‘Why would you go on holidays just to visit Irish pubs abroad? ….pointless.’

*(NOW WITH 2023 INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT UPDATE)

When I tell people about my blog , I won’t lie to ye, apart from you, my loyal yet sizeable cult following, the reactions range from mild interest to absolute indifference to sheer visible repulsion and/or mild nausea/projectile vomiting. The more you explain it then, I admit it does sound stupid. Yet I am charged with a task to complete, compelled to keep going until every last Irish pub has been visited. Such a thing can be difficult to understand for the uninitiated, but how can it stop? Let’s jut say, I’m not Balkan at the task. And was it not former Yugoslavian Premier Jozef Broz Tito himself who said “I’m Caught in a trap, I can’t walk out, because I love you too much baby -bada- baaadda”* (possibly Elvis – must cross check). This time, for no exact reason other than a sense of adventure, we head to the nation formerly known as The Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, then the Republic of Yugoslavia, then Serbia & Montenegro and finally just Serbia. And also Bosnia! And a bit of Herzegovina!

But a little insight into the process, a peep behind the wizard’s curtain, if you will. When abroad, you have to combine the Irish pub visits with your general itinerary; try and fit them in, ready for the opportunity to pounce should they show themselves. Such an occurrence happens with my visit to “Gecko” Irish pub in Belgrade, named in honour of the oft mentioned and prolific Irish Gecko that definitely exists. Calling an Irish pub Gecko is up there in the incongruity scale beside the Chinese Takeaway in Tipperary called “Taj Mahal”. Gecko is about as Irish as indicted war criminal Slobodan Milosevic and marginally more inviting. But as we wait to check into our Airbnb, we need a place to rest up – so, in this case Gecko will suffice.
Inside, there is absolutely nothing to mark it out as Irish except a lot of ship paraphernalia, perhaps contributing to the general “Irish / Pirate confusion” that people seem to have. This Gecko is one lizard St Patrick should have booted out long ago.

Another reason why you can’t spend ages focusing on the Irish pubs is that you can miss out on the local equivalents. Belgrade is a party city, so you don’t want to neglect the sizeable local offerings. We spend our first night caught in a Serbian Trap live show, where a 20 strong collective are spitting bars despite a dodgy skipping CDR. Later, we head for a SPLAV, party club barges unique to Belgrade, right on the river Sava. There are Splavs of every flav, pop Splavs, dance Splavs, and even a Frank Zappa Splav. There’s also a Turbo-folk Splav, showcasing arguably the world’s worst genre of music (up there with HighNRG sped up versions of the Fields of Athenry). Turbo-folk is described rather amazingly as ‘aggressive sadistic and pornographically eroticised Nationalist iconography set to music’, so a bit like a sexier Wolf Tones then, if you could imagine such a thing were possible. However, according to the rules of physics, parties on a barge are always better than on land. That’s scientific fact. So we head to Splav Klub 20/44, the House Music Splav. On the walk home, we drunkenly walk into a group of local lads, clearly having a good night themselves. As I recount this tale, I am reminded of the phenomenon of Irish privilege. I have never been fully aware of this “Irish Privilege” but then stuff like this happens. These guys randomly ask where we are from. We tell them – ‘One Portugal, one English and one from…’ As soon as I say I’m Irish, they just burst into the following song, accurately performed and with a particular relish placed upon each verse’s final line:

Too-ra loo-ra loo-ra loo,
I’ve made me mind up what to do,
Now I’ll work me ticket home to you,
And Fuck the British Army.

Sergeant Heeley went away
And his wife got in the family way,
And the only words that she could say,
Was fuck the British army.

“We are Celtic Brothers” says one of them to me. Ireland it seems has more brothers than Tito Jackson. And both nations share a love for folk, apparently.

You can’t talk about Serbia without mentioning Tito, the most politically engaged of all the Jackson 5. No, I mean the big general who looms large over the whole region like a Slavic Micheal Collins. Part of Tito’s legend is that he kept the disparate nation states of the Balkans together while escapologising from the Soviet and American influences during the Cold War, spear-heading the non-aligned movement (which made me think that everything here would be built all crooked at a slight angle). There’s his museum, there’s his mausoleum, his personal Blue train that we try to find but can’t. There are gift shops and cafes, the only thing sadly lacking is they don’t have delicious cheesy corn snacks called “Titos”, a tragically overlooked marketing opportunity. (“Titos – share them with your Comrades!”) The other main Boi here is Niki T, Nikola Tesla, who also has a dedicated museum, an eponymous airport and he’s literally on the money. I don’t know a lot about Tesla, apparently he worked with AC/DC on their early albums or something, and he also claimed to have invented a death ray to stop all wars, so nice one.

