The Goddess Aphrodite, it is said,was born from the sea-foam off the Southern coast of Cyprus after Chronos, god of time, cut off Uranus’ mickey* and cast it into the sea .With that image in mind, I bid you welcome to Publican Enemy’s 50th Irish Pub Anniversary Spectacular: Cyprus Chill !!!

*Mickey : (slang)(Irish) the male member; the penis , the ‘lad’

It’s been almost exactly 1 year since our last travels, and to be honest I’d have gleefully cast off any number of my appendages into the waves for the chance to get abroad after a difficult year of non-travel & isolation where all the novelty and self-development of Lockdown 1.0 gave way to the tedious sequels Lockdown 2.0 and 3.0. We choose Cyprus ( relieved that ceremonial mickey- throwing is not a thing anymore) as you’re grand to fly there once you’ve been double-jabbed . So , vaxxed and relaxed and almost one year since our last visitation and with only some sketchy online dabblings in the interim , it’s time to visit our 30th new country and 50th Irish Pub !!! Joining me on this trip to the land of Pygmalion is our own Eliza Dootlittle and cockney poet of repute, Bella Day, who’s odes are scattered whimsically throughout this passage .

Cyprus is essentially exactly the same as Ireland ; they have the same plugs, they drive on the left , they have euros , the flag is green white and orange, they grow amazing spuds  and the country is split in two by an arbitrary line drawn by the British establishment . Cyprus is reknowned as the Island of love, ( not to be mistaken for Love Island) and this Isla Bonita is located in the Eastern Med , only some 150 miles off the coast of Syria. Like many of the islands I’ve visited over the past couple of trips , Cyprus has been, in chronological order , run by the ancient Greeks , the not-so- ancient Greeks, Phonecians , Egyptians, Romans , Franks, Lusignans, Venetians , Ottomans and finally , as they were missing it from their collection , the British.  Of course, the island is for the most part culturally and linguistically Greek. With a big crescent shaped caveat of course which we will come to anon.

Now , as much as I deride colonialism in all its forms , I do have to admit it is actually very convienient that the plugs are the same and pints are standard along with intergenerational fluency of the Queen’s English . Thanks Britain. Of course, Britain became interested in Cyprus, not because of its mickey-tossing past, no, but because of its strategic location to the Middle East. “The unsinkable aircraft carrier” they called it. In fact they are still here – there are two military bases still remaining which are technically British soil; Akrotiri .and Dhekelia , which are still said to hold nuclear arsenals. Even more terrifying , there’s also Ayia Napa, early noughties Magaluf-lite ( Is Ayia Napa still a thing ? It appears to have disappeared from popular culture since reaching its cultral zenith with Dj Pied Piper circa 2003 ) I won’t be going there of course , because I am a snob. Do I really like it, is it is it wicked ?  No , I my opinion , no.

Multiple locations in Cyprus are directly linked to Greek Mythology , in particular the cult of Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of love . For anyone who has read Greek Mythology, this concept of love is a complex one , wrapped up in all manner of betrayl, envy ,lust,lasciviousness ,turning people into trees , tricking people into falling in love with their own spatulas etc.
You’ve got the town of Paphos, which we will come to soon ,named after the daughter of Pygmalion the historical incel who, tired of the fickleness of real women , built a really sexy staute and then got off with it till it came to life. You’ve got the Adonis Trail , named after the fittest man in all of antiquity who’s mother was, obviously a Myrrh tree and was so fit he had to be killed by a wild boar. Naturally while walking this very trail , I fear for my own safety from wild hogs, but all that happens is I get mildly perturbed by this mountain goat.

