When: Monday March 17th 2014
Where: Molly Malone's, 57 West St., Brighton
I paid: Christ knows
*** DISCLAIMER: THE FOLLOWING REVIEW MAYBE RATHER HEAVY ON IRISH STEREOTYPING, THIS IS IN NO WAY INTENDED TO CAUSE OFFENCE. TO BE SURE***
The Irish know how to party. St. Patrick's Day, in honour of Ireland's patron saint, is a globally renowned event where those with ties to the Emerald Isle can proudly show off their heritage with festivals, parades and drinking Guinness until they're sick. Unfortunately, no amount of digging into the Foad family background could turn up even the most spurious of claims to Irish descendancy. I once had a neighbour who shipped over a greyhound from a rescue centre in Cork, but whilst this would probably be enough to earn me consideration for selection to their national football team I was unsure it gave me the right to plaster on a fake shamrock tattoo (and drink Guinness until I was sick). Luckily, my two companions for the day were the genuine article and have Irish blood coursing through their veins (one was born in Brighton, one Lewisham). They assured me that nobody would actually care that I didn't know how to pronounce Taoiseach, let alone spell it, and that I should just tag along for the 'craic'. We chose to head to Molly Malone's, Brighton's self proclaimed 'Authentic' Irish pub (admittedly only after we were told we'd have to queue for over an hour to get into the Fiddler's Elbow round the corner). Normally I would avoid West Street like the plague. Benign enough on this Monday afternoon, at weekend's it transforms into Brighton's version of the wild west (street) where packs of angry young men roam around, eyeballing others and just spoiling for a fight.......still, that's the police for you.
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| Compulsory idiot in compulsory idiot's hat and shirt |
As I've never set foot on Irish soil I can't possibly comment on whether 'Molly's' is a faithful reproduction of a traditional pub or not. Still, it sold Jameson's and the bar staff were busy dishing out those stupid tall Guinness hats from behind the large centrally located bar and this was good enough for me. Irish tricolours bedecked the walls and although it was still early afternoon there was already a good sized crowd in, many sporting clothes in various shades of green (plus the idiot in the Royal Mail shirt). The band were just warming up and my mate wandered over for a chat with them as they did so. He returned sputtering indignantly about the fiddler being born in Ashford and the singer in Surrey, "they're not even bloody Irish!", conveniently overlooking the fact that he himself is always passing himself off as a proud Irishman despite being born in the Royal Sussex. I was enjoying myself too much to point out the slight hypocrisy (let him read about it here). Anyway, it mattered not a jot to me, I wouldn't know an authentic Irish sound if you hit me over the head with a dord (look it up). Genuine or not, the band launched into their set of traditional songs.....'Whiskey in the jar' and erm, the one that sounds a bit like 'Fairytale of New York' but isn't and the one that is practically unintelligible (must've been the Pogues version) other than the "dirty old town......dirrrrrty old town" bit that everyone can join in with. Unfortunately there was no B*Witched, I expect they were saving the good stuff for the bigger crowds in the evening. It's even easy to get the hang of Irish dancing, just jig around a little, stamp your feet and clap your hands. Occasionally I was nearly in time with the music. Under no circumstances though should you emit a loud, "yeeeeehaaah!". This is liable to earn you a stern look from the heavyset bloke at the bar and the withering rebuke, "it's not a fucking barn dance"........that was me told then.
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| The Mother leprechaun |
By now it had gone 6 p.m. and the pub was filling up nicely as people arrived from work. Those that had already been there all afternoon were beginning to show signs of wear and tear and it was clear that if Molly Malone was done with her wheelbarrow on Dublin's broad and narrow streets it could well be put to good use here later carting inebriated punters into the street. I too was beginning to feel the pace having been up fourteen hours and unused to the heady mix of stout and whiskey (and alright, I'm a lightweight). On one slightly unsteady return trip from the toilets I clumsily tripped against a person at the bar who unfortunately turned out to be 'Barn Dance Guy', this earned me another cold stare and a, "no wonder my mail is always being put through the wrong bloody door". It was clear that I'd upset him for reasons unknown, maybe he'd seen through my Plastic Paddy charade. Anyway, it was time to go before I became another statistic of West Street violence. It was a shame because I was enjoying myself, it's true that (faux or not) the Irish like to party and are rightfully proud of their roots. But so are the English! Roll on St. George's day on the erm...umm.....I think it's in April some time?
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| Richard drowns his sorrows after only coming 7th in a 'Benny from Crossroads' lookalike contest |
Dog friendly: nope Quiz: nope
Food and drink: Good selection of drinks and a menu of good priced traditional pub grub as well as Irish favourites (potatoes).
Entertainment: No pool table or dartboard but there is an underused fruit machine. Live music all year round. Downstairs area available for hire.
Outside seating: None. Those with a taste for violence can pretend to take up smoking, stand outside on West Street on a Saturday night and watch the punches fly.
OVERALL SCORE: 7/10.........Hey, free wooly hats!
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