Is the demise of the Irish pub upon us?

Reports that the number of pubs in Ireland is declining has struck terror (there is no other word) into more dedicated followers among our male populace. Pity their plight, as that famed refuge of sinners may soon be a thing of the past, lamented as so much else dear to us – the forever missed and departed.

What dire, unspeakable fate awaits as pub after pub closes, never to open again? An institution considered to be as central to Irish life as the weather, the Leaving Cert and the cursed hand pass – this relentless series of pub closures represents a fate worse than death for many. At least death is a conclusion, not a seemingly never-ending drip, drip, drip of more bad news.

Where will the dedicated go now? What will they do? Poetry comes to mind. (What else, in times of deepest despair?) Keats, for example, who, though only 23 when he died in Rome (too bad anywhere!) might have been writing about many surviving Irish pubs when he recalled such places as “where men sit and hear each other groan;/ Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,/Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies...”

Hence the gloom which seems obligatory in so many Irish pubs, where what cannot be seen is best unseen.

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Then there is also that ever-consoling “draught of vintage! that hath been/Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,/Tasting of Flora and the country green,/Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!”

[ Words are like leaves? On the contrary, Alexander Pope ]

But what of the pub as adult creche? – such as Kennedy’s of Drumcondra, which has a sign outside describing itself as a “Husband Day Care Centre”. It asks bothered wives, “Need time to yourself? Need time to relax? Need to go shopping?” And offers the perfect solution. “Leave your husband with us! We look after him for you! You only pay for his drinks.”

Ireland really needs more of such initiative.

There is that other pub too, which shall be nameless. It offers special “Hiding From the Wife” phone-answering rates. These range from a single euro for “..not here”, through €2 for “just missed him”, €3 for “had the one and left”, €4 for “not in at all today”, and the ultimate €5 for a single, simple “...Who?”

A glory is passing from Irish life.

Demise, from Old French demis, for “dismiss, put away”

inaword@irishtimes.com