Nancy Spain’s, Monument:

After some continental rambles, we are back in London Town. After visiting Harat’s Irish Pub Chain Co., we find ourselves in a spot I’d visited before , including their other branch in Shoreditch, and with news of a Manchester offshoot, its The Nancy Spain-ish Empire!
Now, a decent Irish pub can make you feel you’re home, sans Leprechauns and Faux Paddy-whackery , which is pretty tricky to pull off. Nancy’s pulls you through time AND space , a wormhole rip in the space time continuum. Outside, the ostentatious skyscrapers of the City, couriers, finance bros wearing puffy vests…. until…

Once inside, you are transported to a dimly wooden farmhouse with wooden shelves, a counter …….and some fiance bros wearing puffy vests. Nancy’s ace up its sleeve is the porter- eschewing Guinness for what now must be the finest pint of Murphy’s in the city. They also do a cheeky Beamish, which I have for the first time. Perhaps if not in such close proximity, I would be more impressed, but as it stands I return to their Murphy’s.Nancy Spains gets bonus points for:

1.having very good staff who say “enjoy your drink” which i think is class.
2. The owners are from my hometown Tralee, so represent.
3. They sell the lesser spotted King Crisps , the Murphy’s of the Irish crisp world
4.The live music is decent, with some skilled fiddle playing on show, ( which one of the finance bros calls “diddle di eye music). Philistines ..

Well worth a look-see if you are in need of a porter in the City and to warp through dimensions on your lunch break

Biddly Mulligans :

📍AKA The Trump Arms – Olympia, Kensington

By and large, Irish Pubs have been operating outside of the Culture Wars, their primary aim being to flog porter to all and sundry. But one lesser spotted Irish Pub in particular piqued my attention after appearing in the local news due its temporary topical makeover, as local boozer Biddy Mulligans became The Trump Arms for the duration of the visit of the child-king- in chief himself. And for added incendiary rhetoric, the front lounge was re-branded as the Charlie Kirk FREE SPEECH memorial room

Alas, on my arrival it had already reverted to its original incarnation, the portrait of the aforementioned college dropout replaced by Irish Patriot and sometime mysticist W.B. Yeats. Yeats of course was a prominent Irish Nationalist, who promoted his cause with a dedication to and a celebration of culture, language and art as a means of nationalist pride and self determination . As distinct from arguing with 17 year-old’s about what a woman is.

On a trip to the toilet, a cut out of Elvis looms over the stairwell, pronouncing: ” Since my baby left me, I’ve found a new place to dwell.” Confusingly , I am left unsure as to whether this relates to the Trumpian display upstairs or if this is a permanent fixture. It does fit somewhat with the ‘Radicalized Facebook Dad’ aesthetic of the venue as a whole. And in that same spirit of expression, some free speech champion has whimsically added the word “ bag” to a urinal sticker saying “God Bless Alan Ball” 

So I leave Biddy Mulligans, perhaps ne’er to return.It would be hypocritical of me not to respect the pub’s independent streak , a feature I have often commended in the past in contrast to the customer-focus-group led draconian faceless chain pub. It is also worth noting, crucially , the attention economy has done its job, drawing me in with its polarizing magnetism, and separated me from a few quid. Which is exactly the point. ” Prove me Wrong”, as they say

The Parish Bar, Wembley:

In Rural Ireland, your home Parish significantly impacts your choices in life .Where you study. Who play for. Who you irrationally hate. For those from a major city, think of your Parish like your ‘ends’ or ‘hood’ but with added ditches and livestock and the ever-present waft of slurry and less people.The Irish Parish land division runs deep, originally dating back to Celtic times, where territorial units were divided into Tuaths.There are over 87 civil parishes in Co Kerry alone, and your association can lead to irrational lifelong enmity with the neighbors. Yeah, I’m talking about you, Ardfert.

I have no idea which Parish Wembley is, but I do know it’s the exact opposite of a rural Kerry subsection. Massive stadium, busy intersections, Asian Temples , little to no free roaming Frisians . I’m here on a flying visit to drop into pub of note , The Parish Bar, just by the legendary Wembley herself. I’ve not been to Wembley much- for me, the magic of the Wembley Cup Final never recovered from when teams stopped recording songs for the finals -( think the iconic Pass n Move its the Liverpool Groove).

Despite the surroundings, the Parish Bar looks exactly like a pub you would find in my hometown, one among a row of houses, it’s Celtic Font beckoning you in. Inside, there’s a fairly standard lounge , intimate but lively while out back there’s a windy beer garden with a jaunty faux Oifig an Phoist (Post office) ,a kind of shed bit, a wee shop, all brightly painted much like you’d find in the west of Ireland. There’s also a snug area. Due to its proximity to the aforementioned Wem-ber-ly, you always get an eclectic mix here.

