The King Richard

A true story by Erick Sahler

This place has a bit of a history, so it does.

The King Richard Tavern is a wide imposing building with a faux half-timber exterior at 10 Castlereagh Road in East Belfast, about a 20-minute walk from Center City.

I was lured here by the Bass Ale sign hanging out front. Bass is brewed in England and was at one time the largest brewery in the world. The malty, slightly nutty ale was my favorite decades ago, but it is no longer imported to the States. In 1994, I savored a freshly pulled Bass draft at The Crown in Belfast. It was a defining experience. I have longed to return for another.

Inside the doors of the King Richard, a central hallway divides the building: pub on the left, former off-license liquor store on the right.

The tavern is a large rectangular room with a semicircular bar along the back wall. Across the front, frosted windows block prying eyes of passers-by on the street. Large Union Jacks hang vertically in the wall spaces between the windows. I interpret them as a show of national pride. I will soon learn they are symbols of the Unionists, the Protestant Loyalists who desire to keep Northern Ireland part of the United Kingdom. The flags tell Catholics and Irish Republicans they are not welcome here, but I haven’t figured that out yet.

The place has a shabby 1970s vibe. Around the room are about a dozen patrons: an elderly woman keeps watch from a dark corner, a clutch of men stand gabbing at the bar, a multigenerational group lounges in a green leatherette booth, the U-shape seat of which is generously taped where it has cracked from wear.

A cricket game — or maybe it’s hurling, I’m never quite sure — plays on the large screen just inside the door and two bald gents are watching intently. Loud conversation blends with classic rock and American country standards from an unseen jukebox. Video games on the far wall emit a top note of cartoony electronic snippets.

A half-dozen taps occupy the center of the bar and I spy the red triangle logo of the Bass handle. I slide onto a stool and decide to start with pint of stout. My game plan is to nurse a Guinness, then savor the long-awaited Bass. Two drinks is my maximum. It’s also my minimum. I will make them last.

The small wiry barmaid speaks so fast all I catch is “love” at the end of her sentences. The Guinness is £3.50, the cheapest I’ve paid since arriving from the U.S. a week ago. I drop a fiver and leave the change on the bar. I notice no one else is tipping.

I quickly feel conspicuous on the bar stool. Other patrons are chatting and mixing like old chums at a New Year’s Eve party. I decide to move to a booth, where I can watch the evening unfold from the perimeter. I settle in with my pint, and try to mind my own business.

Across the room, a group of guys is singing along with the jukebox. Loudly. They land every note.

A game of pool starts at the lone table right in front of me. The players — an older woman and a middle-aged man — look at me for a reaction after every shot. My eyebrows are getting a workout.

The scrappy bartender is bullying the patrons, who take her jests in stride. She is not someone to be tangled with.

Between shots, the man playing pool keeps talking at me so fast I can’t comprehend. I smile and nod anyway. As the bartender whizzes past, he lifts her off the floor and spins her around teasingly. He looks at me as if to say she’s tough, don’t mess with her, and laughs out loud.

Clearly these characters are familiar to one another. This is their local.

***

Two middle-aged women enter and sit in the booth next to mine. I overhear their conversation, after which they order two half pints of Guinness because they are drinking on empty stomachs. One taps me on the shoulder and asks if I know of a nearby pub that serves food. I shake my head no. Moments later, they go to the bar and have a brief exchange with the bartender, then they exit.

The bartender brings two half pints of Guinness to my table. She says the ladies only had Euros, which are not accepted here. Their drinks haven’t been touched, she says, and asks if I’d like them, on the house, love. My tip has paid off.

Across the room a big fella bear hugs the smallest guy in the bar. Then they compare hand sizes. Giant and dwarf. I think of Fred and Barney, George and Lennie, C-3PO and R2-D2. The world is full of mismatched duos.

The pool game goes on forever, each player missing shot after shot until finally the man scratches on the Eight Ball and the woman issues a mild cheer. She looks over to see if I witnessed her anticlimactic victory. Both seem relieved the game is over.

I drain the last of my first Guinness, then start on a half pint. I hide my second half pint behind my empty pint glass because I feel ridiculous with one pint and two half pints on my table.

The big fella and the small guy who were comparing hand sizes start a new game of pool. The small guy sets his whiskey on my table to take a shot. He spies the two half pints and laughs out loud.

Who orders two half pints? he shouts.

I try to explain about the ladies and their empty stomachs and the Euros, but he is uninterested and spins around to line up his next shot. I notice that even though he is extremely short, his tattooed arms are as thick as my thighs.

These two are exceptional pool players. They, too, look to me after each shot bangs in. I try to react enthusiastically, although I feel they are sizing me up, just as I am sizing them up.

As their game proceeds, I try several times to signal to the small guy that his whiskey is still on my table. I finish my second half pint and walk over to the bar, ready to finally enjoy the Bass I’ve been thirsting for for 30 years.

Sorry, love, the keg is out, the bartender says. I am crushed.

I order another pint of Guinness. Even though I’ve reached my limit and my head is swimming, I’m not ready to leave.

A bald man sitting at the bar hears my American accent and asks how I ended up here.

I explain that my wife and kids have gone to the theater to see Rocky Horror, which isn’t my thing.

He says something I don’t quite catch and I say he speaks too quickly for me.

