FANCY A NIGHT OUT IN DUBLIN? Part 1

Benbaz

Cleaning out all the sh*t on my computer and came across this little gem. Might've been posted before and it's directed more towards the older clubber, but nevertheless it's a great read and really well written!!

It's a couple of years old and quite long but definitely worth the read.

Enjoy.

B.

FANCY A NIGHT OUT IN DUBLIN?
by Eimear Lowe

Taking drugs used to be the sole preserve of two very different groups the hip and trendy on the one hand, and on the other, those poor ****ers who think that sovereign rings are cool and that 'taches' are the new black. Now it would seem that anyone with a pulse can get their hands on some good-quality narcotics and party like it's 1999. Whereas finding a semi-decent party with plenty of spliff and a working water-tap used to be the Mecca for clubbers, now it's considered unfashionable not to get a gilt-edged invitation and the guarantee of photographers from at least three different society magazines, to the party of your choice. No longer is your dealer a longhaired Jim Morrison fan from Wexford (or in really dire circumstances, a leather-coated urine-smelling junkie at the Triangle in Ranelagh.) In the current climate your source is more probably the bespectacled guy in accounts, or your mate`s solicitor friend. (NB:It's not advisable to ask a brief if he's got any class A's to sell. It's polite to wait until he offers.) It's a hard job being a Celtic Tiger-cub these days, because you're working in the private sector and it's a dog-eat-dog world, besides the guy who works in O'Brien's Sandwich bar swears there's going to be a recession soon. So, while weekdays are reserved for drinking in the trendy superpub of your choice (take your pick, there's far too many to choose from), weekends are the time when you really come out to play. There are always plenty of cool places to go to, The Pod in Dublin is particularly good because the bouncers are complete pricks. No, honestly it's really fun. You get to queue up in sub-zero saturated conditions, compliments of our ****ty climate. If you're a girl this is made unbearable because of that unspoken rule of female clubbers, wear as little as possible, and ensure that you look like a tart into the bargain. For guys this task is equally tortuous because, being the gentleman that you are, you feel obliged to proffer you're coat to the girl in the gold bikini behind you in the queue. Of course you're underlying motive is to get ample opportunity to look at her erect nipples and talk about the time you spun the decks with Carl Cox in a disused barn in Leitrim. The next time you see this girl, she will most probably be dancing on a table at a completely MAD party, blowing into a whistle. In such circumstances you can lure her down with the offer of a lollipop or the loan of your Oakley shades which are completely ineffectual indoors at 5 in the morning, but they look great. Anyhow, after having spent two and half-hours queuing in the rain, the said ****ty bouncers will probably refuse you entry because it's for 'regulars only' or you don't meet the dress code. There's a certain irony in being told how to dress by a man who has worn the same black bomber jacket since the late 70s and who wouldn't know a designer label if it sodomized him. If this does happen for god's sake keep your dignity. Don't argue or even raise your voice as this is exactly what the bastards want - remember they are stupid ****s who get paid for beating the crap out of people - so keep your cool and give them a withering look as you set off to join another queue at another club. Same rules apply. Personally I think that this club thing is nonsense. There's plenty of fun to be had by popping a pill and heading down to your local. Everybody's doing it and you don't have to freeze your ass off in the process. You're only killing time anyway, because the real fun is yet to come. Some people were just born with the gift to sniff out a good party, so make sure that they are among your group. The party mission is always rendered easier by the fact that you're completely off your tits and you've made friends with absolutely everybody in the pub. By this time the effects of your pill is wearing off and the biting cold is making you come down like a bitch, so the party hunt takes on a new sense of urgency. The worst possible scenario here is to find yourself trudging up and down Leinster road searching for a non-existent flat. Stick with the main herd. Given that it's Saturday night and taxis are like the proverbial hen`s teeth, you will end up walking, so make sure that your destination is close at hand. Parties fall into two categories. The more attractive option is the one that has a set of decks and a plentiful supply of good DJs to see you through the night, and, depending on the drugs supply, most of the next day. The other option is the CD party where tunes are belted out on a crappy ghettoblaster. This gathering is to be avoided at all costs, because inevitably there will be at least one wannabe DJ who will monopolise the playlist all night. This is invariably annoying because he won't have a ****ing notion what to play, and so will spend the night chopping and changing mid-song. Lives have been lost over less and a roomful of sweaty revellers can turn ugly when their music needs aren't met. The party is like a battlefield, your objective being to live to see the early house the next morning without losing your mind. The rule of thumb is that you take everything that is offered to you and try to hold onto to your sanity while your brain turns to turgid chewing gum. Like every battlefield, there are always casualties, usually females who end up off their baps, and try to walk home naked. There is nothing that you can possibly do for these people, except (a) be grateful that you are aren't one of them (b) try to take them home (applies to blokes and lezzers). Sometimes they will be picked up by a taxi-driver, who, not recognising the vacant look in their eyes will mistake them for a person who actually gives a **** about how many hours he has to work and how he had to remortgage his house/cat/grandmother to pay for his plate. Medical research has shown that such situations can be fatal. Dublin taxi-drivers are dangerous and should be approached with caution. They have been known to bore people completely to death and the human debris of the party are particularly vulnerable. By 4am, the party should be in full swing. If it's not, then don't panic because at any moment, the poor bozos who have been making the traditionally futile pilgrim to the Bermuda Triangle that is The Leinster Road will arrive, courtesy of the mobile telephone (a lifesaver for many a partygoer). These late blow-ins will be greeted like long-lost relatives, because there is nothing more welcoming to a party than the smell of new blood, and also they may have drugs. Now is the time when everyone really cuts loose. The music will be escalated to wall-vibrating levels drowning out the plaintiff cries of the pyjama-clad neighbours who have arrived at your door in the mistaken assumption that someone cares about their sleping children. Invariably the cops will follow, and the least saucer-eyed person will be dispatched off to make false assurances that the music will be turned down and that the guy climbing on the roof is only trying to fix the TV aerial and doesn't actually think that he can fly. If they turn nasty, then it's time to politely ask for a search warrant and slam the door. If they do return it's only because their shift is over and they want to join in the fun, besides it's not your house, you don't know who the **** lives here and guess what, you don't care about that, either. Hopefully the place will be awash with drugs and the only serious conversation will involve the usual lament that there aren't as many Doves on the go as there used to be. Every surface will either be used for dancing on or snorting off and the entire place will stink of sweat and reckless abandon. Fast forward a few hours later and things won't be quite so swinging. The lightweights, of which there will be quite a few, will either have collapsed where they danced, or made a break for reality with wide eyes and a mouth full of tired, foul-tasting gum. The few hardy revellers who remain will keep each other's spirits up with endless joints and the promise of the impending opening of the early house. By this stage the 'fear' will be setting in, and that creeping sense of encroaching reality will reduce even the toughest to tears. Shards of daylight will eventually penetrate the room, causing groans of disgust and a fumbled search for coats, hats, sunglasses and mobile phones. ....cont. in part 2

piscean

Thats was briliant, took a while to read but as u said worth the effort, so easy to relate to.:D
After a bad day in work reading that gave me a lift that the w/end is nearly upon us and all is not lost.:cool: