Very familial setup, a wondrous interior of red and green with former upholstery patterns akin to that of the Overlook Hotel, subsequently reupholstered in an effort to move with the times. A joy by day and oft packed by night. Pints of Beamish and Guinness are as smooth as milk.

Barman Freddie (who curses like a sailor and practices an old world pouring technique involving knives and generous spillages) is wont to enjoy his own supply behind the counter, and grows slower to serve and more moody accordingly. When reinforcements arrive he steals away to The Lower Deck where he can satiate himself more freely. On his return he can seem jollier but deliberately more unhurried. He’s a frustrating barman. Generous with extending last orders but doesn’t open until 4 in the afternoon.

He’s extremely competent but prone to forgetting people’s orders, and in doing so, offers no apology and has been heard to say ‘relax will you, what’s your hurry.’ Jesus wept, whenever you're ready, Freddie! He can be friendly and full of chat one day, rude and unpleasant the next. One detects an awful air of superiority about this tapster. His tone of voice and facial expressions all but give away his petulant musings: I couldn’t give a flying fuck about you or your order. You’re fucking lucky I even let you take a seat. Would you not just fuck off and let me get back to my beer. Isn’t gratitude to be mutual between publican and patron? It’s a business doing pleasure with him.

His brethren on the staff are also not shy about quaffing on the job, among them a hulking and limping Frankenstein's monster type (who appears to be Freddie's brother and shares with him a genetically inherited grouchiness) and a diffident younger.

Only upright Englishman Michael puts duty before pleasure and has one's Beamish poured before one has even asked. (N.B. He's actually from Edinburgh, the Rome of the North up in Bonnie Scotland! So much for our judgement of accents...) He will not urinate on his own doorstep, and does all his drinking over the road in The Lower Deck. A caricature of mechanical efficiency, if you sneeze he will promptly be at your side with a handkerchief and a fresh pint to replace the spillage. In conversation he is reticent but is known to be fond of trees, particularly the melancholy willows by the canal banks. Stray hints dropped over time suggest that he spent his formative years in Nigeria as 'a wee lad' and may have been a bit of a tearaway and a lover of early houses in his youth. He isn’t shy to show affection to regulars by way of kiss-blowing as he finishes his shift. Occasionally he will even hug, or if deemed so worthy, plant a kiss on the very cheek.

We hereby wholeheartedly agree that due to his unerring professionalism, meekness of manner, promptness to serve, and respectful grace: it is Michael of O’Connell’s who can lay claim to being the best goddamned barman in all of Dublin! It’s a loss to the industry that he’s only part-time at his post. Congratulations Michael, may you live long and prosper!

The youngest staff member is the very promising Jack. With a star sign of Libra, he’s a lover of books and has thankfully taken after Michael in terms of service.

The regular's regular is a certain Dmitri, native of the county Clare but begat of Russian parents, portly and whiskered with a Stalin tash. Decorated with curious stains, he exclusively drinks a pint of Tuborg, the bargain beer popular with addicts. Occasionally he chases it with a small Jameson, and is always one of the last to leave, ginger on his pegs.

Remarkably, given his age and persona, he was not so embarrassed as to don a well preserved Roxette t-shirt which lists the concert dates from the 1989 Look Sharp world tour. When dressed in this likeness one cannot help but see his Stalin moustache morph into a fluffy Freddie Mercury. He occupies invariably the corner seat (take it at your peril and risk the mumbled rumble of his wrath!) and who often will be seen smoking his pipe outside, the pub's unofficial Cerberus. To those whom he likes (usually females or tourists or countrymen from his neck of the woods) he will turn on the charm and become a smellier sort of stage Irishman – those he dislikes will be gifted with grunts. Michael has been known to give him an affectionate back-massage.

Perhaps due to an elderly relative above stairs (all conjecture, the setup remains elusive) this pub does not allow music (though the telly will sometimes make the ears bleed, especially for the Angelus) and any attempts at a singsong will be staunchly quashed.

One Halloween a man from Cork walked in dressed as a Nazi stormtrooper. He was refused service and went elsewhere. Unlike Davy Byrnes of yesteryear, this is a moral pub. If a wayward drunkard tries his luck he’ll be told to move on for the good of his health. If a citizen needs a toilet, they’ll be granted access without having to make a needless purchase. Time here drips slowly by day and one may sip and peruse a paper unhurriedly as there’s no rush to rinse the glass.

‘The Professor’, otherwise known as Pat (see Corrigan’s), is an elderly patron who only takes Guinness and perches alone at the bar. A man of good taste, he’ll sit as far apart from Dmitri as possible and will unabashedly move further and further away as seats become vacated.

A curious couple of gentlemen called ‘Hans Solo & Chewbacca’ imbibe daily and will often arrive within minutes of each other. They can be spotted either here or over in the Lower Deck. Hans Solo is a greying, gaunt, silent and respectful type who keeps himself to himself. Chewbacca on the other hand makes a lot of noise, he’s very small-talkative and fidgety and works the room like a small town politician – he also has a disconcerting and increasingly annoying habit of unabashedly staring at people, and is not put off when they catch his eye and become uncomfortable. Even if you mouth ‘fuck off’ to him, he will not be deterred from his systematic and exhaustive scrutiny of one’s countenance, his chin in his hand lost in contemplation.

Judging by their attire perhaps both men are barmen, but where?... (Subsequent exhaustive research has shown that Chewbacca works as a barman in nearby Corrigan's – his wine-coloured uniform might have tipped us off – he also answers to the name of 'Peter'. Hans Solo’s name and occupation remain a mystery.) Local legend Mick Pyro, of the band Republic of Loose, has also been glimpsed frequenting here – hypocritically drinking Guinness, despite the beatification of Beamish in his lyrics (see Brady’s of Terenure).

Despite having its flaws, it’s a tip top shop with solid foundations. Long will she stand, timeworn and weather-beaten, the hoary little wet house on South Richmond Street.

Tales from Dublin Pubs: O'Connell, J. of South Richmond Street

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