St. Stephen’s Day Traditions

At this time of year our thoughts always turn to the important things in life. Like pubs.

For the last twenty odd years, and they were indeed odd, I’ve been frequenting the same one. A place where everyone knows your name and they’re always glad you came. An Irish Cheers. A Howyagettingon.

In the course of those odd years, staff have come and gone, some customers have moved away, or even passed away, and new ones have taken their place. There’s been the smoking ban. Women drinking in the bar. (Yes, a progressive establishment). But the general ethos, and most of the decor, have remained the same. The banter flows. The pints flow. Horses are backed, then cheered or cursed. GAA matches are watched, then discussed for days.

Then there’s St. Stephen’s Day. Always the same. The one day of the year the bar regulars migrate to the plusher climes of the lounge. Here they sit, nervously twitching like the fish out of water that they are. They bemoan having to pay the 5¢ extra for a pint. They endure the snide remarks of the loungers about being on holidays. The trip to the bookies is further. The staff control the steering-wheel and channels are not switched quickly enough to catch all races. Pure hell. Gnashing of teeth. Renting of garments. (I got €2/hour for my new geansaí this year). Dante’s Inferno would be but a mild irritation in comparison.

For St. Stephen’s Day is when the 50 odd (in this case extremely odd) members of one extended family descend on the bar like a plague of locusts. The loudly greet those who have come from as far afield as Monasterevin. After all they have not seen each other in weeks.

The plague coincides with the first day of the Leopardstown festival. The merits of horses are loudly (did I mention they are incapable of communication below 85dB) debated. The race is off. Get the steering-wheel and turn up the telly. Roar a horse home. Roar two or more horses home. (95dB). Cheer the winner. All and sundry will magically have backed it. Pick a horse for the next race. (95dB). And they’re off. Get the steering-wheel and turn up the telly. Roar a horse home. Roar two or more horses home. (105dB). Cheer the winner. All and sundry will magically have backed it. And so on until the telly volume is at its limit and the vibrations are causing it to slide dangerously close to the edge.

All this interspersed with the telling of jokes (that even Brendan Grace would consider old) and the resulting uproarious laughter. And the singing of (the first two lines of) hits from the 1950’s.

Last race. The swarm leaves en masse. Telly turned off. The sudden drop from 150 to 40dB is a deafening silence. The staff spend half an hour picking up glasses, wiping tables and sweeping up losing dockets. (Funny there are any to sweep up as every locust had backed the winner of every race). “Not bad this year. I’m only owed for 7. Make that 8. So-and-so called a vodka, feked off to the jacks and swore blind she’d paid me when she got back.”

Ah sure, where would we be without tradition? In the bar probably.