I don’t envy whoever is charged with delivering Brian O’Donnell’s eulogy before he’s sent on his way next week. His formidable reputation preceded him, and everyone who ever set foot inside the bar he ran, The Hi-B, on the corner of Oliver Plunkett Street and Winthrop Street in the middle of Cork city, will have left with a story, a scream and often a flea in the ear. Brian was a prolific hit factory and, since news of his death was announced this morning, many of his greatest put-downs, one-liners and japes have already had an airing. There are volumes more in the vaults.

In the best traditions of the great bars, The Hi-B was cut in the likeness of its owner, whose tics and traits could be read in the absence of anything remotely new-fangled or contemporary on the premises. His only aesthetic concession within the four walls of the tiny pub was to classical music and, in some of his balmier moments, he’d come out from behind the bar and blast out a couple of verses from an aria. The bar was utterly pretentious in its outward lack of pretentiousness and, once inside the door, no one was allowed to be more intelligent, or to enjoy more intelligent pursuits, than the owner himself.

I killed many an hour in The Hi-B, either avoiding the grim inevitability of work or, as was often the case, preparing to go on somewhere else. From the leather seats in the window, you’d be able to look down onto Winthrop Street and get a sense of the mood around town. This was especially so during the clammy evenings in summer while the buskers – Mark O’Sullivan and Tony Campagno, most prominently – were going at it on that pitch just beside The Long Valley, in many respects The Hi-B’s spiritual companion across the street.

Try as I did – and I made numerous efforts – I found it impossible to ever spend an entire night in The Hi-B because of the constant honk of cordite. You never knew when Brian might wire into you and it was always better to get out of there while the scores were level. And so he became my regular support act whenever any artist of note – and plenty more without a note – were playing at De Lacy House, down at the other end of Oliver Plunkett Street. From high culture to popular culture in the length of a street, this, for many years, was my routine.

For a bar whose regulars fetched up from all arts and parts – think of the cast of Cheers and then think of the absolute polar opposite, many of them in tweeds and twill, and you’re close – The Hi-B was perennially popular with students, and students were popular with Brian. Many of whom he saw, I suspect, as fresh meat in need of intellectual seasoning and proper finishing, which he provided in abundance. To that end, and ever so slightly mis-calibrated, The Hi-B was the most interesting and tangential bar in the city, like something that Quentin Blake might have drawn for a Roald Dahl short-story co-written with Seán Ó Faoláin. Shabbily chic – or, in old money, dusty and dilapidated – it boasted a considerable beard quotient too and, despite its contempt for trends and trend-setters, certainly attracted its share of posers, poets, fashionistas and thinkers. The odd time, you’d even see a woman there.

But Brian was quick to adapt, too. In Dan Buckley’s profile of Brian in The Irish Examiner in 2012, the writer mentions how his subject grew to despise mobile phones and technology with the same ferocity as he long disregarded radio, television and broadcasters. His philosophy was simple: bars were for drinking and socialising in and, therefore, that space needed to be tended and protected. And so although it always looked to me like it was plugged in, I can never remember the old television set ever once being turned on, even if regulars assure me it was briefly defibrillated into life during the penalty shoot-out at the Ireland-Romania World Cup match in Genoa in 1990. A game which clearly took place while Brian was elsewhere.

Sport was just too coarse for a publican of far more sophisticated tastes. Which is ironic given how Brian sits into Cork’s canon of public personalities – Sonia, Seán Óg, Roy – known popularly by their first names only and for their heroics on the fields and tracks. Indeed it was only when I had to interview him for a short Hot Press preview years ago that it dawned on me to ask him what his surname was. For years, he’d simply been ‘Brian’ or, at a push, ‘Brian from The Hi-B’.

By then, and like practically everyone else who set foot inside the door of his first-floor speakeasy, I’d routinely been abused by him from behind the bar, threatened with various suspensions and warned about my manners. And like most of his other customers, I kept going back there because, in my more reflective moments, and once I’d looked into my heart, I knew he was right in everything he said.

But the cabaret and the burlesque was really seductive too, what strategists and marketing executives now refer to as ‘unique selling points’: and precisely the kind of guff that Brian would put the run on you for. During the summer of 1990, I was helping out on an RTÉ Current Affairs investigative piece on some bent goings-on out the road and, every evening, I’d convene with the producer and reporter in The Hi-B to assess our progress. My colleagues, neither of whom are from Cork, were captivated by Brian, his bar and what they termed ‘The Floor Show’: like The Late Late Show in its pomp, The Hi-B was unscripted, live and you were never quite sure who was going to turn up, how drunk they were going to be and what was going to kick off. With Brian producing, directing and presenting, naturally.

