For a generation of Dubliners, The Workman’s Club on Wellington Quay, which has gone into examinership, was a habitat at some stage. Of course nobody who made it their community hub would have dared say they were doing it purposefully. They weren’t “creating culture”. That would have been too earnest, too self-important. The regulars preferred to feign apathy ironically. But in their Doc Martens and thrifted faux furs, over Zaconey and Cokes and under tarps sagging with Dublin rain, passing bags of Amber Leaf around, they were constructing the DNA of a city’s creative generation.
It was a space that could be anything. “I’ve had sober nights, drunken nights, great gigs,…