ a top fermented , hybridised alcohol with an original gravity of between 11 and 16 degrees Plato ( specific gravity of 1.044 to 1.065). Hopefully that makes it all clear . I decide to go to “Fruh am Dom” , a cavernous but touristy beerhall next to the cathedral that brews a tasty little number, also called Fruh. 

Inside the basement of Fruh am Dom lie The Kobes, dedicated beerhaus waiters with their blue buttoned up cardigans and laden money pouches . A feature of Köln , they are equally as efficient as they are surly bastards. In East London by contrast , bar staff consists of thin- moustachioed , lank-haired, rolled up- beanie wearing simpletons shuffling aimlessly trying to find the manager to ascertain the difference between Guinness and extra cold Guinness. These Kobes are cold hearted pros, laden with trays of glasses on a frenzied endless mission to provide booze to the needy, doing their duty with remorseless precision of some sort of beer assassins with the grizzled faces of world-weary detectives who have sworn to protect the city despite seeing it’s seedy underbelly . Such dedication to the bartender’s craft is admirable , as anyone who has witnessed a 12 year old running a Saturday night bar in rural Ireland will attest . They serve the Kolsch in little tiny 200ml glasses called Stange, and the tradition here is, you drink your little class while it’s super fresh, the Kobes notice you’ve finished, they immediately bring you a new one and mark it on your beermat. Efficient . (Fun Game! Why not try to replicate this next time in your local pub- ask them to keep bringing you beer and tell them you’ll pay later as you’ll write down how many you’ve had on your beermat. And then why not enjoy being carried out of the pub whilst in a headlock ? )

The following video provides a snapshot of the magical process in action: I have no photo with them as they scared me . Apparently , according to Lonely Planet , they can be coaxed to engage in “witty verbal jousting by making throwaway flippant references to neighbouring Dusseldorf ” but the only thing I say to these Taciturn Teutonic mofos is “thank you sir “. After a few flutes , I decide to go for some light bar nibbles, in this case a pigs entire lower leg, which proceeds not only to absorb all the Kolsch but also 73% of all water from my body making me leave soberer than when I arrived .

Day 2 begins with a bit of touristing prior to the main event. I decide to climb the Cathedral in that way that you do things on holiday that you’d complain about doing at home and to get a bit of a panorama . The cathedral is a massive thunderbastard that took 600 years to complete, shattering the German work ethic ideal and has a facade that other cathedrals a-spire too. It takes about 30 minutes to climb up a tiny winding staircase lined with defibrillators to inspire you/ intimidate you . In the base of the same Cathedral lie the apparent remains of the Three Wise Men of Biblical lore, Larry , Curly and of course Moe .

Dotted about the city are references to 4711, the house number where , in the early 18th Century , Italian immigrant Johan Maria Farina brewed a heady tincture of emanations and fragrances that would the city would become renowned for. Johan wrote to his brother :  ‘‘I have found a fragrance that remindeth me of an Italian spring morning, of mountain daffodils and orange blossoms after the rain . I shall henceforth call it “Lynx Africa” . No, he called it Eau De Cologne , didn’t he. His perfume was designed to mask pungent odours in a time where personal hygiene consisted of scouring oneself with a gone-off turnip twice a year ( a practise still carried out in Cork to this day) , in essence a kind of fancy Febreeze for the body . A fancy-dan shop stands currently stands at the 4711 address with a range of designer whiffs for those with more money than scents. 

It is time to enter the Corkonian and get down to business. The Corkonian in the Old Town seems instantly authentic, with a unique odour all of its own which appears to be eliminating from the carpet . Any pub that still has carpet clearly has not been assembled by an interior design committee
(Innenarchitekturausschuss), a carpet being arguably the worst possible floor material for a pub, except maybe for a floor made out of asbestos or gravy .Looking around the pub, an interesting thought occurs . The pubs I’ve visited in Indonesia had Australians, the pubs in Malta were full of Malteasers ( not literally ) but for the first time abroad the pub is full of actual genuine Irish people. What transpires next is perhaps a microcosm of Irish culture, behaviour, social mores, attitudes , etiquette and identity . With carpets . 

