THAT'S MEN: ONE NIGHT recently, I went to a couple of pubs on my own and revisited the world of lonely, lost men that you find in bars all over the country.
That world has always been bleak - but it has become bleaker since the pub trade fell through the floor.
At the first pub, the bar had only two customers apart from myself. The other two men sat at opposite ends of the counter and were very drunk. The lighting was so poor the bar was in semi-darkness.
Illuminating the gloom was a small television showing - this was a few weeks ago - that awful, depressing series Fáilte Towers.
So there the three of us were, each in his own world, sitting there in the shadows watching a show which would drive you to drink if you weren't drinking already.
The man on my left had that look of edgy friendliness which very drunk people get before they turn on you. He commenced to sing. The barman, a glum individual who might have been out of an old Boris Karloff horror movie, entered shaking his head.
"In all fairness," he said. "In all fairness, you know that is not allowed in here. I am the one who has to put up with it."
He placed a freshly pulled pint of stout in front of the man, beside the pint and the glass of whiskey which were already there.
"When you have finished that, go home," the barman said.
The drunk man's confidence collapsed at this scolding. Suddenly he looked like a frightened little boy who was about to be beaten.
He muttered some incoherent words of apology. "In all fairness," the barman repeated before returning to the lounge. "I am the one who has to put up with it."
He came back a couple of times to repeat his mantra that "I am the one who has to put up with it." Each time, the drunk man became sadder and sadder.
Finally, the now thoroughly sad man manoeuvred himself off the bar stool and stumbled out for a cigarette.
That left me and the other man who now attempted to speak. However, he was so drunk that all he could do was make burbling, bird-like sounds.
I finished my drink and left, taking care not to make eye contact with the sad man at the door.
I knew where there was a pub that would be bright and would have people in it.
I went to this second pub and sat down at the bar. It was, indeed, bright and the television was showing a football match involving teams with names like Dynamo Ossetia. But at least it wasn't showing Fáilte Towers.
A man sat down beside me, ordered a drink and commenced to talk. He was a bitter little man. He was bitter about the Government and the Opposition too. He was bitter about the banks. He was bitter about the trade unions. And he was very, very bitter about the farmers.
This was tied in with his views on Northern Ireland which were, predictably, bitter. He believed the Republic should have invaded Northern Ireland in 1969, subdued the unionists, kicked the British out and reunified the country by force. End of conflict.
But there was a problem and it had nothing to do with the inconvenient existence of the British army. No, the problem was the farmers of Ireland.
The farmers, he explained, wanted the British to go on buying their beef and their bacon and their butter and blocked any plans for invading Northern Ireland. As he spoke, his voice fairly sizzled with anger.
It was definitely time to make an excuse and leave. I left him on his own and I doubt if anybody who has once had a conversation with him is in a hurry to repeat the experience.
As I say, all over the country there are men sitting at bars staring at the labels on the whiskey bottles or at the highlights of obscure football matches.
Some wrong turning brought them here, and they'll stay here until they die.
It's a dismal story, with no happy ending.
• Padraig O'Morain is a counsellor. His book That's Men - the best of the That's Men column from The Irish Times, is published by Veritas