Sometimes London just becomes too routine. And seen as I’m born and bred here I don’t have a parent’s place in the countryside that I can galavant off to every couple of months when I want a break – those weak rural bitches don’t know how lucky they got it (sometimes). Needless to say, if you want a weekend detox – avoid Dublin like the plague. On the other hand, if you want a weekend you’ll remember for years to come…
Firstly, your hotness level increases ten fold because Dublin’s a smaller city than London… Chances are you’ll be swatting the boys away like flies – or you’ll be like a kid in a candy shop and making the Magaluf girl look like a frigid bitch. #Winning. The lads are renowned for their beautiful eyes, cheeky smiles, and sexy accents, but don’t fall too hard as they’re as promiscuous as the rest of the gay world. Especially if there’s a Venezualan in the room… which there will be. They’re generally quite forward which I guess makes up for their education system being totally backward. The bad news is, they’re all in relationships. The good news is, they don’t know the definition of ‘monogamy’, so it doesn’t really matter.
Sure, you have to mortgage your flat just to afford a gram, but it’ll get you so high you’ll be two-stepping with the angels… So I’ve heard. And Mephedrone isn’t big over there; do you know how refreshing it is to walk into a venue without the stench of M-Cat and regret clogging up the club? The closest they’ve got to Meow is that pussy standing in the corner too nervous to speak to you. So you know those guys who are usually hot, but then have one bump and turn into a boss-eyed Gollum? Yeah, they gone.
But don’t get it twisted, they never do things by halves – especially not grams. And there’s none of this bogarting baggies and clinging to them like it’s a winning lottery ticket. Sharing is caring girl – and they want you to be just as fucked up as they are. Now if that’s not a beautiful image of Irish hospitality then I don’t know what is. Also, nobody sticks to just one narc – like, where’s the fun in that? Let’s get a dangerous cocktail going on up in here.
They have this thing called a ‘PLAN’. But Imma tell you ’bout that in an up-coming blog post… *Stay tuned*
And yes, you may find yourself crying into a giant Toberlerone the second you step out of Duty Free… but it’s TOTALLY worth it.
Friday we headed to Fitlads at Sweatbox. But before you go mincing down there with your cock hanging out, neither of these are the same nights/venue as in London. Sweatbox is an underground club that looks like something straight out of the Meat Packing District, New York. Although colour me baffled when 2am came and it was closing. I haven’t left a club before 6am since the 90s.
Obviously we popped into the Bubbleworks (AKA the Boiler House) to say hi. The Boiler House is Dublin’s sauna, that we’ve dubbed the Bubbleworks… because, well just because. And just FYI girls, we totally think you should change your name. The Boiler House gives connotations to:
While Bubbleworks has connotations to this:
AH SAUNAS. Where men wear towels with the same pride they would a Versace gown. How we’ve missed cheap thrills with average looking men.
Saturdays are ALL about Profile; who knew Dublin actually had talent. Well, we did. But we just assumed we’d fucked them all last time. Just kidding, although we did dry hump half the chill out. Anyway Profile’s where it’s at if you want fine boys with no morals. Although if you wanting a man with morals, you on the wrong continent babe.
It may not be the Costa Del Sol but even Dublin has caught on to the Sunday roof top trend, with Butch. Day time/early evening parties are how bouji bitches and trashbag sluts roll on a Sunday.
The beauty of going to another city is that you can recycle outfits you’ve worn thousands of times. And the second best thing is that because half of Ireland is farmland, anyone with swag is a total diamond in the manure. On the down side, you can’t even mince down the street in a slinky vest without getting the word “fag” being hurled through the yellowing teeth of an ignorant skinhead. Lord, how far removed from the 21st Century she must be. Wonder if she knows how to use the TV remote.
THE MOTTO: “YOU’RE ON HOLIDAY”
Remember this line above all else. It gives you free reign to behave like somebody you wouldn’t back home. So when you’re still getting trashed just hours before your flight, it’s totally acceptable until you’re on home soil. When you’re sashaying round the Boiler House, with cum in your hair, just remember you can’t hear the haters with if you’ve got a dick in each ear. Even when you’re being noshed off in club toilets, just pretend you’re in Fire circa 2011. And by the end of the weekend when you’ve consumed more cock than calories, just remember – “you were on holiday!”