Barney and Marie Drake, The Drake Inn, Castletown-Geoghegan, Co Westmeath, Ireland.

“Follow your nose you stupid bitch,” Barney told the health inspector

Marie and Barney Drake have the cleanliness of rodents. You have to clear the rats out of the pool table before playing in The Drake Inn.

A female Oirish health inspector once walked into The Drake Inn to find Barney Drake, laying supine on the floor, with the front of his trousers awash with urine. The inspector asked him where the toilets were and Barney answered by slightly raising his head and telling her: “follow your nose”.

This was actually the most efficient way for Mr Drake to direct anyone to his pub’s toilets. Disgusting wouldn’t come near describing them; the manky carpet that covers the Drake Inn’s floor is saturated with urine and faeces that constantly flows out from the Ladies and Gents loos. And his clientele will stomp around in it as happy as pigs in shit.

Marie and Barney Drake.

The health inspector must have been nasally challenged because most people would, immediately on entering, sniff out where the toilets were – the smell of them will hit you with the tenacity of a plume of ash from an erupting volcano. This Food Safety Authority of Ireland employee must have also been mentally challenged because in any other country the Drake Inn would have been ordered closed and the proprietors, Barney and Marie Drake, banned for life from working with food or drink.

Barney Drake is best described as a pig in human form; he’s a chronic drunkard who’s seemingly allergic to soap and detergent and has the coarseness and aggression of a rabid dog. One night Barney was so drunk that he drove into a neighbour’s yard and, believing it to be his own and not expecting another car to be parked in it, wrote-off the neighbour’s vehicle.

Mr Drake is the type of loon who’d do something as atrocious as this and yet be found a couple of days later pontificating and deriding others who he’d view as “being too fond of alcohol” – the type of Pict Oirish inbreed who’d see the speck of dirt in other’s eyes but miss the tree trunk in his own.

Marie.

There’s numerous pieces of obscure bric-a-brac hanging from the walls and ceiling of the pub which don’t seem to serve any purpose other than to collect dirt and cobwebs. One of these relics was an ancient electric lamp that was still connected to the mains; one evening an intoxicated Barney was fumbling around showing these artifacts to a slackjawed crony when he grabbed the lamp, whose frame was alive, and got electrocuted. Most of the stupefied and halfwitted patrons (Bolger’s, Hog’s, Kirby’s, Rigney’s and Cochrane’s) didn’t notice Barney shaking and bucking in the middle of the floor like a mechanical rodeo bull. Luckily (for Drake) one mediocrely witted person happened to be there and had the presence-of-mind to flick off the master switch, otherwise Barney was dead – although I don’t think the local slackjaws would have been any the worse for it.

Barney bucked viciously
when he grabbed the lamp.

How did Mr Drake thank the person (McCormack) who saved his life? Rewarded him with an all inclusive holiday, bought him and the wife a couple of free drinks whenever they visited his pub? No, Barney did nothing like this, instead, he barred McCormack a couple of nights later. The type of Oirish loon that Drake is: He didn’t want to feel under obligation to McCormack, didn’t like the fact that he owed him a great deal of gratitude. His way of circumventing this debt was to row with, and then bar his life saver. (Only a psychiatrist or psychologist could explain the thinking of a nutter like Barney Drake.)

He was well matched when he met and married Marie as the two of them are cut from the same type of cloth. Mrs Drake has an enormously high opinion of herself and Barney and, regardless of running one of the dirtiest establishments in Ireland, can be seen piously strutting back and forth between her home and the pub – she has to pop to the pub regularly to ensure Barney hasn’t drunk all the stock.

Barney.

Marie Drake is the epitome of rural Irish incestuous breeding: This woman believes herself to have been a McCormack prior to taking Drake’s name, but here she’s wrong. She wasn’t a fully fledged McCormack, she was, as is well known in the Irish midlands, sired by a neighbouring farmer. As is oft said about these cases in Ireland: the postman brought her.

Very probably Marie Drake doesn’t know that the man who reared her wasn’t her biological father and her mother would have never seen any reason to tell her – not even if a seventeen-year-old Marie had started dating one of her half-siblings, or one of the many cousins that’s she'd have encountered in local pubs and discotheques. If the law that prohibits the marriage of siblings and first cousins was applied today in Ireland a high number of marriages would be broken up.

It’s disgusting to give mongrels like the Drakes orphans.

