Let's get the loo re-voo done first. The toilet doors are signed in Gaelic; I think mine said 'Fir' (or was that the Ladies'?). The designers must have thought it was a good idea to tile the walls with tiles saying 'failte' (welcome). The only living thing that would find a welcome in O'Neill's toilets is a germ. Everything odious (no, I didn't mean to write 'odourless') that can be associated with a bad toilet area can be found here.
In the main bar, two foreign bar lassies were both struggling to get the till to work, whilst a long queue of dispirited drinkers looked on. Of course, they didn't know how much anything cost, so if the till was not working, neither were they. I try find Manager on phone, one explained in halting English. There is a smaller bar in O'Neill's up some steps on another level, so I nipped round there in the hope of getting a pint of Guinness; there was not a soul in sight, but at least I was now first in the queue. After a few minutes, some loud glass-rattling brought the desired effect: a bar person - a pale, emaciated youth with long, lank and greasy hair, emerged from within. What now followed was amazing.
In an attempt to be jovial, I mentioned that I was dying of thirst, and asked The Ghost of Banquo where he had been. Ah, I was hiding he confided, I needed a rest.
The tables were sticky, the floor tacky, and it was a nice evening so I went out into their yard, which is ambitiously described as a Beer Garden on their web site. The tables were crammed with uncollected glasses, unemptied ashtrays, and the decking was littered with crisp packets.
There's an O'Neills near you, I'm sure. I know that the Cardiff branch is clean and well run. So Bournemouth must be down to management. But who manages the Managers? Stand up Mitchells and Butlers Leisure Retail Limited.
By the way, the Guinness was excellent. But not worth the bother. read more
