Pubs

Leith has many great pubs, (honourable mention to Robbies Bar), but it has no shortage of mental boozers either. For super-shady mental there's the 'Lorne bar', where a man can get stabbed to death with a kitchen knife on a busy night and no one notices a thing. There's waster mental, some establisments in this area being nothing short of the Jenners of drugs shopping. And then there's grannies on the bar, everyones yer mate, sing-a-long to Bowie mental. In the latter category there is one undisputed master, and that's the Port O' Leith, presided over by local legend Mary Moriarty, the super-glam grande dame of the 'Port', who runs a tight but hospitable ship.

An idea of this place's ambience (as if such a word could in any way be applied to the full on, three sheets to the wind mayhem this place witnesses every weekend) can be gleaned from the fact that when nutty anarcho-circus group Archaos adopted the pub during past festivals they were regarded by one regular, (Dreaddy Col frae Whitburn wi nay teeth to give the man his full Nom de peeeve) as "a bit tame."

With the 'Port' however, nutty is a full time job.

The maritime connection goes further than the name. The bar is within crawling distance of the port itself and, perhaps more convieniently, within spitting distance of the local slammer. It sponsors the Leith Sea Cadets and the roof is festooned with the flags of vessels and countries long gone. It's also the venue of choice for squads of sailors who, after having been cooped up too long in a smoky, sweaty, cramped boat full of piss heads want only to visit a cramped sweaty smoky bar full of piss heads and slappers.

That the women are generally plastered, sixty and (scouts honour) pilled-up on the bar dancing to "the good ship lolly pop" or flat out techno, dosen't deter the sailors nor does it deter the rest of Leith as most of the town seems to be in the place by one o'clock.

The clientele is as diverse as those lucky enough to live within the boundaries of the People's Republic of Leith. Verbose ex-barristers (you know who you are) mingle with sovvy sporting neds busy talking fitba with the queens who manage to knock out everything from Madge to the aforementioned maritime classic from the world's smallest dj booth, i.e. the end of the bar beside the phone, near the hatch and under the aluminium submarine that some local fasioned in a fit of drunken dexterity. A submarine which doinks daintily by the heads of those who have felt the inclination and, it has to be said, the encouragement, to give it some on the bar.

Don't get the wrong idea though. It might not be for the faint hearted, but this is a proper pub. If you're not on your feet, on your back or on the bar by the end of the night then you're either dead, or should be drinking up the west end.