The
news of the closure of The Cock Tavern in the north of Dublin spread from the
epicentre to the provinces as fast as the passage of information can allow—so
reasonable fast these days. Time-space convergence has something to do with
that but that’s a story (mind you, not a terribly interesting one) for another
day and another time.
The
façade of the public house at present, with doors closed and window blinds low,
looks like any such establishment would after about one in the morning or on
Good Friday. However, these are not sings of temporary closure, but of the
place and activities at an end, terminated, shut down, business concluded.
The
Cock Tavern had been a powerful institution within the archipelago of pubs
along the thoroughfare of Sord, the home of a hole in the ground where midnight
drinkers and exalted saints used to frequent since the late 800s AD. On the
eastern side of the street, The Cock Tavern had hegemony as far as the Fingal
County Council offices to the north and the Apache Pizza place on the Malahide
Road to the south. It extracted heavy tribute from businesses within its
territory (The Camera Cabin, Peter Mark, Joan Van Danmagdenberg [or whatever
you’re having yourself] and that place that once was a jeweller, then an offo,
a florist and is currently a jeweller again). The Star, a rival pub to the
north, was vanquished and was placed strictly under the direct suzerainty of
The Cock Tavern following the Battle of Chapel Lane.
The
greatest challenge to the survival of the ideals, and the very existence, of
The Cock was the arrival of the invasion forces of the feared Nordies. Having
occupied the town’s castle and either blown up or set up gerrymandering Vichy
France-style governments in the other pubs of the town, The Cock Tavern was the
last bastion of resistance facing the Nordies. To their battle cry of ‘WE’LL
BLOO UP YAR FLUTHER IN THE NEEM OF MARTIN LUTHER,’ those holding out in The
Cock replied, with a mature debonair nonchalance, ‘ah no’.
The
day was won by Martin, the fella on the door, who boxed Ian Paisley… in the
face. The victory was hard won and gave The Cock Tavern an aura of martial
greatness which bolstered its claims to greater tribute and superiority amongst
the other powerhouses of the town. [For more on the failed Nordy invasion of
Sord, see: http://thebram.blogspot.ie/2008/06/nordy-bastards-invade-swords.html.]
This led to the dawning of, what historians have since called, its Golden Age
as it held lordship over all others in the vicinity—the greatest pub in terms
of resources, prestige, seniority and imperial clout along An Sráid Mhór.
Then
all of a sudden something happened in the wider economy that was to have a
detrimental effect on the zenith age of the Cock. However, nobody really
understands what it was exactly, but it had something to do with banks, over-paid
footballers and a recession. The only person who knew what was going on, C.
Lenihan, was killed by the knowledge itself. The Garda Suíochána are still
investigating at great cost. The moral of the story for the Cock was that
people started getting locked at home more often instead of popping down the
pub for ‘a few swifties’ and ending up staying all night and spending a bomb.
So, balls to that.
As
the Ancients were more than aware, empires can fall as easily as they rise. The
days of Cock were drawing to an end. The libation of Fosterius was poured for
one and all in the Golden Age, available to those across the income-spectrum.
Then it went up to a fiver a pint and, I mean, it’s not even worth the €3 we
were paying for it at its lowest.
The
holy sanctuary dedicated to the Cock deity (down by the Five Lamps for some
reason) has been overwhelmed with offerings in the aftermath of the pub’s closure.
Among the symbols left at the altar of Cock were a red t-shirt, three Belgian
waffles, a slightly tattered deck of playing cards, a glass of Fosterius, a
combo plate with chicken tenders, and a bag of mixed jellies.
Petitioners
have particularly rallied around the plinthèd statues of two divinities:
Rachel, goddess of youthful beauty and politics, and Ana, goddess of absolute
ride and affable chats. Gifts offered to these deities include smiles, awkward
conversation and small tips of €2 coins. In the regions, the people offer
sacrifices to the Cock gods of their choosing: Tall Blonde, the Fat Sound
Bouncer, Hell-Bound Hotty, Yer One that Used Work During the Day and the ‘My
Aul Flower’ Barman.
*
Take
me, Muse, back through the Cock for a quick pint and a bit of a look around…
We
scoot by the door man, you and I, with a familiar nod and a ‘how’s things?’
that is half meant as proof of non-intoxication and half simply being nice.
‘Ah, it’s buzzin’ in there!’ comes the reply.
We
pass two boys self-consciously drinking Guinness at the first table in on the
right. Nodding slightly flirtatiously to a barmaid, we stride to the bar and
place an order with yer man from down the way there. At the bar are four lads
bantering incessantly about music, laughing maniacally and waiting on eight
drinks. Out at the front table is an enormous group of mixed individuals and
couples, each in some state of a decaying uniform attire and the space hangs
with the odour of ice-cream and popcorn.
We
pass, you and I, out the back as small groups celebrate birthdays, people
coming and going out of each other’s lives, chance encounters and
long-time-no-see meetings. We enjoy our drinks and watch as the groups enter
and exit, dwindle in size and reform with new components, in all states of high
energy and emotion. The bar must be an equal opportunities employer, especially
when it comes to left-right political leanings—there are staff that, at one
time or another, are Communists, Fascists, Centre-Rightists with a European
Christian Union membership, Don’t-give-a-shit-ists and ‘sure they’re all a
loada wankers’ enthusiasts.
Staff
are drawn to a table with a brimmed hat placed atop a book. It causes
curiosity, openness and a sense of sociability. Exchanged stories bring
civility and all. There is a feeling of waiting and anticipation in the wooden
tables and in the mirrors—advertising long-dead whiskies—that line the walls. A
character wearing a watch that reads ‘too soon’ picks up the hat and walks
slowly towards the door. Watch him, my companion, watch what he does and try to
guess what it is that brings him here and what he leaves with—and leaves
without.
*
There
is talk among the underground intelligentsia of collusion, plots, intrigue. It
is said that the Cock, despite having to all appearances lost the war of life,
has a stratagem in play. It is said that it faces a new enemy, a foe greater
than the outdone Nordies with their flutes, sashes and Paisley weapon. The
Wetherspoonians of the land beyond the seas has gained a strategic foothold in
the adjacent territory to the Cock. According to a small group of hooded
aul-wans all huddling over a cauldron and whispering something about Cawdor,
Glamis and all, have prophesised that the Cock is not extinct.
They
use a sacred text, which looks an awful lot like the Boy Scouts Directory from
1998, to predict an alliance that will be advantageous to the Cock in a
conflict with the new-comers. ‘Gabhála Éirin,’ says one aul-wan. As the second
shushes the first, the third pops a Fisherman’s Friend into her gob, pleased
with her choice to stash them away in her handbag, from Dorothy Perkins, that
is concealed under her hooded garment.
Local
seers point to the joint benefit of such a venture between the Cockonians and
the Wrightlanders. Although the treaty prepared after the Battle of McDonald’s
Corner kept relations between the two establishments peaceful,
customer-poaching often flared tempers. However, one’s enemies’ enemies are
often better bar buddies than the gobshite at the far table after he’s had one
too many. Omens are all that point the way for future shifts, conflicts, wars,
all with potentially colossal consequences. Where will one go for a quiet pint
and a read of a Tuesday evening? Where will one go to be able to gawp at
attractive young things with whom fierce small talk can be had? Where will one
go to take a sneaky piss on the way to the bus stop?
Here’s
to Cock, to poppin’ Cock for a swift one, to pullin’ a Cock night, to cards and
chats and carefree drinking. It’s all over though but it’s not necessarily a bad
thing, after all.
