Thursday, May 26, 2005
Hey everybody! Here's my cut out and throw away guide to having a shit night out in Dublin, and not just any old shit night out but one to make Johnny Baudrillard proud of you too.
1. Go to Temple Bar
2. Go to a 'Mexican' Restaurant and order a 'Rare' steak covered in 'Hot' Chilli Sauce, for 'just' 18.95 euro.
3. There's a funeral home, part of Bloom's Hotel wedged between Dame St and that Mongolian Restaurant round the back of Oliver St John Gogarty's, and it's doing a pretty unsuccessful job of masquerading as a pub. I forget it's name but that's ok because I wouldn't dream of giving it any extra publicity. A bigger, faker, more soulless Irish pub in the centre of town I do not know. I've been to more authentic Irish pubs in France and Belgium. Fuck, even the Scottish Pub in central france where I first fell in love with my lady is a more authentic Irish Pub. There is more atmosphere on the moon, i imagine. Two things stand out above all the newly created oak casks, new oak panelling, reproduction beer adverts and mummified leprechauns in the window:
The Guinness is only available as 'Extra Cold'. Coupled with a barlady who must have learnt how to pull pints from a pamphlet, it was quite the most dogshit pint of the black stuff i've probably ever had. A Guinness should not be soupy and congealed. The head should not be so big and thick as to prevent the dark liquid underneath from coming through when drunk. It should not taste like battery acid and bins.
My second complaint is harder to comprehend. The music playing throughout was a greatest hits package of The Beatles, possibly the Red Album or perhaps Number 1's I thought. All the early hits were there anyway. But there was something wrong with them. The recordings were perfect, all too perfect in fact. As i listened carefully, I began to notice minute differences between these and the originals i'd grown up with and knew, like most people on earth, inside out. Then suddenly, in the intro of Love Me Do, the bass came in played sounding like one of those organs that you play with your feet. Clearly not Paul playing Bass. And so it was revealed - an almost perfect studio rendition of every Beatles hit, except played by robotic session musicians and close-but-not-exact singers, in glorious 80's stereophonic sound and with the odd bit of wrong instrumentation thrown in just to contradict the entire purpose of the recording. The answer nobody could fathom was the answer to 'Why?' when the Beatles albums are freely available in all good record stores and, indeed, virtually every home in Ireland. So there it is, fake restaurant in a fake 'good-time' area of Dublin, followed by a fake pub playing fake music. You can't hear it right now but in my head i've got Alexander O'Neal, a good Irish lad no doubt, vociferously challenging these establishments through the performance of his 1986 hit single, "Fake".
And if you really want the full experience, get empty-stomach stoned first and go with 5 french people, some of whom no spikka no inglis, then try and fail speaking to them in their own language about absolutely nothing at all. Begin questioning your football allegiances (in my case - none whatsoever) as you gaze longingly into the pub tv screens opposite whilst the Liverpool Reds eat the babies of FC Berlusconi. Have another 'Margherita'. Stare at the sluts. Make plans for suicide.
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1. Go to Temple Bar
2. Go to a 'Mexican' Restaurant and order a 'Rare' steak covered in 'Hot' Chilli Sauce, for 'just' 18.95 euro.
3. There's a funeral home, part of Bloom's Hotel wedged between Dame St and that Mongolian Restaurant round the back of Oliver St John Gogarty's, and it's doing a pretty unsuccessful job of masquerading as a pub. I forget it's name but that's ok because I wouldn't dream of giving it any extra publicity. A bigger, faker, more soulless Irish pub in the centre of town I do not know. I've been to more authentic Irish pubs in France and Belgium. Fuck, even the Scottish Pub in central france where I first fell in love with my lady is a more authentic Irish Pub. There is more atmosphere on the moon, i imagine. Two things stand out above all the newly created oak casks, new oak panelling, reproduction beer adverts and mummified leprechauns in the window:
The Guinness is only available as 'Extra Cold'. Coupled with a barlady who must have learnt how to pull pints from a pamphlet, it was quite the most dogshit pint of the black stuff i've probably ever had. A Guinness should not be soupy and congealed. The head should not be so big and thick as to prevent the dark liquid underneath from coming through when drunk. It should not taste like battery acid and bins.
My second complaint is harder to comprehend. The music playing throughout was a greatest hits package of The Beatles, possibly the Red Album or perhaps Number 1's I thought. All the early hits were there anyway. But there was something wrong with them. The recordings were perfect, all too perfect in fact. As i listened carefully, I began to notice minute differences between these and the originals i'd grown up with and knew, like most people on earth, inside out. Then suddenly, in the intro of Love Me Do, the bass came in played sounding like one of those organs that you play with your feet. Clearly not Paul playing Bass. And so it was revealed - an almost perfect studio rendition of every Beatles hit, except played by robotic session musicians and close-but-not-exact singers, in glorious 80's stereophonic sound and with the odd bit of wrong instrumentation thrown in just to contradict the entire purpose of the recording. The answer nobody could fathom was the answer to 'Why?' when the Beatles albums are freely available in all good record stores and, indeed, virtually every home in Ireland. So there it is, fake restaurant in a fake 'good-time' area of Dublin, followed by a fake pub playing fake music. You can't hear it right now but in my head i've got Alexander O'Neal, a good Irish lad no doubt, vociferously challenging these establishments through the performance of his 1986 hit single, "Fake".
And if you really want the full experience, get empty-stomach stoned first and go with 5 french people, some of whom no spikka no inglis, then try and fail speaking to them in their own language about absolutely nothing at all. Begin questioning your football allegiances (in my case - none whatsoever) as you gaze longingly into the pub tv screens opposite whilst the Liverpool Reds eat the babies of FC Berlusconi. Have another 'Margherita'. Stare at the sluts. Make plans for suicide.
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