Pulling a fast one

A great French architect once said that every city is a unique reflection of the outlook and values of its inhabitants. While this is certainly true of Iceland’s capital, occasionally some urban phenomena are damn near uniform and universal. For me the obvious example that springs to mind is the ubiquitous Irish bar. As an expatriate paddy myself, I would rather be forced to watch repeated back to back reruns of Switzerland versus the Ukraine than darken the doors of a paddy pub. Occasionally, however, the desire for a premium pint of the black stuff reaches meltdown levels and I find myself propelled to my nearest Celtic quaffing point to indulge my weakness.

Reykjavik boasts not one but three Irish bars, two of which are situated in the heart of downtown. After no doubt spending several sleepless nights in deep contemplation, the proprietors eventually came up with the stunningly original titles of the Dubliner and the Celtic cross. Both are excruciatingly stage Irish to their finger tips, complete with twee native road signs, clapped out troubadours strangling American Pie and expatiate Irish and English men pretending they’re at home.

So how does one explain the phenomenon? The Scottish must have at least as sterling a reputation for booziness as the Irish yet you don’t find bars entitles Mc Tavishes and Mc Doogles lining the streets of far flung capitals.

On my last furtive trip to the Dubliner I was determined to unravel the mystery. Spotting a young and seemingly hip group of yanks from the windy city, I ingratiated myself and asked them the obvious question. Why did a group of go-ahead travellers come all the way to Iceland to sit drinking pints in an Irish bar? Their answer fairly took the wind out of my self-righteous sails. Well, they explained, when you are newly arrived in a foreign country an Irish bar is a great place to kick off the evening entertainment. You are always guaranteed a lively atmosphere, friendly people from all over the world and bar staff who really know how to pour a pint. It was just then that I took some sound advice from the fab four and took a good look around me. Native Icelanders, Irish expats, and far-flung travellers all mingling blissfully and have a rockin good time. Even the troubadour looked happy!

All of which means that you, the long suffering reader, can pretty much disregard the first 400 words of this column.

John Boyce