Irish Pubs Quotes

There’s something wonderful about drinking in the afternoon. A not-too-cold pint, absolutely alone at the bar – even in this fake-ass Irish pub.

In Chicago, you can’t swing a cat without hitting an Irish pub (and angering the cat), but McAnally’s place stands out from the crowd.

It was Chase who had obtained the information from the girl’s boyfriend during a party in an Irish pub, simply by using his British friendliness and charm.

Ah, kiss me, love, and miss me, love, and dry your bitter tears. (Irish Pub Song)

An Irish pub, such as you have seen a thousand times before. The kind where the emphasis is on the “ish” rather than on the proud name of Éire.

You’re no longer sixteen, acushla. If I want to take you down to the floor and peel you out of those jeans and taste what secrets you have hidden between your legs, I will. So either tell me that’s what you’ve come for or get the fuck out of my pub.

No genuine Irishman could relax in comfort and feel at home in a pub unless he was sitting in deep gloom on a hard seat with a very sad expression on his face, listening to the drone of bluebottle squadrons carrying out a raid on the yellow cheese sandwich.

Parcheggiamo ed entriamo in un Irish pub, legno dappertutto, legno nei tavoli, legno nelle seie, legno nel bancone, legno nelle cornici degli specchi. Il legno sembra fermo, ma è sottoposto a pressioni interne che lentamente lo spaccano. La ceramica si rompe, fa subito mostra dei suoi cocci rotti. Il legno no, finché può nasconde, si lascia torturare ma non confessa. Io sono di legno.

An Irishman walks into a pub,” she begins and the bar went silent. “The bartender asks him, ‘What'll you have?’” Her Irish accent was spot on. “The man says, ‘Give me three pints of Guinness, please.’ The bartender brings him three pints and the man proceeds to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they're gone. He then orders three more. “The bartender says, ‘Sir, no need to order as many at a time. I’ll keep an eye on it and when you get low, I'll bring you a fresh one.’ The man replies, ‘You don't understand. I have two brothers, one in Australia and one in the States. We made a vow to each other that every Saturday night we'd still drink together. So right now, me brothers have three Guinness stouts too, and we're drinking together.’ “The bartender thought this a wonderful tradition and every week the man came in and ordered three beers.” January’s playing and voice became more solemn, dramatic. “But one week, he ordered only two.” The crowd oohed and ahhed. “He slowly drank them,” she continued darkly, “and then ordered two more. The bartender looked at him sadly. ‘Sir, I know your tradition, and, agh, I'd just like to say that I'm sorry for your loss.’ “The man looked on him strangely before it finally dawned on him. ‘Oh, me brothers are fine - I just quit drinking.

Simon was amazed at how the Irish could smile in any situation. Come Armageddon, the nation of Ireland would surely be found in the pub, laughing like children and beckoning the horsemen in for a Guinness.

It was after midnight by a mile when I slid off the bar stool at O’Malley’s and began to walk home. O’Malley’s is an old Irish pub and though I wasn’t Irish, nor did I drink like a lot of other newspaper reporters I knew, I stopped by for a Coke nearly every evening. I liked listening to other reporters — and cops, who also frequented O’Malley’s — shoot the breeze and relate old stories that hadn’t been completely true the first time they’d been told. O’Malley’s was just somewhere to go which made every guy sipping a beer or doing shots feel a little less alone in a city like Los Angeles. Some of them still had wives, but you could tell they were lonely. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been hanging around a bar at that hour; they’d have been finding solace in soft flesh and perfume. Maybe their wives would have been finding some solace too, and more of them would have stayed married. Most of those guys, cops and reporters alike, were working on their second or third marriage. I didn’t think they were working hard enough, but maybe that was because I didn’t have anyone to go home to.

SAIORSE From Saiorse, a name of Irish origin, Meaning 'freedom' Faces problems head on Admired for its originality, dedicated to worthy causes A kind and generous fridge It always stands firm for its principles It does not have to get its own way always Others think it is an extremely clever fridge From Matt Molloys Pub May 20th 1997

My, you do like to dominate

Drop by Bell’s for an Irish Kiss anytime. The best in England

All last fall in Workshop, they’d side-eye each other if he praised my stories. Because surely they’d seen me leave class with him, walked past us chatting together in the hall, observed us exchanging books and vinyl. Caught us sitting together in cafés or in the basement of the Irish pub, having a drink, another drink, one more for the road, why not? They’d noticed him walk over and talk to me at department functions, sit beside me at readings. Then, in the winter semester, they might have observed how quite suddenly all of this stopped—that he no longer sat next to me at readings or talked to me at parties or met me off campus. And then, of course, in spring, on the night of the end-of-year party, they definitely observed me drunk in the passenger seat of his Subaru.

over the chatter of the busy London pub. The Irish theme bar was heaving with twenty- and thirty-somethings – mostly city workers celebrating the end of the working week and the beginning of a long

You’ll win her with ya Irish charm and green eyes, so ya will. Now drink up ya coffee and stop whining like a baby. This girl’s gonna have a fantastic night tomorrow. She’s gonna worship da ground ya c**k drags on.

