How did I end up here? I’m not sure if I said that out loud, but I sure am wondering what the fuck I am doing in Copper Face Jacks on Halloween weekend in Dublin. All that said, there isn’t a single person in here who would hear me over the noise that is Galway Girl being played for what appears to be the fifth time since I arrived. I live in Dubai, I dine in the finest restaurants across the world, I drink the most sophisticated cocktails you can imagine (the consumer does not require sophistication to partake), this is all so beneath me I cannot describe how I’m feeling.

To answer my original question, Dad is sick again so I came home to spend some time with the family. It being Halloween weekend in Dublin my school friends, who I seldom see since I relegated school to the repressed memories section of my mind, have convinced me that I should go out drinking. I hardly know these people anymore, but my family were literally boring the piss out of me.

Despite the fact they all attempted to get me to ‘throw something on’, I used my common sense to avoid looking like an arsehole in a stupid costume. As expected none of them had costumes on although two of them are wearing boot-cut jeans, which, if not a throw back to the 2000s, is a scary reminder of what I might have become had I not left Dublin.

By starting drinking at 1800 in someone’s apartment and consuming an ungodly amount of frozen pizza I am introduced to what I can only assume is routine. Pounding cans of €1 lager and scoffing cheap carbs ain’t on my list of things to do; combined they will either make me bloated or give me the shits. It’s like Russian roulette. Not for me. I am dining on sushi that I picked up in M&S and drinking Hendricks gin with organic tonic water and sliced cucumber. At some point someone makes like they’re going to stick the cucumber in their arse and I am genuinely alarmed when no one seems to stop this process and someone actually volunteers to pay “€20 straight cash” to see it happen. It’s like a nightmare of cheap carbs and associated bowel issues.

After being exposed to this barbarism for 3 hours it’s decided that we are going to Flannerys, which I am reliably informed is a “great boozer, especially for the country nurses”. This is not a selling point and I’m not talking about the nurses. So far the lads have managed to disappoint beyond all expectations and they are now talking about getting a bus. Public transport? NO! I hail an Uber and take whoever is sober enough that they wouldn’t piss on the seats.

To my utter disgust Flannerys is a haven of depravity and ass pinching that I never could have expected, and I love it. The gin has numbed my taste buds to the point that I can manage to drink a few pints of Heineken and enjoy myself. The attention I’m getting from the ladies is also exceptionally positive. I am pretty disappointed when the lads tell me, after an hour in the place, that we have to get to Coppers before the queue gets too big.

So now that we are here, having answered my original question, one has to wonder why I am allowing Rhona (if that’s even her name) to molest me so aggressively on the dance floor. I feel like the metoo hashtag might be needed after this episode, but then I may have the context of that whole thing wrong so maybe I shouldn’t worry about it. I should probably be more worried about Galway Girl playing at a volume that is guaranteed to degrade my hearing so badly I will fail my annual medical; that and the fact that I might actually be enjoying myself.

From the boot-cut jeans to the deafening music, which seems to be playing on a loop, Coppers is a conundrum for sure. But Rhona isn’t! She’s so direct I reckon stopping her right now might cause the end of days. Might as well get on board and enjoy the ride.

Photo by Beth Teutschmann on Unsplash