There's a worrying change of culture happening in Dublin at the moment and, as usual, the yuppies and mullahs are to blame. In our wonderful little city, everybody used to talk to everybody else. No matter who you were or where you were, you could be guaranteed a chat with another Dub. Two things happened to more or less put an end to this though. Firstly, mullahs started arriving into the city to escape inbreeding and their local parish priest. This led many unsuspecting Dubs to start a conversation about the weather with an undercover muldoon and end up stuck talking about the price of cattle and how you can't get a decent pint of Murphy's (as if there is such a thing) in Dublin. This led to Dubs becoming more and more careful about who they talked to, until eventually, many stopped bothering altogether.
Secondly, the yuppies came along. With their mobile phones and personal stereos. If they're not talking shite (and I mean yuppie shite, which is far inferior to Dublin shite) into one, then they're sharing their "music" with everyone in the vicinity. While I'm on the subject, I may as well tell you the one reason why these arseholes have their music up so loud. It's not so they can hear it better, or drown everything else out. It's so other people will hear it and think "Oh, that yuppie has a wonderful taste in music, what a brilliant, intelligent person they must be." Well we don't think that, we think you're cunts, and we can't wait until you inevitably go deaf. Anyway, no chat with them, even if you wanted to.
Nevertheless, old-fashioned Dublin shite-talk still exists. This post hopes to prepare you for said shite-talk.
I'll start the same way Dublin conversations start; with the initial small-talk. Sometimes, depending on how much time you've got or how chatty your conversing partner is, this can be the entire conversation. So it's important to get it right. In most instances, the weather will be first on the agenda. You will both act very surprised at how cold/wet/warm it is outside, despite the weather having been exactly like this at this time of year, every year, for as long as you can remember. Here are a few stock phrases to get you started;
"It's not bad for (insert month.)"
"It's not as cold as it was."
"Sure once it's dry we can't complain."
"That's a hardy one."
"Ah, it's too cold to snow."
Nobody knows what any of these phrases mean, but nobody really cares. You will also notice these are for use in the winter months as, in Dublin, winter lasts from October until October, or maybe even the following November. In the unlikely event that we do get a bit of sun, pessimism is key. It won't last, it's not before bloody time and it's not as nice as the old days (even though the same moaning went on back then.) Repeating what the other person said will always work too. "Miserable day." "Yeah, miserable."
There are a few cases where the weather will not be your opener, although it will definitely still come up at some point, so keep it in mind. If you are watching sport or reading about it in a paper whilst perched at a bar, the person beside you will expect you to open with a general comment about the sport in question. Again, how much better it used to be is popular here, as is the amount of money these sportsmen are earning. How shite it is will also suffice. Even if it's the best contest you've ever seen. Actually, especially if it's the best contest you've ever seen. You can not be seen to be impressed. After all, if you yourself hadn't had the gammy leg/got into the booze/found yourself a woman, you could teach this lot a thing or two.
Standing at a bus stop is another exception to the weather rule. Your first question has to be "Are you waiting long?" After this pointless enquiry you can move on to whatever you like. Which is where the shite-talk really starts.
Where you go with the shite talk is really up to you, and it depends massively on who you're talking to, but I will try and give you a few pointers nonetheless. Politics is a great way to get people talking. However, unless you're with friends, never reveal which party you support or give away any real opinions. It will only lead to arguments with strangers, which as everyone knows, is a cunt's trick. Saying things like "They're all a shower of robbing bastards" will suffice, as you can be pretty sure this is what everybody thinks of politicians. If they don't, then it will be worth looking like a cunt to have an argument with them, as you will undoubtedly win. The Health Service is also a risk-free topic of conversation, as there can be no denying it's in shite. Other than that, keep it small. Giving out about fiscal policy is out, giving out about the plastic bag levy is in. This is particularly relevant if your partner in shite-talk has come in out of the rain wearing a plastic bag as a waterproof hat, which is quite a common occurrence in this part of the world, and should only be encouraged.
Giving out about "The Wife" is also quite a common shite-talk topic. It must remain light-hearted though, things like how she tries to keep you indoors and takes all your money. Anything more serious, save it for the marriage counsellor. Nobody wants to hear your problems. It should also be pointed out, just in case Mrs. Cobblestones and Heroin reads this blog, that this writer does not engage in this topic of conversation.