She was daft. That's what she was. Completely mental. There was no other explanation for why she was lurking in the back of Butler's Undertaker Lounge and Pub while her siblings were about to go in the front so they could distract him.

Two guys in an English pub, one says ‘From your accent I guess you are Irish’. Second guy says, ‘Yes, from Dublin’. ‘Me too!’ first guy says. ‘I was raised in Drimnagh, went to St. Mary’s school’. ‘Drimnagh? St. Mary’s?’ Second guy can’t believe it. ‘I graduated from St. Mary’s in 1982’. First guy slaps his forehead. ‘Faith and begorah. I graduated from St. Mary’s in 1982 also!’ Bartender says,” Jones paused for breath, “he says to himself ‘This is going to be a long night. The Murphy twins are drunk again’.

Pubs have always been the heart of Irish social life, but when the smoking ban came in, a lot of people moved to drinking at home. The ban doesn't bother me, although I'm confused by the idea that you shouldn't go into a pub and do anything that might be bad for you, but the level of obedience does. To the Irish, rules always used to count as challenges—see who can come up with the best way round this one—and this sudden switch to sheep mode makes me worry that we're turning into someone else, possibly Switzerland.

What followed was a great treat for me. This was Irish traditional music as I had hoped to see and hear it, spontaneous and from the heart, and not produced for the sake of the tourist industry. As I sat there with my pint in my hand, enjoying the jigs and the reels, I watched the joy in the player’s faces and in those around them who tapped their feet and applauded enthusiastically. Music the joybringer. No question of being paid, or any requirement to perform for a certain amount of time. Just play for as long as it makes you feel good. This was self expression, not performance. Someone would begin playing a tune and the fellow musicians would listen to it once through, hear how it went and join in when they felt comfortable, until, on its last run through, it was being played with gusto by the entire ensemble. This process provided each piece with the dynamic of a natural crescendo which could almost have been orchestrated.

Sean's Bar on Main Street, Athlone, on the West Bank of the River Shannon, claims to be the oldest pub in Ireland, dating back to AD 900. The bar holds records of every owner since its opening, including gender-bending pop sensation Boy George (born George Alan O'Dowd to an Irish family), who the premises briefly in 1987

People everywhere, enjoying life, smiling, and just slowing down to let the world take care of itself for a few hours. The feeling was contagious. Especially when I stepped into McPherson's Pub to grab a bite of the special and listen to some traditional Irish music. The fiddle made me want to dance with myself, and many did. The drum beat like my very own heart. And some little flute that looked no wider than a pencil reminded me of the Aran Islands floating not too far from Abbeyglen. God was here tonight. In the strings of the guitar and the call of the singer's voice. I realize how often I overlook him back at home. And I know I don't want to do that anymore. The LORD will send His faithful love by day; His song will be with me in the night a prayer to the Gid of my life.

Since my school days when I accidentally discovered this form of verse called ‘Limerick’, I have often wondered about the origin of the name. Was it invented in Ireland perhaps? After some research and several years, I think not. The limerick must have been invented long before it reached the jocular pubs of Limerick in Ireland where the Irish undoubtedly made very good use of it whilst consuming copious amounts of Guinness.

With the United Kingdom devolving (or deliquescing, according to taste and interpretation) the assertion of Scottish and Welsh and Irish nationhood was met in the southern nation with an efflorescence of the flag of St George. Sometimes an emblem on pubs or taxis, or on the brawny limbs of soccer fans, its reappearance was often a symptom of insecurity, both about the internal state of the kingdom and the external challenge represented by the idea of ‘Europe’.

By the end of the nineteenth century, seventy-eight thousand souls were packed into this quarter of common lodging houses, “furnished rooms,” warehouses, factories, sweatshops, abattoirs, pubs, cheap music halls, and markets. Its overcrowded population represented diverse cultures, religions, and languages. For at least two centuries, Whitechapel had been a destination for immigrants from many parts of Europe. In the late nineteenth century, a large number of Irish, desperate to escape the rural poverty of the mother country, had arrived. By the 1880s an exodus of Jews, fleeing the pogroms of eastern Europe, joined them.

