There’s a bar down Clady where the lost all go,
Where the pints are class but the standards are low,
Kevin owns it—well, that’s the rumour anyway,
Though he says more in notes than he’s speaks these days
His brother Martin stands polishing glass,
Communicates like a man stuck in mass,
They pass wee notes like a criminal ring,
Not a word between them—just nods and winks.
⸻
🎶 Chorus:
Oh the Clady Bar, it’s a desperate zoo,
Full of characters no one else would take in too,
But the pints are gold so we play the part,
Sell your soul for a seat in the Clady Bar!
⸻
Pat G shuffles in like he owns the lease,
“Any chance of a wee beverage there, chief?”
Those the young lads coins for a jukebox fix,
While drinking his gin speaks of dinner that night
Then there’s Marty Conlan—the Tash man in charge,
From Tyrone soil but in Derry at large,
Talks to his hand so no one can hear,
Mumblin’ secrets into his pint of beer.
⸻
🎶 Chorus:
Oh the Clady Bar, where the madness thrives,
Where the jukebox causes near fistfights,
Jimmy Hap’s one shout from a cardiac arrest
“TURN THAT SHITE OFF!” in the Clady Bar!
⸻
Sean O’Hagan sneaks in like a ghost on shift,
Drinks ten pints silent—vanishes swift,
You’d swear he’s a myth or a figment or scam,
Till you see the empty glasses stacked by the man.
JR at the bar and he’s changing his tune,
“Stout—no lager—ah vodka,” too soon,
Half pint, full pint, he can’t make a call,
Leaves the poor barman wrecked every time he calls.
⸻
Beely the painter—professional pest,
Winds Kevin up till he’s near cardiac stressed,
“United are brutal!” he’ll shout with glee,
Just to watch Kevin die slowly internally.
Waterwall’s dead, O’Connell’s a kip,
Blue Lagoon’s where dignity goes to slip,
And Pat’s Bar’s only good for a fall—
There’s a reason the strays end up in Clady at all.
⸻
🎶 Chorus:
Oh the Clady Bar, where the drink is king,
Where the weirdos gather and the eejits sing,
Where SK’s outside like a vulture car,
Picking off survivors from the Clady Bar!
⸻
People roll in and crawl back out,
Some full of drink, some full of doubt,
But all of them swear (though they’re barred before),
They’ll be back next night through the same damn door.
So here’s to the bar that logic forgot,
Held together by notes and a boiling pot,
Of madness, pints, and local scar—
God bless the wreck that’s the Clady Bar.
⸻
(Outro – quietly repeated) Kevin… any chance of a lift home ?