He says I hear too slowly.

I chuckle. He is clever.

We talk about Rocky Horror and how it makes us uncomfortable, although we agree anybody should be able to do whatever they want, including dressing up as the opposite sex.

He says this place has a bit of a history, so it does. Then he hesitates and looks down, slowly shaking his head.

***

The big fella from the pool game comes over and the bald man introduces me as “a visiting Yank.” The small guy also comes over and sets another whiskey next to me, then walks away. He has left shots all across the bar.

The big fella is a talker. As the subject of Northern Ireland politics is raised, the bald man drifts away.

It’s too complicated for me to understand, I say.

It’s not complicated, the big fella says. It’s stupidity.

This place has a bit of a history, so it does, he says, repeating exactly the words of the bald man. The King Dick, it’s called, as if everyone has heard of it. He shakes his head, but says no more. I will have to do my own research.

He points out the Union Jack flags and explains the symbolism, the Loyalists, the Unionists, the allegiance to the Crown. It is not national pride, he says, it’s about making a statement.

I think of the folks back home who drive around with the Stars and Stripes flapping from the backs of their giant pickup trucks. They, too, are making a statement.

Symbolism is used to divide the people, he says. They use it to control us. We can’t fight them if we’re busy fighting one another.

Trump, Biden, Boris Johnson — they’re all the same, he says.

The citizens of Northern Ireland can not vote for UK prime minister, he says. Northern Ireland has no resources, no commerce, so it will never be able to stand on its own.

He asks about guns in America.

We don’t have a gun problem, I say. We have an ammunition problem.

He asks about Blacks in America. He says they are getting intimidated and beaten by the police just like the Irish Catholics were during The Troubles.

We talk about our own kids in university — “uni,” as he calls it. They are getting useless degrees, he says, and he worries about their future.

Back to Northern Ireland. He has no use for Protestants who complain about “paddies” — the Irish Catholics.

They work side by side with them all week, then march against them on the weekend. Their sectarian claims are supposedly based on Christianity, he says, but they never go to church. Same on both sides.

Hypocrites on all around, I offer.

The extremists on both ends get all the headlines, he says. We folks in the middle just want to work and live in peace.

Same in America, I say.

Same in Ireland, he says.

Amen, I say.

He pauses a beat, then gives a hearty laugh.

Yes, Amen, he says, and wraps me up in a big bear hug.

Stay safe, he says, and turns and walks away.

***

My curiosity is piqued. If this place does, in fact, have a bit of a history, I want to know what it is.

I Google “King Richard Tavern Belfast” and the first thing that turns up is an 11-year-old one-star review on Yelp.

Steff C writes: “I was literally terrified after hearing the continuous stories of people getting stabbed. … As soon as I put my foot across the door my blood ran cold. I knew something wasn’t right about the place. … The atmosphere was very intense and the punters are rude and nasty. They swear and shout a lot which isn’t a pleasant atmosphere to be in. … I couldn’t wait to leave. I will never step foot in that place again.”

On Reddit, a poster listed The King Dick as “one of the the dodgiest pubs” in all of Northern Ireland.

There’s got to be more, I can feel it, so I expand my search beyond social media.

Then this, on Wikipedia, from a comprehensive list of people murdered during The Troubles:

27 March 1982

Boyd, Stephen (25) Protestant

Status: Ulster Defence Association (UDA)

Killed by: non-specific Loyalist group (LOY)

Shot while inside King Richard Tavern, Castlereagh Road, Belfast

More details emerge from the April 7, 1982, edition of The Irish Times:

“Public house murder charge: Samuel Mark Gibson (24), of Fairmount Drive, Antrim, was charged yesterday with the murder of Stephen Boyd, who was shot 11 days ago in the King Richard Tavern in Belfast’s Castlereagh Road. Gibson was remanded in custody. Mr. Boyd, single, came from Watt Street. He was aged 25.”

Boyd’s murder has got to be the unspeakable act to which both men referred when I was in the pub, I conclude. But that was more than 40 years ago.

Then I discover this, published by Belfast Live on July 1, 2014:

“Two brothers who ‘acted in concert’ to carry out a ‘sustained, pitiless and horrifically savage attack’ on an East Belfast man were today informed they will each serve a minimum prison sentence of 17 years for murder.

“James and William Turner beat Matthew Goddard to death in his Chobham Street home late on the evening of December 23, 2014. They battered him with fists, feet and an electric guitar before taking turns to stamp on his head as he lay at the bottom of his stairs.

“During the fatal attack, which lasted around 10 minutes, the Belfast brothers made the 41-year-old victim crawl on all fours, apologising for an alleged comment he made about James Turner being ‘a sandwich short of a picnic.’

“Just prior to launching their murderous attack on Mr. Goddard, the Turner brothers had been socialising in the King Richard pub.”

The next day at lunch, I tell a friend who is a Northern Ireland native about my experience in the King Richard. As I talk, he grows more and more exasperated. When I finish he looks at me in disbelief. “Never, ever go into a pub in East Belfast,” he says.

As all this sinks in, I remember the bear hug from a stranger and our shared hope for peace.

Lord, I ask, hear our prayer.

© Erick Sahler Serigraphs Co.

The King Richard casts as ominous presence into the East Belfast night.

It was the sign for Bass Ale that lured me into the King Richard.