31) McGrattan's of Fitzwilliam Lane, D2

Tucked away down a small side street not far from the seat of government and power – small wonder it has a reputation as a politicians' bar – the prices reflect this in their steady mounting year by year (or day by day). The beer-garden is located down the side laneway they’ve named ‘Lansdowne Road’ and is very pleasant in the summer as it turns into a suntrap with seats. On entry one will notice the ornate front windows filled with curios and fine china. An impressive front door is arched and pillared which gives way to the main bar which has two pool tables. There’s an especially beautiful open fire and hearth with red leather benches attached so that one may sit and comfortably roast one’s fanny. In the back atrium a massive marlin can be found suspended over the bar. To the left of the bar lies an authentic snug (a little on the large side) but is private with a hatch to the bar.

Former news broadcaster Anne Doyle has been seen here, swanning around and acting kittenish – it was subsequently revealed (to Ryan Tubridy on the Late Late Show) that she is in a relationship with the proprietor, one Dan McGrattan. The exterior claims the bar was established in 1798 which doesn’t smell right. Research published in the 2017 blog Come Here To Me [1], has shown that this claim is in fact bollox. McGrattan’s was established in November 1989. ‘All the available evidence suggests that the bar is 28 years old and not the 219 years they claim.’

Erudite Gentleman

On September 20th 2020, we revisited this pub for the first time in many years. Dublin had been shifted into ‘Level 3’ on the table of Covid 19 restrictions, and only pubs with significant outdoor areas were allowed to serve. The sky was bleak and grey and the round was expensive (all the more so considering the mediocre powder chowder we ordered - which came served in seeming dogfood bowls), but any port(er) in a storm. One dribbling drunkard was seen weaving about in a lamentably sloshed condition - under normal circumstances he would never have been served, but the staff were clearly under pressure and happy to cater to any rats who gave them custom. 

One particular barman is a disgrace to the place and is comparable only to the soulless employee of McGarry’s. His only means of communication with the world is to grunt and snarl and appear as though he’d rather expire than live just one more minute of his pitiful little existence. (This guy needs help, fast)! Other barmen by contrast were friendly, even charming. One such barkeep quipped about the chowder ‘I’d tell you I made it myself but I wouldn’t having a fucking clue!’ Either did the chef as it turned out. 

Andrew Stephens also had an unfortunate encounter with the aforementioned Anne Doyle on his way to the pissing chamber during Covid-19. The glorified anchorwoman (whose talent amounts to reading a teleprompter and being featured on a postage stamp) stood firmly in the way surrounded by her pack of cohorts. With social distancing in mind, all quickly moved aside realising their error in blocking the main thoroughfare, but precious little Anne Catherine Doyle remained. After making eye contact with Stephens she stood her ground, turned up her nose and insisted that the mere mortal move around. What foul vanity! Fuck off back to Ferns, Doyle! Or the terracotta tanning parlour from whence she derives her particular Oompa-Loompa hue/skin.

Mrs. Doyle

FOOTNOTE

[1] https://comeheretome.com/2017/01/23/mcgrattans-established-1798/

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