Begorrah boozers opened up everywhere in the 80s and early 90s, with the big pub companies spending millions on making bars look authentically tatty.

But, as with all fads, the magic wore off. There’s only so many times a Polish barmaid can ask you about “the craic” before you lose the will to live.

The only Irish pub I can think of locally is O’Leary’s in Southport. There’s good service as far as I can see but the only thing worth drinking is Guinness, and that is a shadow of its former self.

Sipping a pint, you can just detect the ghost of toasted malt that made the harp famous, but otherwise Guinness is a dead pint, a black lager, as Tandleman recently said.

Even in Ireland sales are down. In fact, keg-only Ireland is an example of how Britain would have gone if it was not for the formation of the Campaign for Real Ale in 1971.

However, if you get an Irish pub right it can be something special. Great nights have been had in Liverpool at Flanagan’s Apple and Pogue Mahone’s. American-Irish bars are even better for foul-mouthed fun.

The difference between these pubs and others round the country is real Irish customers and staff. Liverpool still has a sizable Irish population and plenty of people of diasporic descent, like my good self, who pine for the blarney after a couple of glasses of Jamesons.

If anyone is thinking of opening an Irish pub – and there are rumours of one in the pipeline in Southport – there’s some things they have to take care of.

Forgot all the Guinness memorabilia, sacks of sawdust and rusting prams on the ceiling, an Irish pub stands or falls on the entertainment it offers.

Ideally there should be real Irish music sessions, gigs by jobbing bands like Cream of the Barley, Irish sports on the box, and barmaids who love nothing better than conversing with half-drunk plastic paddies.

A bit of a Republican edge doesn’t hurt either and I’d recommend any potential landlord to hire a Liam Neeson lookalike to brood in the corner.

Said brooder should pass round a collection bucket “for the bhoys” on a regular basis, growling at those who refuse to lob a quid in that they’d better “watch their backs”.

If the bar is in Southport, however, it may be wise to play this down come mid July.

To the St Teresa of Avila (my patron saint) social club in Birkdale yesterday and a free bar and buffet to celebrate the First Holy Communion of my wonderful nephew.

When there’s no cask beer, I normally make for the Bloody Mary’s, but as this was a kiddies party, getting hammered wouldn’t have gone down well, so Tetley dark mild was given a go.

This is a beer I love on cask, but it disappointed badly on keg. First of all, it comes out ice cold, with all the subtle flavours bashed into a box under the stairs. What you’re left with is something a bit like a weak Guinness but without the redeeming creamy mouthfeel and full-bodied middle.

Wondering what sort of person drinks this night after night, I decided to delve deeper into sin, getting crack-house-whore dirty and ordering a Carlsberg Extra Cold.

The beer has no flavour other than a dry and chemical hit of alcohol. It’s ice cold and gassy and leaves a ‘chips and scampi’ aftertaste. It’s terrible, feckin terrible, not even as good as a can of barbecue lager.

Yet, why is there a moreish quality?

Is it the alcohol-kick? The lab-rat mucking around that leaves you thirsty after finishing a pint? The secret addition of cocaine in the brewing process?

There was a time when pub opinion had it that if you could only educate people about the joys of real ale then we’d see off the lager filth for good.

But as I made inroads into a second pint, the people told me Carlsberg extra cold is a “great pint”, with a “beer is beer and does what beer does” attitude.

These people don’t want Sheep Lifter ale or Old Cawliflower Hen, as they see the real ale choice, they want adult Coca Cola, cold, fizzy, dry with an instant alcohol cock-slap to the chops.

Real ale missionaries have really got their work cut out.

If you’re a traditionalist, then today is the only day that we celebrate that patron o’booze, St Patrick.

I’ve already offered you a recipe for the Everybody’s Irish cocktail, but the posher posers among you may prefer to splurge on a black velvet.

The drink was created by the head barman at Brooks’s Club of London in 1861. Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort, had just died and the patriotic barkeep decided drinks that night should also be in mourning.

To make it, fill up half a Champagne flute with Guinness  and top-up with sparkling wine. Some people use other stouts or perform some ritual with an Irish spoon, but the effect should be more or less the same.

Sit back, pretend you’re a toff, and sip.

Last time I had this I was sorely disappointed. The pops of flavour in the bubbly are squashed by the stout. It felt a waste and a shame.

Perhaps I made a mistake with the Guinness, opting for the imported Nigerian version from Portland Wine Cellars rather than the common variety.

They like it strong in Africa, with Guinness weighing in at 7.5% abv as opposed to the 4.3% we get get from Dublin.

Incidentally, the strongest Guinness  (8%) is enjoyed in Singapore.

Guinness has a poor reputation among real ale drinkers _ and I was recently taken to task for enjoying the odd snifter by top drink blogger Tandleman –  but occasionally it’s just the right drink for the right time.

Picture by Martyn Snape

There’s a week and a bit to go until the end of Lent and my long abstention from alcohol.

It’s been a frustrating time for someone who writes a drinks blog, but has satisfied my perfunctory approach to Roman Catholicism and given me the opportunity to reflect on the role that alcohol plays in my life for good and ill.

Now that’s almost over, I’m making plans to catapult myself from the wagon and dive swan-like into a pool of ale. The tomb will be empty and so will the liquor cabinet as I make up for lost time.

Ironically one of the reasons we have the beer we know and love today is because those sainted monks of Europe needed something to keep body and soul together during Lent when fasting rules were stricter, meals fewer and all meat, fish, dairy products and oil were forbidden.

Imagine having to survive on nothing all day but mugs of foaming beer. No wonder the Church used to be so powerful.

Strictly speaking, Lent lasts 40 days meaning that Sundays are free for feasting and boozing.

I’ve always wisely ignored this get-out clause and others, such as the dispensation to celebrate St Patrick’s Day by getting blarneyed.

Incidentally, the Catholic bishops of Ireland have been given permission to celebrate St Patrick’s day tomorrow, March 15, rather than the traditional 17th, which falls this year in the solemnity of Holy Week.

To the delight of the accountants at Guinness, many pubs are exploiting the confusion by holding two separate days of partying, some even going on a three-day begora bender.

Guinness has a bad rap, but sometimes it’s the perfect drink in the right place, such as at Manchester’s Peveril of the Peak pub.

However, ff you want to avoid the black stuff, you could make yourself an ‘Everybody’s Irish’ cocktail, which is 1 tsp green creme de menthe, 1 tsp green chartreuse, 2oz Irish whiskey poured into a cocktail shaker over cracked ice, stirred and strained into a martini glass garnished with a cocktail olive.

The Southport Drinker has been loving the Rugby World Cup and was thrilled by England and France’s against-the odds victories.

On Sunday South Africa will take on Fiji in what looks like being another classic game, but pity the poor Springboks fans in the townships, who are experiencing a shortage of beer .

Meanwhile, Ireland have been voted worst team of the tournament. Could this have anything to do with players and fans switching from Guinness to that Magners Cider with Ice stuff? Roger Protz seems to think so. You might want to check out what he thinks on the subject.