My younger bro, Jack, visited Dublin with his girlfriend just days before my girlfriend and I touched down. We only discovered this a day or so before setting off, thanks to the good old fashioned male trait of not talking about anything worthwhile. After his trip, I pestered him to write an account to run alongside my own.
Being so incredibly young isn’t easy, especially when your brother is Dan. Due to his exciting life travelling, I feel I am in his constant shadow of trying to be well cultured. So I figured, why not go somewhere? Now obviously I can’t go alone as I will most likely be either murdered or sold on the black market, so I made the wise decision to bring my delicate flower of a girlfriend Rosie, for protection.
At first, as you can imagine, I pictured Dublin to be full of four leaf clovers, Guinness and drunken Irishmen banging on tables to folk music and dancing a jig. Surprisingly, this stereotype was pretty on par with what I saw, which of course wasn’t a bad thing for me. It was a bad thing for my liver however, and various other body parts, but I’ll get to that later. Anyhow, after 30 minutes flying (which was shorter than the car journey to the feckin’ airport) Rosie and I landed in Dublin airport. It was quite soul wrenching to discover Ireland looks exactly the same as England, and there are almost no differences at all, aside from the colour green being literally everywhere. Shortly after landing, me and my bodyguard strolled through the airport, found the taxi rank and hopped in one. Our driver looked worryingly like the embodiment of racism, but not being one to judge on looks, we excitedly asked the driver how life was like in Dublin.
What a mistake.
Within five minutes of being there, we learnt that the government had gone to shit, Dublin was a decaying wasteland for tourists and the homelessness rate was sky high. In all fairness however, he did have a warming smile.
The first day was pretty calm. We discovered Guinness and mooched around the city to get our bearings. It’s really quite amazing how many times I mimicked the Irish accent by accident to peoples displeasure, even when ordering food.
On the night we casually rocked up into an Italian restaurant, and spent the whole time in there panicking that the whole room was looking at us. It became so intense that I actually did have a panic attack, which I battled for a good 15 minutes until my drink was refilled, then quickly emptied into my mouth. We couldn’t figure out why we were being eye-raped by the whole of Ireland in this restaurant, until the bill came…
I won’t go into any more detail, but it was pretty much the equivalent of two illiterate homeless savages attending to dine at The Ritz. The Guinness blinded us to aristocracy. One billion euros later we left and got a taxi home, only to bump into the friendliest drug dealer ever, smoking a joint outside our hotel lobby. Lovely stuff. We chatted to him a bit, until I mentioned like a fool what room we were staying in and where to find it. I quickly ended the conversation and ran back to our room in a drunken haze. I woke up in the morning to find I had boarded the door up with an ironing board, complimentary from Egan’s House Hotel.
Looking back, we were the shittest tourists ever. We didn’t go anywhere other than the same bars every night. But hey, the beer was good, the people were good, and the beer was good…
One night we met Megan Trainor’s assistant, which I s’pose was pretty cool… Right? You know her, the one who sings about overweight people. The “All About That Bass” girl. Well, as intensely cool as it is, her assistant was a complete bitch and wouldn’t speak about anything other than Megan Trainor. Which I guess is good advertising, so good on her. We also befriended a Californian dude called Josh, who was (pardon the embarrassing dad expression) super cool. We spent two days with him, falling deeper and deeper in love with his accent, to the point where I actually once looked at him and asked myself, “Would I let him do my girlfriend?”
The weirdest night was probably when Rosie shared a joint with him and ended up throwing up all over the streets of Dublin. I had to carry her into a taxi and give her Dan’s jacket to throw up in (sorry Dan). I carried the wounded soldier into the hotel and passed the friendly dealer in the lobby, who was slurping up a pot noodle waving at me in silence, sauce dripping from his Irish face, while his mate played a sad piano song staring out into the darkness through a window. It was a rather bizarre moment.
All in all, I had a pretty decent time in Dublin.
What it lacks in scenery, it makes up for in people. Nearly everyone I met was splendid and knew how to have a good laugh. Only downside is, I ended up spending 600 pounds, had a couple of panic attacks, and got a tattoo on my wrist reading ‘Shit Happens’.