Eoin Butler: writer, journalist and Mayoman of the Year
Tripping Along The Ledge
Dublin
Published: Evening Herald, September 2008GROGAN’S
It’s closing time on Monday night and Aidan and I are sitting in front of at a pair of empty glasses. For the last five minutes, he has been engaged in a freewheeling mobile phone conversation with I’m not sure who.
“Ah, not a lot now” he’s saying. “Myself and Butler are finishin’ a pint in Grogans. Just scratching our balls to be honest. Probably head home after and see if herself is feeling frisky…”
Then person on the other end says something and Aidan makes a face.
“Sorry, who am I speaking to?” he inquires. Read the rest of this entry »
Published: Evening Herald, January 2008THE PEMBROKE
There’s no mistaking the large Nigerian guy at the bar. He’s clutching a pint of MiWadi orange and regarding his surroundings with perceptible distain. He doesn’t beat about the bush.
“My good friend” he begins (and I know what’s coming next…) “You must accept Jesus into your life. God has a plan for you, my friend.” Read the rest of this entry »
Published: Mongrel Magazine, September 2005WHY GO BALD?
Erected by Sydney Goldsmith of the Universal Hair & Scalp Clinic in 1962, Georges Street’s “Why Go Bald” sign is one of Dublin’s oddest and best loved landmarks. Rescued from the jaws of the scrapheap in November 1999 (after a campaign by a group called the 20th Century Trust) and restored to its former glory, it is now a cult tourist attraction that has won plaudits from admirers including U2’s Bono. Which is kind of appropriate when you consider… Well, we’ll come back to that later. Read the rest of this entry »
The Bailey
Christ it’s Hallowe’en night, isn’t it? Well, either that or war has broken out. Gunships are on the Liffey. Bombardment of Dublin city centre has commenced. No, no… I’ve checked the calendar. It’s Halloween alright. Read the rest of this entry »
PUB WITH NO NAME
Before I begin this week, I’d like to address a few words to the Garda Traffic Bureau: Officers, lads… I know we’ve had our differences down the years. We’ve both said things that, in the cold light of day, we probably regret. But look what you’ve reduced me to. I’m using public transport. Dear God, hasn’t this madness gone far enough? Read the rest of this entry »
RODY BOLANDS
My phone is ringing. It’s Aidan. I might have guessed. “You know the way life isn’t fair..?” he begins. As opening gambits go, this is one of his better efforts. (The last time he rang with bad news, he went with “You were never too fond of that coffee table, were you?”) Read the rest of this entry »
Published: Evening Herald, November 2008FLANNERY’S
Why do I despise Flannery’s pub on Camden Street? A candid response to that question could fill a 12-page pull-out supplement. Suffice to say: Drunk off-duty Gardai. Drunk off-duty nurses. Drunk off-duty Gardai copulating with drunk off-duty nurses. Fake tan. Peroxide. Rugby jerseys. DJs with mid-Atlantic accents who say things like “It’s Saturday night in Flannery’s and the paarty is just getting staarted…” Read the rest of this entry »
IMAGINE NO MORE FRY UPS
With pork off the menu, can one Irishman survive without his traditional breakfast? asks Eoin Butler .
AS THE FALLOUT from the weekend recall of Irish pork continues to be felt across a range of sectors, there is one area in which its implications are already quite clear. The traditional Irish breakfast, for the time being at least, is off the menu.
For generations, breakfast has been a meal that nourished the Irish soul. In times past, an Irishman might have awoken to find his potatoes blighted, his religion proscribed or his children exiled. But put a plate of rashers, sausages and black pudding down in front of him and suddenly things didn’t look so bad. Read the rest of this entry »
Published: Irish Times, June 27 2009How to get the girl
THE POLISH GIRL with the tea trolley is trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. A tall, athletic young man in a tight-fitting black T-shirt is standing in the centre of Room 202. His hair is meticulously tousled and a tacky necklace pendant bobbles on his chest. He is a rising inter-county hurling star, but that wouldn’t ring any bells. She’s more likely to have noticed that he’s holding the hand of another (identically kitted-out) young man and leading him in a graceful twirl around on the spot.
On the far side of the room, a third boyband clone is filming the pair on a digital camcorder.
I couldn’t tell you exactly what this hotel worker is thinking. But I’d be very surprised if the words “gay porn” aren’t high up there in the mix. Read the rest of this entry »
Published: Evening Herald, March 2010T.P. Smiths
T.P. Smiths on Saturday is where you end up when you thought you wanted to shop, but it turned out all you wanted was a pint of beer and a chicken fajita. It’s airy and comfortable and there’s football on the telly. Sure where else would you be?
If straight men and gay women have one thing in common, I think, it’s that we both detest shopping. (Well, no. If straight men and gay women have one thing is common, it’s something else entirely. But if we have a second thing in common…) Read the rest of this entry »