Paddy’s Irish Pub in Cusco claims to be the world’s “highest Irish-owned pub”, which is not exactly a Pulitzer but it is impressive nonetheless. That is until I learn that this is actually a contested matter. The Irish Pub in Namche Bazaar, not far from Everest base camp, makes the same assertion. And by my calculations, Nepal has it on Peru by 51 metres. Lo siento, folks.
Meanwhile, over a bowl of mushroom arrabbiata at Molly Malone’s in Singapore, the staff suggest you will feel “in a home away from home”. Hooley’s Irish Pub and Restaurant in Guangzhou, China, offers “big frozen fruit drinks and a modern cocktail menu for the ladies!”, and I couldn’t quite get my hands on the menu at O’Donovan’s Irish Pub and Restaurant in Dar es Salaam. Cochabamba actually has at least three Irish bars. That is – if you didn’t know – the fourth largest city in Bolivia.
From McGettigan’s pub in Sharjah – that’s the third most populous city in the United Arab Emirates to you – you could hop across to O’Regans and McCafferty’s in neighbouring Dubai. I am minded to try the Irish mixed grill served with “Asian” sauce in Tashkent on my next trip to Uzbekistan. And though there is no official data on the matter, I am willing to bet that O’Leary’s in Tromsø airport is the northernmost iteration.
For a nation that has earned a reputation for the kitsch and parochial, the Irish pub is a remarkably cosmopolitan enterprise. And the joie de vivre of the Irish – more parsimoniously rendered as “craic” – is an international commercial asset. It was long before the emergence of technical structures like the European Economic Community that the Irish marched into the world, trading their affability for cash. And who could be surprised that, all of a sudden, even the good people of England or Dar es Salaam or Ulaanbaatar wanted in?
Which brings me to the 49 branches of the British owned “Irish-themed” pub chain O’Neill’s. There are three within a two-mile radius in London. And there is one opposite King’s Cross St Pancras Station. I am here on a dark Sunday night to find out why anyone else would want to be here on a dark Sunday night, and to see if I can detect even trace elements of Hibernia in this most deracinated of Irish pubs.
There is a huge mural on the wall: “O’Neill’s, where laughter and life flow like music” (and where they don’t hire copywriters, it seems). There are three fruit machines and about 50 people in here. Most – I assume – are waiting for their trains. Some – I know – are watching the Man City vs Bournemouth match on one of the several giant TV screens. There is a special offer fuelled by the “why not?” school of accounting: 12 shots of “cream tequila liqueur” for £35. They have spelled the word Monday incorrectly in the women’s bathroom. I am looking for Ireland, but I cannot find it yet.
The menu is even more unmoored from its original source material. Cheddar and jalapeño “doughnuts”, cheeseburger spring rolls (?!), and two different burgers that for an inexplicable reason have the same name (“Blazin’ Blue”). I asked the barman if this ever caused confusion and he returned a blank stare. The cauliflower curry is so bland one has to assume it is intended as a joke at the expense of India, Ireland and cauliflower. I know you’re not exactly here for the ortolan, but some might suggest that standards of taste and execution are a bit too low.
But you don’t need me to tell you that the kitchen at a chain Irish bar opposite a train station in central London is lacking. This is not the point of the Global Irish Pub. What I found at O’Neill’s instead was a formula for economic success: combine a bar, a microwave, a patronising invocation of “craic”, give it a name so Irish that it sounds AI-generated (like say, oh I don’t know, “Finn McRedmond”), and you have yourself a thriving business, anywhere you like. A small island on Europe’s western frontier, beamed into the consciousness of the world.
[Further reading: A tale of two River Cafés]
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This article appears in the 13 Nov 2025 issue of the New Statesman, What Keir won't hear