The Lord Edward pub. By some freakish turn of happenstance I'd never set foot inside it before last night, another one ticked off the list.
The bar was well stocked with worldly ales, whiskeys and vodkas for the Christchurch converts. Of course, you'd expect such things, what with the general publiness of the surrounds.
We took a seat near the door and immediately set to discussing the events of the day. A crashing bore of a football match, the nip in the air, the fact that my belt had missed a loop in my trouserwear. That kind of thing. Politics, both sexual and governmental, left unspoke.
The air changed some time around 8pm. A frisson of excitement, a definite heightening of the atmosphere. Pints were left at tables untended, beermats left atop to give the illusion of smoking outside.
It was not so. No.
No, they, the men with full grey stubble and betting slips, were huddled around the television three deep.
What great calling was this? What was causing these obvious grandfathers, these drinking men, these old time Dubliners to abandon all discourse in favour of the widescreen wankbox overhead?
It wasn't the Spanish football. They turned that off. It wasn't racing from Wolverhampton or Kempton. No. It wasn't even Anne Doyle and the stiffy that dare not speak its name.
It was, of course, the worst centre parting in the history of television, two little gimps that would be Bros and the shattered dreams of a girl called Lucie.
The Lucky Leopard's alive and well, pissing on O'Leary's grave.