How to Leave an Irish Pub: A Beginner’s Guide to the 90-Minute Goodbye

There are many things the Irish are good at. Storytelling, making a decent cup of tea, discussing the weather, and somehow knowing a fella who knows a fella who can fix absolutely anything.
But there's one thing we have never quite mastered.

Leaving the pub.

In most countries, when someone says they're going home, they put on their coat, say goodbye and walk out the door.
In Ireland, announcing that you're leaving is merely the opening ceremony of a lengthy and unpredictable process that can take anywhere from 20 minutes to three working days.

If you've ever found yourself standing at the door of a pub, keys in hand, having announced your departure four times, only to end up sitting down again with another pint, this guide is for you.

Step 1: Make the Initial Announcement
It all begins with a perfectly reasonable statement.

"Right lads, I think I'll make a move."
This is usually met with complete disbelief.
"Ah, you're hardly going yet?"
"Sure, it's only early!"
"Will you not have the one?"

It doesn't matter if it's half past eleven, you've work at seven in the morning, and your wife has already sent you three messages asking where you are.

As far as everyone else is concerned, you've only just arrived.

Your first mistake is explaining why you need to leave. The moment you mention an early start, someone will tell you about the time they went straight from the pub to work without a wink of sleep.

Apparently, this is meant to be reassuring.

Step 2: The Last Pint (Which Is Never the Last Pint)

You decide that one more won't do any harm.
"Go on so, just the one."
This is a dangerous sentence.
The moment your fresh pint arrives, the conversation takes an unexpected turn. Someone mentions a fella who used to live down the road, which reminds another fella of a story involving a tractor, a wedding and a missing pair of trousers.

You can't leave now.
You've invested too much time in the story, and you need to find out what happened to the trousers.

By the time the story finishes, someone has bought another round.
It would be rude not to accept.

Step 3: The Toilet Trap

Eventually, you finish your drink and make a second attempt at leaving.

But first, a quick trip to the toilet.
On your way back, you bump into someone you haven't seen in years.
"Jaysus, is that yourself?"

What follows is a detailed discussion about where you're living, what you're working at, whether you're still with the same woman and how your mother is keeping.

Then comes the inevitable question.
"Do you mind me asking, are you any relation to the Kellys out the Newry Road?"

You explain that you're not.

"Ah right. Sure, I thought you looked familiar."
Another 25 minutes gone.

Step 4: The Doorway Conversation

You've made it.
You're standing at the door with your coat on. The fresh air is practically touching your face.
Freedom is seconds away.
Then someone says:
"Here, before you go, did you hear about yer man?"
You should keep walking.
You know you should keep walking.
But you don't.
"Which yer man?"
And just like that, you're back inside.
The story involves a neighbour, a planning application, a disputed boundary and a dog that apparently belongs to nobody.
You have absolutely no connection to any of these people, but you're now emotionally invested in the outcome.

Step 5: The Irish Goodbye That Isn't Actually a Goodbye

In some parts of the world, an "Irish goodbye" means slipping away from a gathering without telling anyone.
Whoever came up with that expression clearly never tried to leave an actual Irish pub.
In Ireland, you must personally inform every individual in the building that you're heading home.

"Right, good luck."
"See you now."
"Mind yourself."
"Tell your mother I was asking for her."
"Will do, aye."
"Ah, and before you go..."

Every goodbye creates the possibility of another conversation.
And every conversation creates the possibility of another pint.

It's a vicious circle.

Step 6: The Car Park Conference

Against all odds, you've escaped the building.
You're outside.
You've done it.
Except there's someone standing beside your car.
"Are you away yourself?"
"Aye, heading on here."
"Here, did you get that thing sorted with the boiler?"
And now you're having a full technical discussion about central heating in a pub car park.
The conversation somehow moves from boilers to the price of diesel, then to the state of the roads, and finally to a mutual acquaintance who apparently got a great deal on a second-hand van.

Nobody knows how much he paid for it.
Everyone has an opinion on whether he was robbed.

You finally get into your car, having consumed nothing stronger than a soft drink for the past few hours, and prepare to leave.

Then someone taps on the window.
"Here, I meant to ask you..."

Step 7: The Final Goodbye

At long last, you're ready to go.
You turn the key, wave through the window and begin the journey home.
But the goodbye isn't complete until you've performed the traditional Irish departure ritual:
A wave.
A nod.
Another wave.
A quick flash of the headlights.
And one final wave to someone who wasn't even looking.

Only then are you officially permitted to leave.

Step 8: The Interrogation When You Get Home

You arrive home approximately two hours after announcing that you were leaving.
"Where on earth have you been?"
"I was just leaving, but I met Seamus."
"Who's Seamus?"
"Ah, you know Seamus. His brother used to work with your uncle."
"No, I don't know Seamus."
"Well, anyway, he was telling me about this fella..."

And before you know it, you're halfway through another 20-minute story.
The pub may have closed, but the conversation never ends.

The Moral of the Story

Leaving an Irish pub isn't simply a matter of finishing your drink and walking out the door.
It's a delicate social operation involving several false starts, unexpected reunions, compulsory conversations and at least one person who insists you're leaving far too early.
But that's part of what makes a good Irish pub so special.
It's not just somewhere to have a drink. It's where you catch up with old friends, meet new ones, hear stories you never asked to hear and discover that someone you've known for 20 years is actually your third cousin.
And while you might complain about how long it takes to get out the door, there's something lovely about being somewhere that people genuinely don't want you to leave.
So the next time you're in your local and someone announces they're heading home, do the decent thing.

Wish them well, let them get on their way, and don't hold them up.

Unless, of course, you've a good story to tell.
Sure, they'll hardly go yet.