Left, Tito/ the Penguin . Right, Tesla , scientist of ‘note’

Back to the pubs! Another random turn of fortune takes me to our second offering “The Drunken Ducks”. On arrival to Serbia, I am immediately reminded that I’ve left the comfort of the EU, so your wifi is now going to cost you £10 a second just for trying to connect. Faced with this communication breakdown, having a preternatural understanding of the whereabouts of the nearest Irish pub means you can establish a base camp, sup a pint and connect with ease. I message my amigo D to tell him I’ve arrived in Belgrade, but I can’t locate our flat .
“Ok, I’ll get you” he agrees…..” Where are you?“
“Don’t worry, I’m in the vicinity, I’m in an Irish pub”
“Fuck sake, how can you not find the flat but find the pub twenty minutes after arriving here?”

Always do your homework lads! Apparently it’s called the Drunken Ducks after some ducks got drunk there. That’s about all I can about this subterranean bolt hole – tiny on the inside but with a plaque for good Guinness. Watch here for a thrilling snippet!

The final Irish pub we come across is probably the best. The Three Carrots, Belgrade’s first Irish pub is a voluminous wooden beaut just off the main street, all snugs and wood and a good spot to stop off in. As we arrive, a herd of riot police patrol the streets outside, apparently to deal with the intimidating and potentially hazardous threat of the Gay Pride March taking place. As is custom, everyone is smoking in the bar, with governmental legislation lax on the fags. I award the Three Carrots 2.85 carrots out of 3, the highest rating thus far. Well done!

Part 2 Everybody Herz’ :

On leaving Belgrade, we bus it to the neighbouring state of Bosnia, there are no trains between Serbia and Bosnia of course as they aren’t the best of mates, these two. What should be a sprightly jaunt becomes an odyssey as buses from Serbia will only enter Bosnia via the Republika Srpska side, a Serb- friendly enclave inside Bosnia that I had never heard of till this trip. I include the following paragraph describing the epic journey in a War diary style Whatsapp message that I sent to my girlfriend to capture some of the immediacy of the perilous journey:

Dearest B,

We are 5 hours into an 8 hour journey of only 221 miles deep into the Bosnian Heartland. We have packed snacks and provisions for the arduous journey: alas the only crisp flavour they have is Ready Salted, the worst crisp of all. At the bus station at Belgrade, D and I were pushed to the extremes of our endurance by the verisimilitudes of Balkan bureaucracy and the inevitable pitfalls of the international traveller. With time against us, we arrived within seconds of our bus by taxi only for our burly escort to demand the total sum of our cash . Having done so begrudgingly, we fled to the bus stop, only to be told by a faceless Apparatchik that we had to buy a ‘platform ticket’, a ticket to allow you to get out on the platform for the bus you’ve already bought a ticket for that couldn’t possibly be sold together.

With a lack of a cash dispenser, we put ourselves at the mercy of the gods , who duly answered in the form of two friendly Sri Lankan fellows. We were not out of the woods just yet! On producing said platform ticket, we sped through the gate, only to be faced by another stern face, demanding a fee for our bags to be placed on board, again not something that could ever have been included in the original price you understand as that would be fucking logical. We pleaded with the dour coachman to allow us free passage, but he could not be moved. Suddenly, I remembered the presence of a crumpled 200 dinar note in my top pocket, which he reluctantly accepted. It twas not unlike a Slavic Kafka-esque Ryanair hybrid.

Later, at the border between Serbia and Bosnia, a military guard got on board our bus to interrogate the passengers, like in the war films. It was to our great misfortune that my companion D accidentally kicked him in the shin, leaving him to arrogantly flick off the dusty boot mark from his combat fatigues and call for D’s bag to have a good rummage. “Tobacco?” He asked us, leading D to point at me, the main fag holder, so the border guard proceeded to rifle through my belongings for “Marijuana” as we look like decadent western hippies, D with his swarthy Latin visage, me with my mop top. D believes that hairy men are inclined towards criminality thus he is considered untrustworthy, and we both agreed that this is generally why Popes are bald. Bosnia is beautiful, all valleys and forests, lakes and greenery… Will update you once in Sarajevo.

Yours,

Colm Patrick Dalton , September 16th 2019

On first glimpse of Sarajevo from the hills, it’s a majestic sight, like seeing Rio or San Francisco or Bray for the first time. It’s full of history, a mix of cultures and one of the only places you can drink a pint in front of the Mosque. Except Dalston, East London back home, where you can do it every week. Sarajevo literally still has the scars from the 1995 siege, the longest in modern history where the city was almost totalled by the neighbouring Serbs. Bullet holes still adorn a few walls and there a red marks on the pavement which show where citizens were hit by sniper fire. It’s hard to imagine as you sit in one one Irish pubs that didn’t exist then that all this happened a mere 20 years ago, recent enough to be filmed by locals on video camera rather than the distant grainy newsreels that we associate with war footage. To get a sense of it, try the absolutely haunting memorial/museum Gallery 11/07/1995 for an excellent and tear inducing explanation of the Siege and Srebrenica massacre. Of course, historically it all goes way back here, from the spot on the Latin bridge where Franz Ferdinand was assassinated leading to World War 1, which lead to World War 2, which led to the Cold War, which lead to… I don’t know… Riverdance, which led to all the past events of the 20th century if you think about it and don’t mind a bit of causation/correlation hair splitting.

