McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland by Pete McCarthy

feeling of abject fear in that class. Whatever happened, you’d know that twenty minutes of each lesson would be dedicated to physical violence. Then, after that, he’d lighten up. Like some dreadful tension had been released.’
    We had a Latin teacher who liked to dish it out too, a lay teacher, not a brother. He’d feign a blow to your head with his right, then belt you one from the blind side with his left when you weren’t braced for it. He inspired fear, but also admiration, as most of our class were hardened rugby league supporters who recognised a world-class act of brutality when they saw one.
    Dessy is in his forties, with piercing green eyes, and a sense of danger about him; educated, but you get the feeling he’s been damaged somewhere along the line. He takes a lemonade bottle from his jacket and offers it.
    ‘Poteen. Best for miles around.’
    This part of Cork has always been renowned for the quality of its moonshine. But how do I know I’m getting the right stuff? What if it’s been adulterated with bleach, or boot polish? Or Bailey’s Irish Cream?
    ‘He’s been making it fifty years. You’ll not get purer. Better than commercial whiskey, that’s for sure. Go on, give it a try.’
    I decide to sip, but not inhale. It’s smooth, and smoky, and I don’t seem to be going blind.
    ‘Fancy a chaser?’
    Dessy has two pills on his hand. He pops one in his mouth, and chugs it back with some poteen. I cling to the possibility that he’s a health fanatic who always takes his multivitamins in the evening.
    ‘No thanks. I’ll have to drive back soon.’
    ‘You shouldn’t go yet. This is very mellow acid. Things’ll be getting a lot livelier here soon.’
    Livelier. Yes indeed. The old poteen-acid combo should do the trick. It’s at times like this that a lifetime’s exposure to the British gutter press comes into its own. I make my excuses and leave.

    Back at the Grade B there’s no sign of paralysis setting in from the poteen, so I order a whiskey from the bar. It isn’t a patch on its illegal cousin. I’m too late for food, so I nip out to the repmobile for the soda bread I forgot to give Dominic, and smuggle it up to my room under a jacket. If you’ve had the right kind of education, it’s amazing how many things you can find to feel guilty about.
    I watch a bit of TV while drinking the whiskey and eating the bread. There’s a late-night discussion programme, in Irish, about subsidy in the arts. A trendy-looking young woman in trainers, with a ring through her eyebrow, keeps punctuating her elegant-sounding Irish with ‘like’ and ‘y’know’. It’s kind of, like, interesting? that this sorta, y’know, inarticulacy, like, transcends, languages? The weather in Irish follows, but my lids are drooping and my chin’s nodding on my chest. I climb down off the wardrobe, and go to bed.
    Next morning the reception desk is staffed by two pallid, grey, plump young women who’ve had no recent exposure to daylight or unfried food. One of them guides me to a small dining-room with a mock classical archway, but no windows. There are seven tables. Every place-setting is festooned with the boak-inducing debris of previous breakfasts—congealed bacon fat, rigid egg yolk, cold toast, curdled tea, evil Weetabix that’s sucked up all the milk. This stuff should already be landfill. Only forensic examination could determine how long some of it’s been here. The carpet’s sticky grip hints at rare agricultural diseases.
    ‘D’you want to find yourself a place?’
    ‘What? Where?’
    She gives a giggle.
    ‘I’ve not had time to clear them all yet.’
    You’ve not bloody cleared any of them, you lazy lump, I think, as she gets stuck into the nearest table, using an impressive forearm as bulldozer. I catch a nightmare glimpse of cold black pudding and tea dregs sluicing into a half-eaten bowl of muesli that’s already begun to set, and avert my gaze. She brushes some recalcitrant crumbs to the