Mutual loathing

Dublin. Terrific to write about, terrible to experience. This was the verdict of Patrick Kavanagh, poet, alcoholic and failure, born in 1904 and now brought back to life in Russell Kennedy’s enjoyable show at the Old Red Lion. Kavanagh’s assessment of Dublin would be better applied to himself. He cuts a shambolic, repellent figure in his knackered spectacles, squelching shoes and moths’ nest jumper, as he shuffles about the city’s pubs cadging drinks, lusting after female students and cursing the reputations of greater talents than his own. A particular hatred was aimed at Brendan Behan who ardently requited Kavanagh’s feelings. With the perspective of 50-odd years it’s the similarities between the two writers that impress us more than the differences. Both were provincials, both were drunks, and both were second-rate. Deep down this was the fuel that drove their enmity, the knowledge that they could never reach the heights scaled by their world-admired predecessors, Wilde, Shaw, Yeats and Joyce.