The Destruction of Dublin by Frank McDonald gives a detailed account of the destruction of Dublin's historical building stock at the hands of gombeen politicians and developers.
Written in 1985, then Irish Times journalist Frank McDo…
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Yeah, I've been wanting to get my hands on that for a few years. I might ask at the academic library and if they haven't got it then I might be able to get them to stock a copy. That whole period McDonald is referring to was a free for all Fianna Fail grushie of addresses and locations they scammed for evey dime they could squeeze out of it and destroyed so much beautiful authentic architecture it was an architectural holocaust on the city.
Brash young entrepreneurs using Daddie's money buying up land on borrowed money, leveraging one massive loan from one bank against even more massive loans from other banks that the bank managers claimed they knew nothing about - even though they all played golf together at Druid's Glen and exchanged the down-low on the movers and shakers and how well/bad they were doing. The political elite deep in the trough with them, laughing along and giving each other the nudge and a wink to decide on who was next to be given a helping hand in destroying old Dublin in return for the few filthy shekels.
A typically horrible time in Ireland and Irish 'culture'.
When Geraldine what's her name from the Irish Times and Nell McCafferty holed up in the one block on St Stephen's Green refusing to come out while the cranes and wrecking balls were parked outside was another clown show. They were asked to meet to discuss terms, so two of them came out to talk and while they were at it, the wrecking balls started swinging. Once the rear walls were down, the gig was on: they lost, Dublin lost, and the developers had a party to celebrate even more free cash to spend out on their tax-haven second homes in Malta, Switzerland, and the Caymans.
Business as usual in Ireland.
Look at your city centre now though? All those brown and red bricked glass and steel monstrosities? They looked shite when they were finally unvelied and they look even worse today covered in dirt and dust, most windows blocked out with 'To Let' signs and graffiti, stinking of piss and looking like they landed out of nowhere, so incongruous they were to their immediate surrounds. As was said about Sam Stephenson's horrendously brutalist Civic Buildings, the old Bank Of Ireland block on Dame Street - they all 'looked like the box the one beside it came in'. Over the years I worked in loads of them for a variety of clients. They were all the same: shop unit out front, crappy non-functioning bathroom and kitchen and storage to the rear, looking all new and freshly painted, but the staff still had to nip down the road for a toilet break because their own unit wasn't even finished when they leased it - and now they're stuck with it: no pooper, no privacy, no kitchen (which usually consisted of a microwave machine and a huge bulging-over black sack of food wrappers). Taps that don't deliver water. Toilets that don't flush where the last person to take a dump on it didn't know that, and now their shite has solidified on the bottom of the toilet bowl and doesn't even attract the flies. It's dead.
I had several clients along Chatham Street, a street dear to my heart as my grandfather worked along there as did my Mam spend her childhood in the area. Sheehan's Pub is a lovely family house who serve amazing food and their drinks/cocktails/treats access to a qualified sommelier, the whiskey room upstairs with the private lock-up boxes for the stars to store their favourite whiskey in where they have a key and so does the house, so nobody's going to handle your grain or malt. The family allowed me to rummage about in their attic looking for things my grandfather made with his bare hands. He used to make these collage artworks from silver foils wrapped around the candies the audience members of the Gaiety theatre nibbled on. My Mam and her sisters used to be allowed to go in and collect all the foils in the lobby before the cleaners did and kept him in supply. He often bartered pieces to to get buy food for the kids. My grandmother had died of TB in the tenements when the girls were wee ones. I'd give anything to find one and bring it back home to Mam, but no joy as yet.
On the opposite side was/is Pasta Fresca, another long term client. Murder Ink - the crime and thriller bookshop. Sawer's fish market. The Clarendon. The DA Club. Out and About hiking store. That kitchen specialist shop opposite Steps Of Rome and Little Ceaser's. That pizza joint Germano Terrinoni (RIP) owned. All great places to hang out. All gone now. Neary's Pub and the lock in for the Gaiety staff. They all let me wander around their attics looking for pieces.
Damn. I just looked at Google Maps and this is what I got:
Find local businesses, view maps and get driving directions in Google Maps.
www.google.com
It never fucking ends, eh.