The followers of Aphrodite were said to have practiced Ritual prostitution, where these holy hos would wait for eager and devout followers to pay their respects to free them from their service ; for the fine looking ones ,this was grand but some poor gals would be years waiting for the ride , a bit like a pre-Christian Love Island in a way . Another spot is the Baths of Aphrodite, a bit of a puddle where she bathed and could clearly have done better. In Paphos , you’ve also got the remains of the house of Dionysius, one of Aphrodites many lovers. Legend has it that, cursed by Hera out of jealousy , Aphrodite gave birth to Dionysius’ baby , a pot bellied, massive tongued infant who became the patron Saint of Massive Boners, Priapus . Life was hard , understandably for Priapus , but he later found his niche after a herdsman took him in and raised him, later discovering that Priapus could use his massive penis to aid in the growth of plants.The fantastic Cyprus Museum in Nicosia is well worth a visit to see the range of archaeological finds of the island , with members getting a prominent discount.

Ode to Nicosia

Oh Dear

Split Nicosia

Two countries not as close

As they appear

Bella Day, 2021

Somewhat ironically given it’s moniker as the island of love, Nicosia the captial , is the last divided city in Europe , riven in two by the Green Line , an arbitrary border drawn up by the British to separate the warring Greek and Turkish populations. In between this line lies the UN exclusion zone, an abandoned buffer  where even in the centre of the city  parts lie uninhabited and decrepit, much like Bray town centre, but not as bad . In this nether-zone lies the old Nicosia airport, and tales tell of houses where dinner plates remain on the tables and where car dealerships still have their 1970s stock with zero miles due to the frenzied fleeing of the populations once the Turkish army arrived in 1974. The presence of this divide in the middle of a capital city is stark; following Google maps home can literally lead you into an international incident as various lanes end in guard posts, barbed wire and if you’re lucky, The Berlin Wall Kebab House. I have never seen such a ramshackle and run down city centre but there are nice bars and restaurants mere metres from a forbidden imaginary line which divides a city that for thousands of years played home to countless migratory peoples of antiquity.

We can’t cross the border to the Turkish occupied North as we don’t have a recent covid test , so we go up a viewing tower to peer over to the other side, where you’re greated by a giant North Cyprus flag plastered on the mountains for all to see, which is a wee bit cheeky . There used to be no crossing of the border whatsoever , then around 12 years ago restrictions were relaxed , allowing people to return to homes they’d left some 40 years ago. In the Turkish controlled North Nicosia , alas , there are no Irish pubs.  As someone who grew up with news of the troubles in Northern Ireland on a daily basis , while it would be naive to ignore the deep -seated distrust of the ‘other’ , you also know that it’s possible for things to get better given time ,compromise and crucially money and investment. I’m not saying that a Nicosian Irish pub near the border would solve years of intercommunity hostility , but it definitely would. Someone do it!

Ode to Paphos:

And Ode to entice

You to go to Paphos

Some bits are nice

Whilst other bits are Naff-os

Bella Day , 2021

Our first stop on the trail of Irish Pub numero 5-0 is Paphos, the resort town on the western coast and the centre of worship of the cult of Aphrodite. 
On first inspection, on the bus from the airport , it doesnt look all that ,consisting of strips of hotels and could be anywhere on the Med with non descript bars and faux tavernas, all day every day English roasts and ‘Jimmy’s Killler Prawns’ . About 50 years ago , Paphos was just a village till the Turkish invasion of North Cyprus forced the abandonment of the major resorts of Varosha and Famagusta. So development turned to Paphos along with an international airport . Not to be dismissed though, among the drive through KFCs  and ” Tea for Two” faux British caf franchise outlets, lies some of the best preserved archaeological remains in Europe – in Katos Archaeological Park and the Tomb of the Kings, well worth a visit to live out your Indiana Jones fantasies and see some cracking mosaics to limber up for 1 euro Sambucca shots . Interestingly , after Greek and English , the third language in Paphos is Russian . This preponderance could be due to any number of reasons- Greece and Russia do share close ties due to religion, and even populations of dispersed Pontian Greeks . Also telling of course, is that for a cheeky 5000000 euro investment you can buy yourself a Cypriot passport and with it access to the entire EU! Cпасибо!

