
'I've been drinking Guinness for years and just realised what the logo means'
Loved for its unique roasted malt flavour, over 10 million glasses of Guinness are enjoyed every single day across the world.
But there's something even the most seasoned Guinness drinkers might not know - the famous logo you see on every bottle, can and pint glass isn't just a decoration.
After years of drinking the legendary beverage, many people are only just realising what the Guinness harp really means, and it's deeply Irish story.
The harp isn't just any harp. It's inspired by one of Ireland's oldest and most treasured symbols, the Brian Boru harp. This ancient 14th-century Gaelic harp, sometimes called the O'Neill harp, is kept safe at Trinity College Library in Dublin, where visitors from all over come to see it.
Guinness explains: "Ireland was well-known overseas at the time for its rich culture and musical heritage. The harp was a significant emblem of this tradition and has been a heraldic symbol of Ireland from the 13th century. The Guinness Harp is based on the 'Brian Boru Harp', considered to be one of the finest surviving examples of the Gaelic harp, or cláirseach.
"The mythology of the harp itself is that it once belonged to Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, who died at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014. More recently, the harp has been dated to the 14th century but maintains its nominal association with Ireland's legendary king. The original creator of the harp remains a mystery. The harp was donated to Trinity College Dublin in 1782, where it continues to be on display today."
The harp first appeared on a Guinness bottle label back in 1862 and while it has gone through several redesigns over the centuries, it's been synonymous with the brand ever since.
In what might come as a twist, the Guinness harp actually faces the opposite way to the official Irish harp used by the government.
Guinness said: "The Irish Free State chose the same Brian Boru harp as the official emblem on its founding in 1922 and it remains on the Republic of Ireland's national coat of arms. It appears on the Presidential seal, as well as coins and passports. As Guinness had already trademarked the logo, the Irish State were required to 'flip' the image harp faces in the opposite direction - compare the logo on an Irish coin to your pint glass!"
This little detail has clearly surprised fans on social media, especially with the recent 'split the G' trend, where people have been dissecting and celebrating Guinness's logo like never before.
One person wrote: "How am I just noticing that Guinness logo is a harp?"
Another shared: "Am I the only one that is just realising that the Guinness logo is a harp?? I seriously thought it was just a weirdly bent piece of gold."
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


Irish Post
4 hours ago
- Irish Post
Delivered by lamplight in old rural Donegal
IN the shadow of empire and economic hardship, one Irish childhood spans the transition from thatched cottages to postwar council flats—and all the ghosts in between. James Harvey's memoir Grappling With Ghosts captures the strangeness and struggle of a lost world. Below is an extract from the book... THE world on both sides of the Irish Sea is so utterly changed today from what it was when I entered it eight decades ago, that it's hard to recapture it now. But recreating the strange and remote realities of that world is what I set out to do in the memoir of my childhood, Grappling With Ghosts, published earlier this year. Ireland, just 30 years removed from 700 years of British domination, had scarcely emerged from the 19th century. It remained a 'priest-ridden, God-forsaken race,' in James Joyce's acerbic description. London, meanwhile, shrouded in fog and greasy coal soot was the epicentre of an exhausted debtor nation, still clinging to an image of British exceptionalism. A young Queen Elizabeth took the throne, Winston Churchill took his second bite at the prime ministerial apple, and the Empire circled the drain. As my mother's contractions began on the day she delivered me, back in the 1940s, the only way to get her to Donegal hospital about ten miles away was by horse and cart. There were few cars in Donegal at the time. There was no taxi stand to turn to. Even if there had been, there were no telephones. For that matter, there was no electricity. The horse-drawn cart was the only option, its boxy body without springs sitting on an unforgiving cast-iron axle and large 4-foot-high wooden wheels, shod in steel. They never made it to the hospital. As the horse plodded along on Donegal's rough roads, my mother realized they had better stop at her parents' thatched cottage. My grandmother got busy preparing to deliver the baby. In due course I arrived, and my grandmother made a startling discovery. 