McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland [Paperback]

The premise of Pete McCarthy's first book, McCarthy's Bar, is that you should never pass up the opportunity of having a drink in a bar that shares your name. There is clearly more to this plan than the obvious publicity stunt, since it could work with books as well--try reading Cormac McCarthy after reading this hilarious, informed and intelligent book, and you may well be tempted to buy books by every other McCarthy around.

Born in Warrington, Pete McCarthy decides to go back to rural Ireland, to rediscover his Irishness. The feeling that you have heard this sort of thing all before doesn't last for long. There is a serious writer struggling to make himself heard above the many excellent jokes and this is what makes McCarthy's book so distinctive. Although he can crack Brysonesque quips with the best of them ("I've often wondered how businessmen used to cope before [mobile phones] were invented. How did they tell their wives they were on the train?"), and take us through hilarious and largely drunken set-pieces, McCarthy is equally at home discussing Celtic standing stones and the potato famine.

The resulting book is a wonderful debut. By the end, we, too, would like to move to Ireland. You sense that McCarthy has such a genuine feeling for Ireland, Irishness and Irish history that he can only temper his writing with side-splitting humour. In this way, his first book successfully embodies much of what it is to be Irish. --Toby Green

'McCarthy is a hilariously funny writer' (The Times )

'An engaging, evocative book. Four out of five stars' (Daily Mail )

'Hilarious, informed and intelligent ... a wonderful debut. By the end, we, too, would like to move to Ireland' (Amazon.co.uk )

'One of the funniest writers around. If you were asked to choose the ideal travelling companion, you would put Pete McCarthy near the top of your list. But if he doesn't happen to be available, MCCARTHY'S BAR is the next best thing' (Yorkshire Evening Post )

'Don't panic - this is not the same story you hear from every tourist you meet ... This book will make you laugh out loud through recognition and embarrassment' (Irish News )

'If you're not pissing yourself within minutes of picking up this gem by Pete McCarthy, there's every chance you're actually dead' (SX )

'McCarthy mines a rich seam of humour as he finds himself on the receiving end of some warm but unsophisicated hospitality. But then, he could probably make a phone book funny.' (Independent on Sunday )

'An engaging, evocative book. Four out of five stars'

'Hilarious, informed and intelligent ... a wonderful debut. By the end, we, too, would like to move to Ireland'

Pete McCarthy's tale of his hilarious trip around Ireland has gained thousands of fans all over the world.

Pete was born in Warrington to an Irish mother and an English father and spent happy summer holidays in Cork. Years later, reflecting on the many places he has visited as a travel broadcaster, Pete admits that he feels more at home in Ireland than anywhere. To find out whether this is due to rose-coloured spectacles or to a deeper tie with the country of his ancestors, Pete sets off on a trip around Ireland and discovers that it has changed in surprising ways. Firstly obeying the rule 'never pass a pub with your name on it', he encounters McCarthy's bars up and down the land, and meets English hippies, German musicians, married priests and many others. A funny, affectionate look at one of the most popular countries in the world.

Pete McCarthy is the writer and performer of many series for radio and television, including 'Desperately Seeking Something', 'Country Tracks' and 'Travelog', for which he has won the Travelex Award for Best TV Writer. MCCARTHY'S BAR is his first book.

A year later, and I'm on the plane to Cork. In a cold sweat. The man across the aisle from me has a menacing aura, and a dog-collar. He may be a priest, but something about him – the way he seems to threaten violence even while asleep, perhaps - makes me suspect him of being a Christian Brother. From the age of ten, I was taught by the Christian Brothers: the carrot and stick method of education, but without the carrot. My first school report said: `Peter is an unpleasant and frivolous boy who talks too much and will never make anything of himself, but he does take a punch well.' At primary school, before the Brothers, it had been the Sisters: six impressionable years trying to work out whether nuns had hair. Curiously, both the convent primary schools I attended have now been turned into pubs. And the Christian Brothers, for their part, have a make of brandy named after them. God moves in mysterious ways, especially after a few drinks. From an early age it was taken for granted that Jesus was Catholic, God himself was Irish, and I had been born into a wicked, pagan country. On St Patrick's Day you could spot all the kids from Irish families wearing huge bunches of shamrock on their blazers, in a proud display of religious and cultural heritage that also made fights much easier to start. Though my dad was English, half-Irish counted as Irish when the insults were flying. We lived in the industrial north-west, in Warrington, where the air tasted of detergent from the soap-powder factory, so at least you knew it was clean. The rugby league team was called the Wire, after the town's main product. The Brothers' school was eight miles away, in St Helens; a town so devastated by heavy industry it made Warrington look like an area of outstanding natural beauty. I went abroad for the first time when I was twelve. We'd been going to Ireland every year since I'd been born, but Ireland didn't count as abroad. It was much nearer than London, or Bristol or Newcastle or Edinburgh for that matter, and was regarded simply as an extension of home. But in my second year at the Brothers' school we went on a school trip to proper abroad. To our twin town. To Stuttgart. I've never really approved of the idea of twinning, because places are invariably matched with other places just like them. So if you live in, say, a stunningly beautiful medieval town with a perfectly preserved castle, or a glamorous seaside resort with a fishing harbour and miles of sandy beach, then you'll be twinned with your exquisite European equivalent. And if you live in Warrington, or St Helens, then you'll be twinned with another industrial casualty. Like Stuttgart. So having spent the first dozen years of my life surrounded by wireworks, glass factories and chemical plants, I found myself transported to a place where the high spot of the visit was a trip to a ball-bearing factory. To make matters worse, I contracted hepatitis. I lost a stone in a week and turned yellow, which is quite interesting when you've twelve. So the doctor arrived -- a rather severe-looking elderly German gentleman in wire-framed glasses: not the most reassuring sight in the world when you've spent the last term doing a project on Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death. I'd led a sheltered life till this point, and so far was unaware of the existence of suppositories. The news came as a terrible shock. The doctor explained in schoolboy German what had to be done; when my custard-coloured eyes glazed over in disbelief, he mimed it, but it was still difficult to comprehend. Surely not? Not with those big tablets? After all, if my parents had wanted me to have foreign objects pushed up my bottom, they could have sent me to public school. Finally, though, the message got through. The course of medication lasted a week. The first couple of days were the worst. After that, the doctor came back and mimed taking the wrapper off, and things got much easier. It didn't half put me off going abroad, though.