The problem people like me have with extramarital affairs in Ireland isn’t the breaking of the 7th commandment; it’s that the slackjawed parents (usually the mother) will never at any stage inform the sprog who the real father is. The'll make no attempt, whatsoever, to inform their bastards about who their half-siblings and cousins are.

It’s one thing for a mother to dupe her husband into rearing someone else’s child – it’s easy to cuckold the halfwitted Oirish. But in a lot of cases the mother won’t stop at defrauding her witless spouse, she’ll attempt to deceive the entire community. In trying to do so she’ll let her child go out and unbeknowingly marry a half-sibling or first cousin – this type of inbreeding gives rise to untold numbers of swivel-eyed sprogs in Ireland.

It’s not enough that the fatuous Drakes run one of the filthiest public houses in Ireland, and that the drunken and half-mad Barney is liable at any time, day or night, to crash his car onto a neighbour’s property and run down whomever or whatever gets in his way. This pair of mongrels have also been allowed to adopt children; as far as I know they’ve adopted at least two, but probably more.

There was, though, a Dickensian advantage for Marie and Barney Drake in adopting orphans, they came in handy for doing bar-work in the pub. Marie needed the time to strut her stuff around the village and in Mullingar; she simply hadn’t the hours needed to watch Barney 24/7. And Barney, after a couple of hours alone in the pub, would be legless, so the children were kept on hand to deter the many local morons from stealing the drink or profits.

The fact that it’s illegal to employ 13- and 14-year-olds as bar-staff didn’t deter the Drakes or the Adoption Authority of Ireland.

A pious man.

In any other First World country this pair of ingrates wouldn’t be allowed keep animals let alone take in orphaned children. These kids would have had an atrociously tough childhood in the Drake household. From a young age they were forced to work ungodly hours and serve complete ignoramuses in the pub; see their father rolling home, day-in day-out, with black eyes, cut lips and reeking of urine and excrement; and abide their corrosive and unstable mother strutting around like an extra-pernicious Imelda Marcos.

The Drake’s would have gave them a grossly obscene introduction to life. Basically, the Drake’s debauchery would have increased one thousand-fold the emotional damage these children had suffered in the orphanage.

Mark Bolger supplements
his dole by playing cards.

You might think that Barney and Marie Drake might now and again suffer shame or regret from the sickening way they carry on. It’s very doubtful, though, that they do because in Castletown-Geoghegan they’re surrounded by like minded people. This debauched village is home to some of the most inbred morons that’s to be found in Ireland. Bolger, Hog, Kirby, Rigney and Cochrane are the main family names in this hamlet and their inbreeding and intermarrying ensure it’s going to remain that way. It’s said that even the parents here don’t know who is the actual biological begetters of those that they rear.

Two Castletown brothers, Mark and Padraig Bolger, are perfect examples of the type of ingrate that debauched inbreeding produces. Mark is a halfwit who can be seen any Monday trying to supplement his dole by playing cards in Barney’s pub. It’d be worth going in at around 12 noon on a Monday to see him and his coterie of imbeciles fighting over the €1 or €2 that might be in the pot. And if Barney is sober enough he’ll be running an illegal bookies; the winner of the card games will have a chance to increase his profits by backing a horse.

The type of thicko to be
found in Castletown.

Mark’s brother (or half sibling?), Padraig, is a thug who used to regularly beat his mother and, according to Derek Kirby, had no qualms about giving her a hiding in front of his friends. Padraig married a local lass (a Brennan girl); I wonder if he carries out lady bashing on her? These type of cowardly thugs usually do; if they’ll beat their own mothers they’re invertebrate cowards and bullies who’ll beat anyone they're stronger than.

Then there’s Martin Rigney who was found beating a girlfriend in front of his house at 1am one morning. Another cowardly gombeen thug who ran yapping like a mongrel when a neighbour intervened.

The provenance of these families explains their mongrelism. Their ancestors are descended from prostitutes who followed the British army to Ireland on its many campaigns there1 – some soldiers would have went awol and made off with a whore. They were brought to Castletown-Geoghegan by a local 18th century landlord who wanted cheap labour for his estate; he’d have taken them from workhouses and prisons around Ireland. They’d have been little more than slaves, working for food and a roof over their heads.

Their roots are still very obvious today. Leave anything out of your hand in the vicinity of a Bolger, Hog, Kirby, Rigney or Cochrane and they’ll have it stolen with a sleight-of-hand and quickness that would amaze David Blaine.

_____________________ 1Note the names.