“Dubh is do?" I was incredulous. It was no wonder I hadn't been able to find the stupid word. "Should I be
calling pubs poos?"
"Dubh is Gaelic, Ms. Lane. Pub is not.”

“I was reared in a pub – as a young fellow, serving in the pub I learnt far more there about human nature than I learnt in any university or school. I think it gave me a great insight into people.”

“If you hadn't noticed, I'm the pub loony around here. This is my turf, and if there's any gibbering to be done, I'm the one who does it. If you want to gibber, find another bar.”

“A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation.”

“I poo poo the chit.'
The attendant looked stunned. 'You cannot poo-poo the chit!'
I do.' Kate said solemnly. 'I do poo-poo.'
We'll walk.”

“I love those people who do story-telling and who ramble on, but I don't do that, I tell jokes - the sort of jokes that anyone really could tell in the pub.”

“I like reading in a pub rather than a library or study, as it's generally much easier to get a drink.”

“There’s something wonderful about drinking in the afternoon. A not-too-cold pint, absolutely alone at the bar – even in this fake-ass Irish pub.”

“Home, Ms. Lane?” His deep voice was gently amused.

“I have to call it something,” I said morosely. “They say home is where the heart is. I think mine’s satin-lined
and six feet under.”

“I first felt a fist - and then a kick, I could now smell their breath,
They smelt of pubs - and Wormwood Scrubs - and too many right-wing meetings.”