Like everywhere else, Cork has long had its share of cranky bar owners, male and female, and Brian was as frequently discourteous as the worst of them. He was the antithesis of anything they ever taught you about protocol and etiquette in what we describe as ‘the hospitality sector’, but then, while he ran his bar, he never regarded himself as anything other than an old-school publican. ‘Support your local breweries’, he once chided a friend of mine whose crime was to order a bottle of sparkling water.

Because beyond everything else, Brian knew how a bar worked. This wasn’t just a business or a trade. It was far more important than that.


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  1. This piece is brilliant; catches him so perfectly. Brian was my uncle; The Hi-B was – and is – not just a pub, it is more a state of mind. I wrote this poem for him years ago. RIP Brian.

    The Ark

    Past the sign that offers WIGS FOR RENT
    at Minihan’s the chemist, who still complains
    of rivulets of stout dribbling down into his shop;
    then in under the arch through which a man might ride

    a horse, and up the stairs, the same stairs Eddie Guest
    once stumbled on, and fell, and sued, and lost. A door
    opening into an interior by Vermeer: light falling
    from a window on the left, lambent on the counter;

    the figures perched on high stools nursing pints and chasers.
    The sense that some small thing is just about to happen
    here, where anything is possible, where merchant princes
    wait their turn and Bernie Murphy, sandwich-board-man,becomes

    a city councillor. And you, mein host, presiding, gazing out
    across the bar at new arrivals before you amble over to pour
    another splash of what you’ve always loved to call “a talent
    to abuse”, a talent nurtured in another time when Select Bar

    meant no fools ever suffered, no interruptions tolerated to quiet,
    courteous drinking. The legends grew: how once, when he refused
    to remove it, you snipped off with a scissors a patron’s garish tie;
    how tourists seeking merely coffee or a soft drink were briskly shown

    the door. Word was, nobody was anybody in this town
    until they’d been barred by you, though at times the person
    you most wanted to get rid of was yourself, your own best customer,
    dank afternoons alone when the smoke-stained wooden panels

    closed in around you like a coffin and you sank down to the dregs,
    down to the ocean floor at the bottom of your glass. “Quit drinking”
    said the doctor, “quit, while you’re ahead”. “Who says I’m ahead?”
    the return from the baseline, proving you can always tell a Corkman,

    but you can’t tell him much. Some day the Lee’s green waters
    will rise to swallow up all of these streets; Patrick Street, and Winthrop,
    and this street too; Oliver Plunkett, our favourite bloody martyr,
    but when the deluge comes if anything survives it will be this place,

    an ark filled with chairs and tables from another turn-of-century ship,
    the picture signed by Einstein and the letter from Cole Porter, and forty
    days and nights of classical and jazz and opera, enough even for you,
    a balding Noah in bi-focals, still humming Shostakovich and insisting

    on good manners as the denizens stare out upon the lost world
    floating past, clinging on to Bernie Murphy’s sandwich-board.


  2. Really lovely piece, thanks for posting. It captures the spirit of the place wonderfully.
    A great poem at the end of it too, thanks John for that.

    For all his foibles, Brian was a terrific character. I was in awe of his signed portraits. To have the foresight and self-belief to send those pictures and for the celebrities to comply with his request by signing them and and sending them back. That was no mean feat. And when you look at the A-listers he captured in this way, it was a briliant job of work, and the likenesses were not bad either. When I saw those pieces I wanted to get to know that man.

    Brian infused the place with his magic and it retains that atmosphere, even still. I really hope it reopens when this covid lark is over. I had many great nights in there. I used to go around with Aisling Smyth who played every Thursday night so I was a regular for just a couple of years. We had many great evenings of music and you’d never know who might turn up and sing a song. You never knew who might put on a show either.

    One night a wild looking lady came in and gradually got extremely drunk. She was getting very loud and became abusive towards anyone who asked her to quieten down. Then friend of mine wouldn’t stop answering her back and she rose to a crescendo with a strema of invective towards him to which he kept (foolishly I thought) replying with too much humour for her liking and she went for him. The customers at the bar got together and removed the woman with some difficulty.

    Just as we all relaxed again and Aisling had started another song, the door burst open and the same woman leaped from the step and with a remarkably graceful dive, slid across two tables, sending every drink flying, and grabbed my friend, who was by the window, around the neck. It was peak drama and although quite a few people lost their drinks and/or got wet, after she had been carried out a second time, there were a few quips around the room, Aisling sang another song and the night settled back down.

    I had the great pleasure of playing there myself on occasion in the last few years, filling in for Fintan mostly. It was such a thrill for me.
    My favourite time to visit the Hi-B was during the day. I remember going in for an afternoon pint years ago and finding my friend Gregory O Donoghue and his friend Patrick Galvin at the bar. There were a couple of other intellectual types around and the conversation was witty and heady. I let it wash over me like a balm. This is, I believe, what Brian really loved. High-fallutin, honest to god intelligent beings interacting together, with a hint of showmanship and a dash of ego, and sure what harm is there in that? None indeed.


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