Jordanstown road
Although he regards The Tudor as his flagship, Norrie Sharpe also owns the Cloughfern Arms in Newtownabbey, and The Ivy Inn at Monkstown. When I arrived at the latter at the beginning of June, Prestige Pubs were just putting the finishing touches to Phillie’s Lounge.
This is an ultra-modern bar, with lovely pastel shades of pink and cream and pine wood throughout. It’s on different levels, with the actual serving bar area semi-sunken. If you are standing you would be looking down at the bar staff, but if you are sitting on the small, comfortable stools you should be at eye-level. But why the name, Phillie’s? Seemingly, Norrie’s son saw a print of a bar interior with the name on it, and sitting around the bar were the legendary heroes James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley. He bought the print and showed it to his father, who liked the name, and you can see the framed print for yourself beside the colourful CD juke box. Seemingly, there is a Phillie’s Bar in New York City, a kind of “a boulevard of broken dreams”.
THE MAN BEHIND THE BAR
He deserves a hero’s medal for the many lives he’s saved, And upon the Roll of Honour his name shall be engraved. He deserves a lot of credit for the way he stands the strain, For the yarns he has to swallow would drive most of us insane.
He must pay the highest licence, he must pay the highest rent, He must battle with the bank and pay their 18 per cent, And when it comes to paying bills he’s always on the spot, He pays for what he sells whether you pay him or not.
And when you walk into this bar he’ll greet you with a smile, Be you a workman dressed in overalls or a banker dressed in style. If you’re Irish, English, Scotch or Welsh, it doesn’t matter what, He’ll treat you like a gentleman unless you prove you’re not.
Yet the clergy in the pulpit and the preacher in the hall, Will assure him that the churches are against him one and all, But when the churches plan to hold a ballot or bazaar, They start by selling tickets to the man behind the bar.
When he retires, a job well done, to await six feet of soil, Discards his coat and apron, no more on earth to toil, As St. Peter sees him coming he will leave those gates ajar, For he knows he had his Hell on Earth, the man behind the bar.