'There's another one in there,' she declared to my mother's shock. Before they knew it, my twin brother Frank, made his appearance. And the two of us became the fourth and fifth children in the family. Frank earned the only crib in the cottage. I was unceremoniously dumped in a kitchen drawer. James Harvey's mother pictured at the Neeld Arms in Paddington, London Pregnant women and their families at the time had so little agency that professionals didn't think they needed to know that twins were on the way. Meanwhile, London, to which we moved three years later, was still marked by the destruction of World War II. Everywhere you turned you found armless and legless men in wheelchairs or on crutches. There were bombed sites all over the city—buildings that had been flattened during World War II. One of them was located right beside our home in St. John's Wood. Another was across Cirencester Street from the primary school I later attended in Paddington. The overwhelming sense of London in the early 1950s was of a grim and dark environment. Thousands of chimneys belched black coal smoke that congealed greasily on everything it touched—and in every lung it entered. Bronchial catarrh was a sort of universal affliction among London adults. After men hopped off busses, many of them performed a routine pantomime of coughing, hawking, and spitting to get rid of the discharge. Life was tough for working people. Work was hard. Wages tight. Spousal abuse was taken for granted. Newsagents sold cigarettes in packs of five, and even one or two at a time. And toughs known as Teddy Boys dressed in Edwardian clothes and terrorized some streets. Teddy Boys in 1950s London But shafts of light penetrated this gloom. Queen Elizabeth II was crowned. A British expedition scaled Everest. And Roger Bannister, an Oxford medical student, broke the legendary four-minute mile barrier. Locally, pubs provided a break from the tedium. The Neeld Arms in Paddington, where my mother worked as a barmaid, served as a social centre for the Irish community in and around Harrow Road. Life was a challenging struggle for the working-class Irish, whether farming in Donegal or living as labourers or domestics in London. But the bleakness and financial stress of those days could be relieved by the love and affection of close-knit families. The book is available now James Harvey's memoir, Grappling With Ghosts: Childhood Memories from Postwar Ireland and London, 2025 is available now. See More: Grappling With Ghoses, James Harvey, Memoir


Irish Independent
8 hours ago
- Irish Independent
Mystery of vanishing old Irish street signs sparks concern in Dún Laoghaire
Today at 07:59 A series of bilingual street signs, with distinctive Gaelic typefaces, have gone missing from streets around Dún Laoghaire. Fine Gael councillor Lorraine Hall was contacted by two separate residents' associations in recent weeks about the sudden disappearance of three of the distinctive green-and-white signs. All three were located within close proximity of each other, on Silchester Road, Royal Terrace East, and Woodlawn Park. 'These lovely, very old green signs with the Irish Gaelic script on them have gone missing in recent weeks,' councillor Hall said. 'They're really beautiful. People really appreciate these signs. They have emotional and sentimental importance, and there's a strong heritage value to them too.' Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council has confirmed it was not responsible for their removal, raising suspicions that the signs may have been taken, or stolen, without authorisation. 'We suspect they are being taken because they're quite attractive,' Cllr Hall said. 'They look very nice in pubs or private collections. But they belong to the community.' The signs, often featuring cló Gaelach, a stylised Irish-language typeface historically associated with cultural resistance, date back to around the 1950s and 60s and are now considered rare. While some are protected in architectural conservation areas, most are not, and there is currently no statutory provision under the Official Languages Act for the preservation of these original designs. 'These signs can't really be replicated today,' Cllr Hall said. 'They're not just practical markers. They represent something deeper – our shared identity and history.' Cllr Hall has issued a public appeal, asking residents across the county to check if similar signs have vanished in their areas. The issue comes as researchers at Trinity College Dublin document the capital's remaining examples of the bilingual signage. As part of a digital humanities initiative called the CLÓSCAPE project, members of the public are being asked to submit photos of old green street signs to help build a digital archive before more are lost. This script, once considered a form of 'silent rebellion' against British rule, is used in Irish manuscripts, on shop and pub fronts, and on our distinctive old street signs. When the Irish state was founded, there was 'huge pressure' to use Gaelic in educational materials, on street signs, and in books as a symbol of reinforcing Irish identity. Little is known about the roll-out or distribution of these signs, and the project aims to collect photographic evidence, both past and present, to reconstruct the historic placement of Irish typeface signs and preserve them for future generations. Many signs are subsequently replaced by modern blue-and-white signs with Roman fonts, with no provision for the use of cló gaelach in the current Official Languages Act.