Bullet holes bees Red mark where a sniper hit

There are 2 Irish pubs in Sarajevo, although there’s a controversial entrant that in the interests of cross cultural inclusivity I do consider. One pub, Guinness Pub is literally a room down an alley, its Tripadvisor reviews largely mixed. I include a few tidbits, appearing as they do in Bosnian and coming across as little Haikus:

‘A smelly pub, the owner is drinking, the guests are thirsty’

‘At least they hold your hair while you vomit’

‘Only a fool should come and see’

Guinness pub is grim so after poking my head in the door, seeing the reviews were quite accurate, we depart for more salubrious surroundings. Compared with Belgrade, Sarajevo is not as hopping by night, despite its obvious charms. The pub that we return to is ‘CELTIC PUB’, not a pub dedicated to Iron age tribes people fond of intricate tattoo designs, but the Scottish football team of course. Is this Irish? They have a load of Irish flags draped outside, but the bar staff are all wearing kilts, so legally this is a grey area. That said, it has the feeling of being the pub to hang out in and the crowd is a fine cross section of society. We end up chatting with a big load of Romanians about how Ceausescu was a massive Bastard, so that’s a good sign. We are then herded into the pub from the smoking area by one of the be-kilted barmen as he wants to do a lock-in, which is another good sign.

Flags mean it’s Irish / ‘You’ll Never Drink Alone’/ ‘She’s Roman-iac, Roman-iac , on the floor’

The next day, we travel up a picturesque cable car to the site of the 1984 Winter Olympics, a sign that the enduring legacy of the games is actually sweet bugger all; the left over bob sleigh runway lies derelict and graffiti smeared. On descending in the cable car, we share the cabin with a wiry Polish boy called Piotr. Piotr, it appears has come to Sarajevo from Ireland on account of the low cost, high quality dental work the country provides, getting 34 fillings done in one go to the tune of two thousand euros. ‘Do you like Ireland’ I ask him, fully awaiting the next round of Irish privilege. ‘Yes, very much so. I lived in London too’ exclaims Piotr ‘but I prefer Ireland. It’s more …white’. A silence descends over the cable car as the journey the bottom, once brisk, now seems like an eternity. D tries valiantly to break the silence. ‘Was the dentist any good?” he enquires. ‘What do you think’ says Piotr, proceeding to flash a smile so comically brilliant and nitid that it looks as if he’s stepped out of a 1950s toothpaste ad, his pristine gnashers at odds with the shortcomings of his face. We say goodbye to Piotr, the Whitening Supremacist and make our way. We return to the Celtic pub a second night, Sarajevo’s lack of abundant ale houses making it the most attractive proposition alongside being ridiculously cheap. As people approach us, being one Irish and one Portuguese, we inevitably have to fend off introductory gestures of ‘Bono!’/Cristiano Ronaldo’, two equally arrogant twonks we similarly oath but in different ways, lumbered as we are with these twin national albatrosses. Better than Slobodan I suppose.

So ends our sojourn to the Balkans, an at times confounding and exasperating but always fascinating region of continued historical significance, like Ireland itself shrugging off decades of sectarian infighting to a new understanding of their own position in this modern geopolitical landscape. Crucially though, its grand total of 5 Irish pubs is a new Publican Enemy Record in one holiday, so it must ultimately be considered a resounding success!! These pubs, with their own various configurations provided succour, a sense of morbid curiosity, temporary lodgings, rendezvous points and an available toilet when required. Recounting this tale to you has been my absolute Irish privilege.

*2023 Update***

Some time in Summer 23, i did a radio show for Corks Red FM , in which i recounted my tales of wandering. Thinking the coast to be clear, without great hesitation, I pronounced Guinness Pub to be the worst I had visited. All fine . Some days later, i saw a spike in visits from the proud nation of Bosnia Herzegovina …intriqued, I followed the link to some kind of Bosnian Ladbible where they were debating the merits of my comments, some in favor; others cursing me as a “fisherman”. Did not see it coming.

NB: If you do drop over to Serbia/Bosnia, despite their numerous and well reported differences, they share one common love – their national dish, consisting of a load of meaty cat turds served with raw onion, bread and an ice-cream like cheese, called ‘Cevapcici’. If you do like it, you’re in luck as you will end up eating it on a daily basis like me.

NB: shout out to Mr Diogo, a grand lad as always to travel with. I will never forget that time you saved our lives by finding those crisps in a vending machine somewhere in the Bosnian hinterlands. Shout out also to Kate for finding all the good things for us with her meticulous prep.