The Irish Issue 1
Drink Religiously
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If you've got nothing but a sense of humour, you will survive. - Phil Lynott
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CONTENTS Editor’s Letter Contributors
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Wank Material
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Philomena Lynott
Breaking Ireland By Sean O’Connor Irish Drinking Culture
Rory Gallagher: An Appreciation
Celtic Punk: Rum, Sodomy & The Lash The Evolution Of Irish Beer Drinks Reviews
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10 14 17 20 22 24
Liquid Lunch
Bar Reviews: Dublin & Belfast Top 20 Irish Albums
27 38 40
Book Club
Carouser Literature: Death By Sobriety Carouser Coverage: Broken In Dublin The Carouser’s Guide To Dublin Letters to The Carouser
At The Bar With: Cormac Neeson
44 59 51 53 56 58 62
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THE EDITOR’S LETTER As a lady it’s impolite to talk about emesis. But as the editor of this particular magazine, I feel it is necessary. My first visit (that I can remember) to Ireland was one of shame. I found myself in the uncompromisable position of being surrounded by a gang of Irish people armed with shots. Although it’s a situation I would usually like to be in, I was already too drunk to utter a grammatically correct sentence. Unwilling to let them down, I regretfully took a Resposado Tequila and swallowed the darn thing- much to their delight. But my body, had other ideas. I felt the contents of my stomach bubble up and contract as I ran for the porcelain chalice. Though, usually good at being able to make it in time, on this occasion I wasn’t so lucky. I ended up emptying the entire contents of my stomach on the floor of the bathroom. One girl stared at me in disgust as I wiped my mouth and washed my hands. But before I could reach for the paper towels, another girl ran in, slipped up and landed head first into my puddle of regret. I watched in horror as she scrambled up, revealing her face which had turned into something resembling a vegetarian pizza. I slinked out in cowardice before anyone could tell her that I was the cause of what could only be described as oral bukkake. I found my Irish friends and washed out my mouth with another tequila, in the hope that I could forget the whole scenario. Of course, I haven’t. So when the writers of this magazine voted for an Irish issue, my horrific memory popped back up in mind. Determined to not make this my only memory of Ireland, we flew across the sea to make some news ones. I document my entire experience of Dublin on page 49 and we’ve explored for a Carouser guide to the city (pg 52). Don’t fear, this issue isn’t just about me. Philomena Lynott and Sean O’Connor from The Lookalikes have both shared with us their memories of Ireland and their time with one of the most famous irish rock stars- Phillip Lynott. Our writer David Harris has also chipped in with a piece on his idol Rory Gallagher. And of course, we couldn’t speak about Irish music without mentioning the Celtic Punk scene. And perhaps you, dear reader, are sat in Ireland at this very moment. The Carouser couldn’t invade the Emerald Isle without conquering a few rock bars. If this is the case, welcome fellow Carouser, and we hope you enjoy our words on your beloved country. But while you do that, I have some serious Irish whiskey drinking to do. So, feck off.
Mandy Morello
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If you see my mother Please give her all of my love For she has a heart of gold there As good as God above
PHILOMENA
If you see my mother Tell her I’m keeping fine Tell her that I love her And I’ll try and write sometime
“PHILIP PARRIS LYNOTT (1949-1986) LIVED HERE” the dark tourist plaque reads. It hangs above the door of this gleaming white house in Sutton. As I read, behind me Dublin Bay slaps its waves along the coast. Thin Lizzy fans come from all over to visit this very spot. To see where their hero used to live, to take in some of that inspiration he might have found here and, more importantly, to visit his 86 year old mother. Anyone who knocks on the door of Philomena’s home is welcomed with open arms. It is so well known amongst many followers of her son’s music, that she provides an open house for people to visit and talk about their love of Thin Lizzy. Being no secret, people fly from all over the world to stop at her home, often without an appointment. Now, I find myself outside the door of Philomena’s house, yearning to know more about the woman behind everything- the rockstar, the fully thriving fan base and the legacy. It confuses me that a person would be open to so many strangers walking into her home. It’s certainly something I wouldn’t be happy with. Philomena greets me with a huge smile framed in pink lipstick, her silver hair lightly brushing her shoulders. She instantly takes me through to a room decorated in all her son’s memorabilia. I look around me in amazement, taking it all in. It’s quite a collection.
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When I die Dublin will be written in my heart. - James Joyce
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