Irish Examiner
20 hours ago
- Irish Examiner
Diary of a Gen Z Student: Yeah, no... I'm grand, I will yeah — and other quirks of Hiberno-English
Some people say there is no such thing as direct translation. Because it's not possible to wholly reproduce a language, region, dialect, historical epoch, culture, atmosphere and so on. For example, there's no word for 'yes' or 'no' in Irish. But the language functions perfectly fine without them. This is all information I know and understand. Despite that, I often forget that speaking my version of English to people who have grown up with their own version will cause some difficulty. This has been brought into focus for me lately as I am visiting my sisters in Australia. Further to that dilemma, I have an incessant desire to fit in with locals whenever I travel abroad. That requires a serious amount of Google and ChatGPT searches before my flight touches down. I want to be ready for anything. Of course, it never really works. My pitiful attempts at another language just ooze tourist. Bookending 'Can I have a cappuccino?' with 'bonjour' and 'merci' isn't going to convince anyone, I have learned. I thought I would get away without any miscommunication in Australia. Sure it's an English-speaking country. We speak the same language. However, in practice, I am coming to understand just how much a language barrier exists between English speakers around the world. Not that it's a major issue, but I have found myself having to repeat and rephrase some of my Irish-isms whenever I'm conversing with an Australian. It's fair enough, if you ask me. A lot of our phrasing doesn't make a whole lot of sense, if you've not heard it before. Hibernian English is what we call it, but speaking gibberish is what everyone else seems to hear. This language barrier first became apparent to me in an airport in Melbourne. A little dishevelled, needing sleep but settling for caffeine, I walked up to a bar and said: 'You don't do coffee?'. A simple enough question, to my mind. But to the poor Australian man behind the counter, I had just greeted him with a statement, telling him that he does not serve coffee. The confused look on his face as he said 'Would you like coffee?' told me that maybe my question hadn't been as clear as I thought. In fairness to the guy, I hadn't asked a question, but merely given the impression of an inquiry. So I tried to summon some standard grammar: 'Yes… do you serve coffee here?' And we were golden. Soon enough, I was sipping an oat milk cappuccino and waiting to board my next flight. Another confusing habit Irish people tend to have is our apparent inability to directly answer a question. It's rare that you'll get a clean cut 'yes' or 'no' from me. Of course, in Ireland, the lack of coherence is grand. We understand how nuts we are. I can greet a magpie and everyone will know that I'm just warding off death. Obviously. We also know that when someone says 'no yeah', we mean 'yes'. And when someone says 'yeah no', we mean 'no'. Also, if someone says 'I will yeah', what they're really saying is 'not a chance'. I could go on, but you know what I'm getting at. It's all pretty intuitive for us. We go off vibes. And that does us perfectly well. It only becomes a problem when you're trying to communicate with someone who's never heard of In a restaurant in Melbourne, I was told that they had run out of the flavoured coffee I ordered. Not a problem. They asked if I would like to try an alternative flavour. Again, thinking I had mastered Aussie-ness, I said 'no yeah, that's perfect.' The waitress staring blankly in response, illuminated the havoc I was wreaking on this nice woman. Rephrasing to 'yes, I'll try that' got things straightened out. But it is only as I continually confuse other English speakers with my Hibernian English habits, that I'm realising just how odd our phrasing can be. Fluent English speakers look at me with confusion when I think I couldn't be clearer. Basically, until I work out how to translate our terribly confusing turns-of-phrase, my chances of appearing local in Australia are not looking good. I've been trying my best, seriously. But there's only so much I can ask ChatGPT before my laptop combusts. Maybe this just is 'a me problem with a Duolingo solution'. Who knows anymore. And if you need this column translated, let me know. I won't be able to help, but I'm interested, all the same.