Alas, I cannot stay long in the Parish, but it looks like the kind of place that you could nestle in for a few hours as it progressively gets wilder. Pints are decent and reasonably priced, and and tellingly, pride of place on the wall goes to a jersey from the Kerry All Ireland winning Team of 2001, indicating that this pubs owners may well be from a nearby Parish from back home. As long as it’s not Ardfert. I hate Ardfert so much.

The Old Dispensary:

“London’s Coolest Neighbourhood” they said, – surely the kiss of death. Winning such a title is setting you up for a  massive slagging, so I decided to venture to South London on a Tuesday afternoon to test the waters myself. Who better to test “cool” than a  41 year old man who’s trying to visit every Irish Pub in the world.

If the rumors are true, and for Camberwell truly to be recognised as the 4th coolest neighbourhood in the world by some no doubt very scientific matrix, then it should , nay must , have a decent Irish Pub: long a symbol of a low income migrant ghetto,  now in 2025 a sign you’ve made it.

Which takes us to the Old Dispensary. Now, because I have an actual real job , i go on a Tuesday afternoon, which is not optimal pub time. But a good pub is a good pub is a good pub.I like to try and describe what makes an Irish pub work: some are growers that only a pub-lover could love, but sometimes the attraction is instant. See -The Old Dispensary. On street level, in front of a busy road, it lies low in the Octobernal dusk-light. A beacon, an icon, The Guinness sign illuminates my path, like a Michelin Star signifier of any Pub. Good start.Immediately, there’s an instant state of elation as you gaze around the red-light hues of the interior. Think:

The red Guinness tap.
The taytos.
The instruments .
The Snug.
The mural to the garden
The Irish- Jamaican solidarity stickers.
The cosiness
The Pint – £4.80!!?!??! Mighty it was too.

This is undoubtedly one of the finest Irish Pubs in all of London, one that takes you to somewhere in the Dublin Quays . Music is a driving force here, as it should be in any Irish pub – but I  miss the gig that night , as tis’ a school night. But the place looks perfect for a gig so a trip to see it in full flow is required. The dearth of decent live venues in London means the Old Dispensary is to be treasured.When I first came to London , i remember Camden being the coolest place I’d ever seen. “T-shirts of Joy Division !!! Sweet AND sour chicken!?!?! Poppers galore!! This is a fine community pub. Pretty cool.

The Shanakee, Ealing

Last Tuesday, on a whim, I decide to get on the Elizabeth Line and head West .’Cause when I get that feeling , I go to Sexual Ealing…………..Broadway.

Just opposite the station, overlooking the commons, and courtesy of the Lizzy Line, spiriting you across the city in mere minutes we find the Shanakee. I order a delicious Pint, followed by a metric funk-tonne of Meanies, the beloved sour cream “Corn Snack” – with its Lime Green and red livery , a design icon for your average Irish Millennial. The pickled egg flavour surely the perfect accompaniment to any date.

The Shanakee, or Seanchaí as Gaeilge was a story-teller of Irish Culture , in the oral tradition. The logo of the pub attests to this, a silhouette of a becapped , pipe smoking Sherlock Holmes- esque detective type.
The cultural significance of this role is oft claimed as the reason for the locaqiuosness of the average Irish person .Wishful thinking? Over-romanticism? or Pure bollix ? And yet, as my impeccably chosen words assail you , you well may find yourself in agreement with this hypothesis, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

The Seanchaí was how stories were passed down in the oral tradition, each rendition embellishing each tale with its own cadence, rhythm and lyricism , and crucially, a diminishing relationship to actual factual record. It may also explain the preference for the exaggerated braggadocio over the safe sanitised facts. ” If you have the choice between the truth and the myth , print the myth” says Sammy, a regular who I strike up a conversation with when I ask him to watch my bag as I go to the bar, a figure who may exist or could easily be a avatar for me to shoe horn in that quote to make it look like homespun wisdom as distinct from a quote I lifted from an Instagram post.

If the Seanchaí is a story teller, a bringer of mirth and devilry, of story and debate, then the pub, buzzing with people young and old, is an exemplar of the same spirit. Its great to see a pub so lively on Tuesday afternoon, with a beautiful pint and punters of all ages.
Tale as old as time..

