The Hacienda Bar — Restaurant in Dublin

The Hacienda was part of my life for over 30 years. I had one of my first pints here at 15, and for a decade it was where I played pool and darts in a more depressed Dublin. I remember the German Shepherds padding around the bar and Shea’s white Porsche parked outside — a rare sight in 1980s north inner city Dublin.

The pub was crammed with Shea’s curios — eccentric, lived-in, unforgettable. To get in, you rang the bell on the locked door, where Shea would look you up and down before deciding if you were worthy. Inside, you might wait for your pint while he finished a game of pool, or have to step back from a shot as he opened the trapdoor to change a barrel. Winters meant a roaring fire, though you also had to contend with what were surely the smallest toilets in Dublin, a one-in, one-out squeeze that tested balance as much as patience and the worst smoking area in any pub anywhere: basically not much more than the size of an old phone box with a scrolled metal gate where somehow up to a dozen people could squeeze in. You froze, you laughed, and somehow it was all part of the charm.

Even after I moved to London, every visit home meant calling in. No fuss — just, “Are ye home? When are ye going back?” from Shea, always in his striped T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, with Rod Stewart crooning in the background. And every so often Linda’s arm would poke through the upstairs door with a cup of tea for Shea or a plate of bar food for customers. She seldom appeared in person; for most, that arm was all they ever saw of her.

For over twenty years, the same locals occupied Bullshit Corner — swapping stories, dealing cards, and holding the place together with laughter and tall tales. The darts and pool teams kept it alive in leaner times, hauling its name proudly around the city. Trying to play pool here was an experience in itself — every crucial shot was preceded by a chorus of slagging from some of the best players Dublin had known. That was the heartbeat of the Hacienda.

But by the mid 2010s, everything changed. A Hollywood celebrity had began dropping in, and almost overnight Shea swapped his old tracksuit for a bow tie and waistcoat. Social media followed, then hipsters, hangers-on and more stars. One by one, the locals - even the stalwarts of Bullshit Corner - were barred for trivial reasons and replaced.

Now the walls are lined with celebrity photos, a shot of Shea with Ed Sheeran greeting you at the door. Gone are the regulars who gave the place its soul. What was once a true Dublin local is now a local in name only — a private club that shuts out the very people who built it. Ring the bell today as a local and you’re as likely to be turned away, or greeted with a “Private Party” sign, as welcomed. And if you do get in, don’t expect the old banter — the only topic now is which celebrity dropped in last.

And that’s the wider tragedy. Pubs like The Hacienda, chasing money, glamour and gentrification, have turned their backs on the communities that sustained them through hard times. The celebrities who frequent and promote such places may not realise it, but they’ve helped drain the life out of the north inner city, replacing flesh-and-blood communities with hollow backdrops for curated “authentic” experiences.

For me, The Hacienda will always be the earlier days: funny, warm, and imperfect. The quirks, the freezing smoking box, the tiniest toilets, the darts and pool teams carrying its name, and the familiar faces in Bullshit Corner with cards on the counter and slagging across the pool table. That humour and warmth were what made it great. Its loss is a deep sorrow — not just for those of us who knew it, but for Dublin itself. Tragically, The Hacienda will be remembered by many not for the heart that once defined it, but for the day it turned its back on the locals who...

It was an icy cold Monday when my date led me down the dreary, foreboding streets towards the Hacienda bar, all the while promising not to murder me. I was instructed to remove my duck down hood, the only thing keeping me from freezing to death, so the bar owner could look at my face on camera and decide wether or not I was the type of person he wanted in his exclusive establishment. After what seemed like an awkward amount of time to stand and be judged on your appearance, an older man perhaps in his early 70s but dressed in early 80s garb, unlocked the barred up door and ushered us inside. The unassuming exterior, didn’t prepare me for what was inside. One would walk by the bar assuming it was derelict. Narrow barred up windows, nothing audible coming from inside. However, the moment I stepped over the threshold I was immediately transported in time. The rest of Dublin had raced on outside but this small corner was preserved perfectly as though unaware of the bold new world. The wall decor was a mishmash of nautical, equestrian and Hollywood themes, with photos of all the famous folk who were patrons at one time or another. They most likely asked a cool local where they could go to get lost and not be bothered. Much cooler than me, I lived in Dublin for 18 years completely unaware of it’s existence. It reminded me of those pubs you were dragged to as a kid and could chose between red or white lemonade and if you’re lucky, a packet of Tayto! It had a whole 1990, Rep. of Ireland in Italy for the World Cup kinda feel. Definitely nostalgic. The music never inched a day past early 90s. Lots of Elton John, Thin Lizzy, some 80s rock belters.. We had the place to ourselves for most of the night, where I clumsily attempted to play pool. Trying to show my date I wasn’t completely useless. He politely pretended not to notice. About an hour before closing, a group of about ten people arrived (after going through the video vetting process). They consisted of old, young, stylish and outlandish, true Dubs and some accents I couldn’t place. You would never put these people together in any normal setting so I assumed they were a film crew. The bar is close to film and recording studios. After paying fair prices for healthy portions of spirits with cash only, we were on our way. The door was unlocked and locked once more and I snapped out of my nostalgic haze. Back to the freezing cold, new buildings,...

Edit: Upon my third visit, I had a strange experience - I greeted Shay with a joke "Trick or Treat" and he chuckled, I went in, I had my money ready and he asked to speak to me at the side of the bar. I'm anything but a rowdy person, and he asked me to politely leave. Apparently, the reason is because I spoke to people the week previous and had a 'few complaints' - he told me he would rather me drink elsewhere as he likes people to go in and keep to themselves. I don't understand it myself, he told me I was a "nice chap and a lovely person" - so I don't understand why I wouldn't be welcome back. Anyways, it was very weird to...