It is here , in Western Cyprus that I try a first for this site; the elusive and highly suspect Beach Guinness , this fabled beast of myth and lore. As a rule, and being Irish, Guinness is not and should not be comsumed in 36 degree heat on a beach. Yet is it not my role to experience the inexcusable for your benefit , dear reader? Much like Icarus, I aim high and go order one from the Beach Bar , in the interests of science and with a dose of hubris that a vengeful god could smite me for. . …..I can gleefully recount that the Beach Guinness was actually decent enough. Much as King Midas turned everything he touched to gold, Publican Enemy turns shite pints into actual ok ones!

One interesting factor of note is that it’s extremely  difficult to get even tipsy here due to the Cypriot tradition of Meze . Now , you might have had a “meze” of sorts , a  couple of carrot sticks with some tepid yogurt dip,but here the real deal is an unending cavalcade of delights : grilled meats , cuttlefish, rubbery-Cypriot -King- of -cheeses -Halloumi ; fish , pita, tarmasalata, hoummus, cypriot potatoes, chicken, falafel, Greek salad , bread , tatziki, chips, tahini, roasted aubergines, sausages, stuffed vine leaves, kebabs, souvlaki, ravioli , more and more arriving faster than you can consume it like some sort of gastronomic boxing match where  you’ve got to go the rounds till you can’t take no more and you are begging the waiters to stop. And of course loads of free shots and desserts all for the grand total of 20€. One waiter at a meze joint  attempts to go further by offering us a free shot of our choosing.

” Would you like something strong, something sweet, something local or something good?”
“One of each please “
“OK, one second” and proceeds to bring out  every bottle of spirits the restaurant has and leaves them on the table. ” Ill have one with you and you help yourselves”. So proceed to pour shot after shot, all for free downing with the waiter and leave before things become insane in the meze.

Back to Paphos, we have the milestone 50th Irish Pub spectacular!! Located on the main tourist strip is O’ Neil’s– not to be confused with Japanese owned Super pub consortium O’NEILLs . O’Neills is a pub designed for sun seeking tourists so you kind of know what you’re going to get- a lot of faded tattoos and leathery skin . It always amazes me how these pubs work abroad in this heat. One crucial factor in defence of O’Neills, and of all Irish pubs in unrelenting climes is worth mentioning – the role of pub vs bar. The service overall in Cyprus as always is great , so it is with dismay that in one particular local non Irish bar- pounding live music, bottles of vodka in ice buckets , a lot of unbuttoned shirts etc… the waitress asks us to put away our playing cards , saying ” you can’t play cards here- this is a bar”.  Feeling scolded, conversation is difficult over the pounding euro dance hits so we just sit and drink our bottle of ouzo. By contrast, O’ Neil’s pub ( and all Irish/ British pubs ) are exactly the kind of places where you can talk , play cards and everything you can’t do in a bar. With that , it shows the value of the Irish pub as an alternative hub of contemplation , albeit with Sky Sports news on 24/7. In O’Neills we have a good chat, relaxingly drink pints of the local inoffensive brew Keo and admire the collection of crockery that the bar has assembled for some reason. That’s why these pubs manange to survive out here where they shouldn’t; and that’s why they are an vital and affectionately held part of the culture of the British Isles . I arrived at O’Neills with mild abivalence and sneering detachment , and leave with an affection for it’s faux crockery and wooden panelling and stained glass. To dismiss the Irish pub would be, in my view an honest Myth-take .

I leave the last word to a randomly overheard hexameter, spoken by an unknown English Tourist in O’Neils , this modern day Homer capturing the moment as thus:

This is the life

The ‘Omm- bi-ance’

Four Pints of Guinness

A Pie

My Family

• I also visit ‘Shamrocks Irish Pub , Paphos to watch the Ireland- Portugal match. There is nothing of note to report about Shamrocks, except it’s Irish Clock . See below for the picture of the Irish clock.

An Ode to the Cyprus Cat

Cyprus pus

You inner city Kitty

You Gato from the ghetto

You mangy but you pretty