I set the scene: In front of the big screen is a big group of Irish lads of indeterminate ages- between 21-38 I guess.( It’s hard to accurately age your average Irishman due to heroic alcohol intake)
To their left , on a table at an annex sit an English couple resembling that American Gothic painting only less cheerful. Opposite all of these sit a table of German young lads. The rugby kicks off and the bar fills. It becomes apparent that the Irish group have decided to forgo the local sizes and are just horsing into pints of cider. One lad is so comically hammered ( it’s 4:30 ) his every move becomes the centre of attention, stealing people’s gaze from the screen . He tries to stand , he falls, he tries to hug the mortified English lady , she recoils , he tries to sit back on his stool, he grasps helplessly at thin air as he slumps on his arse. He has now diverted most attention from the game , and in an act of beautiful comic timing and to roars of laughter, he slumps his head on a table for a little snooze , waking sporadically to take shakey glugs of his cider. England score a try, the Germans and the English man cheer . The Irish score a try, the Germans not understanding cheer again. The Englishman starts a lone defiant chant of “Swing Low , Sweet Chariot ” , the Irish lads respond with a heartfelt chant of “You can shove your fucking chariot up your arse “. The Drunken boy , who I will name Tony as he looks like a Tony suddenly jerks upright and rushes to the toilet to make an emergency “Cologne-ic Irrigation” of his own . Then , Like a real life Benny hill sketch, thirty seconds after entering the toilets, two girls run out and 2 of his mates fetch Tony’s lifeless corpse from the female toilets 

The rugby finishes, and with it , redemption. On cessation of hostilities, the Irish lads turn to and in a row shake hands with the English bloke , someone hands him a pint which he gratefully accepts. One lad settles the tab with the barmaid, giving her a £20 euro tip , apologising profusely. Tony is gone, no idea where he went, possibly evaporated . One of the Irish lads , on his way out , turns to me and says ” Sorry , Do you speak English?” Do you think we were a bit too obnoxious?” 
” Ye were, yeah.” I say 
“Wait, are you Irish? From where ? Ah for fuck sake, lads I’m after asking this Kerry fucker if we’re too obnoxious.”

I believe they were from Cork

Epilogue :

The next day , I’m a bit worse for wear. By straying from the local Kolsch and its divine purity laws , ropey Guinnesses have poisoned my system. On a stroll around town, I come across two pleasant surprises: first I find an absolutely massive superstore of all kinds of tacky , bizarre , brilliantly offensive costumes for Karnival . The shop provides hours of entertainment for free as you won’t actually buy any of this shite , but any kind of costume goes , and the shop is absolutely jammed with queues snaking around the entire premises .

On an adjacent street, I come across Barney Valley’s Irish pub, a cosy one- roomed bar, dimly lit with candles and fairy lights, wooden walls and floors , posters coating the ceilings . The owner ( Barney? ) welcomes us warmly , dropping us over to our seats, bringing our order to the table, checking up if we are all ok , table service style Theres no rush to pay , he says , just settle up at the end . The playlist on the sound system is flawless Classic Irish Pub Hits o’ Yesteryear Playlist ,( der klassischeirischenhitsvongestern) ; you’ve got Aslan, you’ve got Hot House Flowers, you can guess what else ( if you said experimental industrial sonic noise terrorists Throbbing Gristle, you are wrong; it was the Pogues) This is a really , really nice little pub , the owner welcomes everyone personally, music’s not to loud , perfect for a chat. On an opposite table, a group of locals are starting early for Carnival and they’re dressed like soldier/ pirate thingys in red and white stripes. Despite the kooky get ups , they manage to drink with far more dignity than anything I saw the night before. I tell the barman/ owner / waiter/ maitre’d I really like the pub and he thanks me wholeheartedly, and tells me to drop back in if I have the chance . Another group come in , and he’s straight off to welcome them, help with their coats , like they were guests visiting his home. 

He was from Cork by the way.

No, he wasn’t . I have no idea where he was from. .

Grazie mile to E x