The Terrible and Tragic Case of ‘The Cock Tavern’ Water-Hole, or The Lamentable Cock

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.