What are the key words of the following text: NAME_1’s is not the oldest pub in Galway. It’s the oldest unchanged pub in Galway.

While all the rest go

Uni-sex

Low-fat

Karaoke

Over-the-top

it remains true to the format of fifty or more years ago. Beyond basic. Spit and sawdust floor, hard seats, no-frills stock. The taste for

Hooches

Mixers

Breezers

hasn’t yet been acknowledged.

It’s a serious place for serious drinking. No bouncers with intercoms on the door. Not an easy pub to find. You head up Shop Street, skip Garavan’s, turn into a tiny alley and you’re home. If not free, at least unfettered.

I like it because it’s the only pub that never barred me. Not once, not ever.

The bar is free of ornamentation. Two hurleys are crisscrossed over a blotched mirror. Above them is a triple frame. It shows a pope, St Patrick, and NAME_2. NAME_3 is in the centre.

The Irish saints.

Once the pope held centre field, but after the Vatican Council he got bounced. He clings to an outside left. Precarious the pose.

I dunno which pope he is, but he has the look of them all. It’s unlikely he’ll regain mid-field any time soon.

NAME_4, the owner, who can recall NAME_5 being young, said to me,

“NAME_6 was the English Elvis.”

A horrendous concept.

NAME_1’s was my office. I sat there most mornings and waited for the world to come knocking. NAME_4 would bring me coffee. A measure of brandy poured in—"to kill the bitterness”.

Some days, he seems so frail I fear he’ll never make the few steps to my table.

The cup rattles on the saucer like the worst of bad news. I’d say,

“Use a mug.”

He’d be horrified, say,

“There are standards!”

Once I asked, as he shook in unison with the cup,

“Will you ever retire?”

“Will you ever stop drinking?”

Fair enough.
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