The Old Eagle

Man has no finer way to spend a Saturday than on that noblest of quests- the Pub Crawl. Arranged by pintsman @cult_status , Camden Town of the 90’s was the chosen venue. Camden is many things to many people , and despite the ebb and flow of time , the one constant remains: Camden has bare pubs of lore.

After visiting some fine venues, including being introduced to the magic of Red Horse ,Philippines finest extra strength lager by @jc_loves_guinness loves_guinness , we took a quiet detour more in hope than expectation to @theoldeaglecamden , a mysterious corner pub I’d never heard tell of, located away from the madness of the high street.

And what a find. Once in, we examined the site for tell tale signs of its Irishness, of which there were many , subtley dashed around the venue. The pub is cozy, with a good Guinness and according to some heavy duty advertising, legendary chips. An orchestra of instruments dangle from the front window, and in addition to the stylish stained glass roof, on the side wall Edward Hoppers Nighthawks is lovingly recreated.

A classy, classy secret Irish Pub.

Ye Old White Horse

Hiding away down next to Holborn, spotted by man of letters @tomthemayermayer , we find Ye Olde White Horse, the pub with the self – proclaimed ” Irish Accent”.As an employee of a nearby rival University, it pains me to say that although we do rank higher in the global Uni rankings, we are missing an on-campus Irish Pub. One for the Union to sort , methinks.This particular equine has that added rarity of Guinness Zero on tap, allowing for all the cosplay and stolen valor of the pint experience but without the head/ heartache, so I go for this ( ’tis a school night) and despite the slight sweetness, its pretty good.

Inside, the pub has a range of whimsical Guinness wall tat , hence where the Irish accent becomes more pronounced . Its cosy inside, and people gather to linger in its narrow alley way to the front,Overall, this white horse is bucking brilliant, a great spot to have up your sleeve if in this hood. Everyday’s a School day.

Maggies’ Bar , Kensal Rise

In 2005, I spent my 21st birthday in a random West London Irish Pub somewhere near Wilsden as I didn’t know anyone in London , living as I did in the nearby hostel in a dorm of 12 random scoundrels sleeping on the bottom bunk beneath a massive Slovakian Colonel Kurz lookalike who would impale his flickknife into the dressing table each night.Last week, I went back to try and find that pub. And find someone showing the Ireland- Portugal game. This is that story.

West London. Prime Irish territory back in the day. Kensal Rise. Neasden. Cricklewood. While the Borough of Hackney and Islington now have the most Irish , it was not always so.These places are the pub equivalent of the Coelacanth , the prehistoric fish presumed extinct only to turn up exactly the same, non-plussed by all that’a gone on in the interceeding decades.It was a simpler time in the early noughties, where the only thing you have to worry about was the ever- present threat of Al-qaeda.

A wander from Kensal Green takes me to a seemingly familiar spot- Maggies bar, a long room with dartboard, no frills whatsoever and a very nice pint. Rte plays on the tele, as who I can only presume is Maggie offers another round to some punters . A ridiculous sausage dog trots across the barroom floor his nails clacking as he proceeds to behind the bar. There is nothing and no-one to stop him. This is the type of place where a sausage dog can wander with impunity. Can’t do that at the Devonshire. This place must be exaclty the same as it was in 2005; the only concession to modernity is you can’t smoke inside, but I’d say you could sneak one. As I enjoy my second pint, a feeling washes over me. Nostalgia? Saudade?? Gas? No …more a realisation….

That this is the wrong pub. I’ve never been here before in my life. I must go into the tempest ……

The Army & Navy:

The Army & Navy Dalston

For years while I lived in N16 I would give this boozer a wide berth for fear that it was a jingoistic militarised sweatbox. But in recent years it has become apparent that it is both Irish and a lovely pub. On a Tuesday, its calm and you can enjoy their fine Murphys and Guinness for just over a £5. Add in taytos and the affable Irish landlord , and we can firmly and decisively add the army and navy to the official @publicanenemy canon of Irish pubs worldwide. Such are the vermisilitudes of fate, the pub has found itself to be flavour of the month, and so comingling with the auld boys who’ve been going for years are the mulleted multitudes and people who wear scarfs over their faces like shawls. To be honest, this is the sweet spot of any pub, the belle epoque, where the two worlds exist in peaceful co-habitation, like in the Seregeti where all the zebras are there with the elephants and all being sound. I like authenticity, sure, but the pub I was in last week had some lad come in with a bag full of stolen beef , so there’s a limit. Here, savour the atmosphere, the carpet provides color and texture and the ratio of screens to tables is spot on. A well run pub that deserves its moment in the sun. Army & Navy, I salute you