In spite of the Irish propensity for the gargle and being a loud and boorish lot at times, we are well and truly beaten into the outsider ranks on that score by other more populous nations, especially a certain few to the east and north. We can equally rest assured that 'Paddy' is in no way to blame for the travesties of holiday destinations that are Benidorm, Santa Ponsa and numerous other coach-crashes that have morphed from demure seaside villages on the Mediterranean coastline into seasonal free-for-alls where urine and vomit flow down streets like an incoming tide; where tango-ed Geordie breasts and the blue-white arses of raucous Brummies or Hamburgers are as likely to assail you in the street by night as a sunbeam by day. The wreckless developers and local city planners did not conspire to build these cheap thrill ‘Gomorrahs’ for a few thousand Paddies; they were throwing out the red carpet for the hundreds of thousands who flock, principally, from the UK and Germany.
All that said, I about to commit an act of treachery. Despite their inferior numbers, the Irish have a lot to answer for when it comes to the pervasiveness of the so called “Irish Pub” abroad. Frankly, it is bad enough that the Irish social, environmental and psychological landscape is blighted with them, but does it have to be the rest of the planet too? Who actually thinks these little temples to Paddy-whackery in Hong Kong, East Timor, Chile, France, Spain or where ever are actually genuinely Irish, except maybe for some parts like the odd temporary bar staff in black tee-shirt with a harp on it? (something you are unlikely to see in Ireland as it happens). Why is it necessary to experience a little bit of (non) Irishness in Spain for example? Is Madrid such an intolerable place bereft of the comraderie, wit, booze, banter and wood panelling to which the Irish seem inextricably attached? How have the back streets of Madrid then become a breeding ground for the evil pseudo Irish neo-Dutch-German-pine-church bar-stool bastardisations; pubs, in fact, the like of which would be more at home on the holo-deck of the Starship f@#king Enterprise, Holy God. If you are Spanish, go to Ireland. If you are Irish, go home to a proper pub for chrissakes (God, knows they need the custom by all accounts). Buying into the Irish pub abroad is worse that sporting a fake Louis Vuitton handbag. It is the ultimate insecurity statement. It is Ireland’s no-can-do answer to ‘made in china’; effortless copycat tack.
Who on earth are the Irish then to whinge about the deconstruction of Irish identity at home by the preponderance of multinational corporations and globalsied high street retailers when the viral infestation of the planet’s cities by “Irish” pubs is singularly responsible for stripping streets and squares across the earth of any semblance of unique local-ness. I thought it was McDonald’s that had that claim to fame? Yet, the truth is that for the last decade across historical Europe, while McDonald's has been progressively sneaking behind discreet local architectural frontages, “Irish” pubs have been pouncing out with unmistakable Baggot-Street-shop-bannerishness, hammering themselves onto the likes of medieval Moorish streetscapes in Madrid with unblinking abandon (Hell, did I say they have even managed to do it in the city of Jerusalem?!). One cannot help being aghast at local authorities for playing the Santa Ponsa card so unthinkingly. The sight of it calls for a large stiff one. Get me to an airport (albeit with a police escort, I suspect).
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