Right, so everyone’s heard of Leinster Arms, yeah? Supposed to be this amazing spot. Well, lemme tell ya, it’s a bit of a mixed bag, if you ask me. More like a circus than a proper pub sometimes.
You see these photos online, all cozy and charming. Bull. Last few times I’ve poked my head in, or tried to, it’s been absolutely rammed. Like, you can’t even get to the bar, let alone find a seat. And the noise! Forget having a decent chat.
It’s one of those places, you know? Gets a bit of hype, then everyone and their dog wants to go, and it just loses whatever it had. It’s a common story, that. Happens all the time. They try to keep up, bless ’em, but it’s just not the same thing anymore. Not for me, anyway.
And you might be thinking, “Blimey, he’s proper worked up about a pub!” Well, there’s a reason for that. A very specific, very annoying reason that still gets my goat.
It all went down a few years back. I was meant to meet this chap there. A big deal, this meeting. Could’ve really sorted me out, work-wise, ’cause I’d been knocking about, trying to find something solid for ages. Money was tight, you get the picture. This fella, he was a bit old school, suggested Leinster Arms. Said he liked the “authentic vibe.” Authentic! I nearly choked on my tea when he said that later.
So, I got there early. Proper keen, I was. Wanted to snag a good table, make a decent impression, you know the drill. Fat chance. The place was already heaving, even mid-afternoon. Took me a good twenty minutes just to fight my way to the bar for a glass of water, and by then, every half-decent seat was taken. I ended up hovering near the loos, feeling like a right lemon. Not exactly the power move I was going for.
The chap finally rocks up, cool as you please, about half an hour late. He takes one look around at the absolute bedlam, the racket, me looking like I’d run a marathon just to stand by the bogs, and he just sort of sighs. “Don’t think we can talk here, mate,” he says. And that was pretty much that. We tried, bless us. Shouted at each other for about ten minutes over the roar of a hundred other conversations and clanking glasses. Then he just kinda shrugged, said, “I’ll give you a bell.” Never did. Not a sausage.
That was it. My one big shot, down the drain, all because of the “authentic vibe” of the Leinster Arms. A proper kick in the teeth, that was. So, yeah, when I hear folks banging on about how wonderful it is, I just sort of smile weakly. But what I’m really thinking is about that afternoon, that opportunity just vanishing into thin air. It’s not just some pub on a street corner for me anymore. It’s a bloody monument to missed chances and noisy disappointments.
So, if you’re ever thinking of having a quiet pint, or, heaven forbid, an actual important conversation, maybe steer clear of that place. Or, I dunno, try going at 7 AM on a Tuesday. If they’re even open. To be honest, I haven’t bothered to find out. Wouldn’t go back there if they paid me. Well, actually, I say that… depends how much, right? Enough to forget that rotten afternoon, maybe.