“You should never meet your heroes,” my granddad would say. And it was for that reason he lost his job from the “Meet your Heroes -Make- a Wish Come-True Dream Foundation” of St Finbarr’s hospital for Distressed & Downtrodden Street Waifs. Yet in this episode, I aim to meet not one but two simultaneously, one in human form , d’other in the form of a renowned drinking establishment.

In terms of location, it would arguably have been quicker for me to train it to Stansted, fly to Dublin, then take a bus all the way to outer Westmeath than to traverse the Greater London Metropolitan area down to Catford . And yet Catford is where I suggest to meet the Czar of Celtic curios , the high priest of Irish internet ephemera , Brinsley McNamara , creator /curator of much loved Weird Ireland . Our plan is thus; while others might surreptitiously use a beer garden to honk on their scented vape or do sneaky keys of gak ,we aim to set up a guerrilla podcast in the smoking bit and talk all things pub. Essentially it’ll be like Frost/ Nixon but with random Hibernophilia.

A journey of such length always builds up the expectation. And to hear tribute of the Blythe Hill Tavern and its many accolades , the anticipation is even greater. The grade-II listed BHT , as no one calls it, is proceeded by its fame not only as a grand local boozer, but arguably amongst the finest in the land. Yes, even finer than that O’Neill’s down an alley in Ilford, if you could imagine such a thing. But don’t take my word for it! It features highly in Timeout’s 50 Greatest London Pubs, it won the CAMRA Best pub and Cider Pub in the Southeast of London, the bloody 2018 World Cup of Pubs, the Nobel Peace Prize for Pubs, the Eurovision Pub Contest ( made up), and is known to all Guinness aficionados as having what those in the industry call “absolute creamers”.

After wandering through nondescript suburban South London, you come across what appears to be fairly standard looking corner pub .Tellingly, the eye- catching Guinness mural on the gable wall hints at the pleasures that may lie within. The Blythe Hill tavern is off to a flyer from the get go. The layout of the pub pleases me- you have various lounges and salons all within reach of a bar. The barkeeps all have nice ironed white shirts – a touch of class. Despite there being a rowdy rugby game going on, I’m never left more than seconds waiting at the bar before a pint is firmly thrust into my hand . The clientele is a true mix; rugby fans,- jubilant Italians, sad, sad Welsh people, aul lads watching the horses, baseball-capped-mustache bros and a group of regulars whom the owner goes over to have 60 seconds of designated craic, like an absolute pro . After a couple of pints drunk way too fast and a smattering of the house taytos, Brinsley arrives with the goods.

Under cover of darkness, we blithely head to a corner of the quite extensive beer garden.The pints flow freely ( as does unfortunately our bottle of the thinking man’s Buckfast , Jamaican Tonic Wine Magnum, smashing to the floor as an impromptu offering to the podcasting gods. Or podgods. ) On a glass-picking recon, one of the beshirted bar staff spots our illicit setup , and walks over sternly.

” What the hell is this – some sort of Podcast?” Unable to sufficiently deny the fact, bearing in mind we are clearly speaking into microphones plugged into a mixer while recording an actual podcast, we decide honesty is the best approach.

” I’m trying to visit every Irish Pub in the world.” I argue, hoping that as a man of the pub , he cannot surely take umbrage. And sure enough, he says nothing, and merely extends his hand to be shook. “Fair play, that’s fucking class”. You can hear the full recording of our very enjoyable chat soon, interrupted only occasionally by a wayward corgi and me eating taytos directly into the mic. The Blythe Hill Tavern is as good as they say, a mighty mighty pub like its neighbour Skehans , one that’s a space for all, be they hipsters, aul lads watching the horse racing or 2 fellas recording a podcast in the smoking area.