If I had to choose one spot to enjoy the small-town charm of traditional Ireland, it would be Dingle and its history-laden scenic peninsula. But the Ring of Kerry—a much bigger, more famous, and more touristed peninsula just to its south—is also great to visit. If you go to Ireland and don’t see the famous Ring of Kerry, your uncle Pat will never forgive you. Here’s a comparison to help with your itinerary planning. Both peninsulas come with a scenic loop drive. Dingle’s is 30 miles. The Ring of Kerry is 120 miles. Both loops come with lots of megalithic wonder. Dingle’s prehistory is more intimate, with numerous evocative stony structures. The Ring of Kerry’s prehistory shows itself in three massive ring forts—far bigger than anything on Dingle. Dingle town is the perfect little Irish burg—alive with traditional music pubs, an active fishing harbor, and the sturdy cultural atmosphere of an Irish-speaking

The Mouse On The Bar Room Floor Some Guinness was spilt on the bar room floor When the pub was shut for the night. Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouse And, in the pale moonlight, He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor, Then back on his haunches he sat. And all night long you could hear him roar, ‘Bring on the goddamn cat!’ —An Irish Tall Tale

The Irish pub costs a five hundred penny piece for a Beer.

A toast — may you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.” We each have a sip of our drinks and then Ben says, “I heard that the other night at a crazy little Irish pub.

Might not get Easter or Paddy’s Day But Leo says maybe! Who’s he to say Men need their bets, pints and Grubb So Tony, Phil and Ronan let us go to the pub.

Hey, you know why God invented alcohol? So the Irish wouldn't take over the world.

The Four Courts Irish pub was where we held all our memorials. It had a unique place in my heart because a bunch of assassins had tried to kill me inside the place a long time ago. Bryce wasn’t read into our program, but he believed in what we did, even if he didn’t know what that was. We’d shown up one day toasting a fallen soldier, and then we’d kept showing up, until he’d pulled me aside one afternoon. He’d seen us keeping to ourselves, knowing we didn’t want to be disturbed, and had told me if we wanted privacy the next time, the bar was ours. He’d never asked any questions, and being located so close to the CIA, I’m sure he thought that was where we worked, and I didn’t disabuse him of the notion. All I knew was that when I showed up, he shut down the bar. He flipped the sign on the door to closed and said, “I’ll be serving the drinks.” “I appreciate that. I really do.” I’d initially tried to pay to rent the place, but he was having none of it. He didn’t even let us pay for our drinks.

In Chicago, you can’t swing a cat without hitting an Irish pub (and angering the cat),

But combined with the golliwog badges, and the flag, and the stone lions, all this British iconography, heaping up and up, suddenly seemed so nervous: like an Irish pub in Germany or America or Singapore, festooned with more shamrocks and leprechauns than you'd ever see in Ireland proper. Here I was in Britain, and yet the country seemed unsure of itself. Its identity had to be enforced: stamped and restamped onto a place which kept shifting and turning. A flat place is somewhere that can't be relied upon to stay, consistently, where you left it. People tried to brand it with anxious bits of national tat. But in the end they just disintegrated or fluttered away, leaving the place alone, itself, unchanged.

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Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub

Ya game is fine, but ya booze-eyes are a problem. Not like ya ta drink this much. I reckon ya banjo’d, so ya are.

But finally we found the place—an Irish pub, as seedy as the roughest ones on the backstreets of Galway.

So, drenched and downing champagne, I danced a rather demented waltz-cum-jig with a young bride I'd never met before in a place I'd never been before at 4.30 in the morning. And you know the weirdest thing of all? It all seemed so perfectly natural.

Pintman Paddy Losty. Some of Dublin's great pintmen have been known to put away thirty pints or more in a day

These funds had been built up over many years, mainly from North American sources sympathetic to the cause of a united Ireland, and it seemed that the money never entered the Republic of Ireland or the Province, but would be invested mainly in Europe. There was also income from protection rackets, bank robberies, post office raids, black taxis, DSS scams, video and CD pirating, fruit machines, republican clubs and pubs and local collections among sympathisers. 

The Irishman raises his beer and says "sluncha" or "slawn chair" or something like that, obviously a Gaelic toast, and we bellow "sluncha!" and clink glasses and take long, deep, manly, Irish pub drinks.

Yes, yes, I know many of you are proud to be Irish, or Italian, or Polish, or Jewish. And those ethnic groups are as real as any other groups with identifiable cultures, languages, and histories. But when your ancestors got to America, they endured a profound makeover. All of your polkas, or pubs, or pizzas, and more got tossed into a crucible of race where European ethnicities got pulverized into whiteness.

St. Patrick’s Day has been celebrated in Ireland since the 17th century. For the majority of the 20th century, pubs were actually closed on March 17th. At that point, St. Patrick’s Day was only considered a religious holiday in Ireland.

Who’s there?" "Noah." "Noah who?" "Noah any good Irish pubs around here?

what her brother was saying over the chatter of the busy London pub. The Irish theme bar was heaving with twenty- and thirty-somethings – mostly City workers celebrating the end of the working