A situation may occur from time to time where, due to a person's intoxication (or how bollixed they are, in Dublinese) you can't understand a word they say. This is not a problem. Phrases like "This is it," "Ah sure, what can you do," and "I know, don't be talking," will fit into every conversation, so just throw them in every few seconds and you'll be fine.
If you're in a pub, the quality of pint in that and every other pub in Dublin will also come up, so do your research. After that, I'll leave it up to you. If you're still not getting the knack of it after a bit of practice, you'll just have to get yourself a mp3 player and pretend to be a cunt.
Enjoy the shite-talk, I hope to help you practice it some day. Mine's a pint. Don't forget to click follow, click the ads and tell your mates. Good luck.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Auld Triathlon
Sport should be at the forefront of every Dub's mind. It is a conversation starter, a reason to buy the otherwise depressing papers and something to look at on the telly while herself watches the reality TV shite in the other room. It is also a good enough excuse to get you out of the house for a few pints and can provide a nice break when you feel like you'll turn into a pint if you have any more. Therefore I think it fitting that I should dedicate an entire post to Dublin sport. I think you will find it useful.
Firstly, some sports you should avoid. Any sport where the bandwagon-jumpers outnumber the real fans should be avoided. So that's rugby, cricket, Dublin GAA, and international football covered. A quick word on each of these first, though.
Rugby is a boring sport. There is very little skill required for this game. Only the fella who kicks it over the bar has the right to call himself a sportsman. The rest are just strong/fast lads who went to posh schools. Kicking the ball out for a throw-in is seen as a great move - boring. Rugby has attracted thousands of bandwagon-jumpers over the last few years, especially European "club" rugby. Our clubs weren't good enough to win anything, so they made up new super-clubs, funded by the national governing body, and to hell with the small clubs. I think I've got the jist of that. I could look it up, but I'm afraid I'd bore myself to death.
Cricket is a Brits game. We never really had much of an interest in it. Then the Irish team got to a World Cup. The usual nonsense started. I've no idea what the rules of cricket are, so I won't make much more comment on it. Then again, I doubt many of the people who followed Ireland in the World Cup knew the rules either, but a bandwagon's a bandwagon for these cunts.
Dublin GAA is a strange one. Gaelic football and hurling are bogger sports. They're played by bachelor farmers trying to get the sexual frustration out of their systems and watched by families of 27 who eat sandwiches out of the boot of their car on the way to the match. The only reason I can think of as to why Dubs watch these fights (or sports, I suppose) is to see Dublin people beating culchies at their own game. The problem is, Dublin lose more often than not. How the GAA even got permission to build an 80,000-capacity monument to inbreeding in the middle of a residential area in Dublin is anybody's guess (although if you're guess involves brown envelopes and free ministerial pints in clubhouses around the country then you're probably right. Allegedly.)
International football is an unfortunate one. Football (not soccer, that's a word only mullahs and Yanks use) is undoubtedly a fine sport. Dublin has produced some of the greatest footballers ever known. Liam Whelan, Johnny Giles, Pierce O'Leary, etc. Unfortunately, since Jack Charlton and Euro '88, international football fandom has become associated with leprechaun hats, "having the craic" and not having the first fucking clue about football. Real football fans are forced to sit among these drunken, clueless idiots if they want to cheer on their country. And that's if they're lucky enough to get a ticket. Funnily enough, there's never a problem getting a ticket for games against the weaker footballing nations. Not that I'm calling the general Irish public event-junkies or anything. Actually, that's exactly what I'm doing. And all this because the FAI and Jack Charlton decided it was better to have English-born "legends" like Terry Phelan and Eddie McGoldrick help an England B team wearing Ireland shirts scrap their way to major finals than to give the best Irish players a chance to represent their country. If you think there's nothing wrong with this then cop yourself on. How would you feel if you were the top Irish goalscorer in Europe, but you couldn't get into the national team because some cockney who'd never been to Ireland in his life decided it would be a good career move to mention he had an Irish granny?
Saying all that, football is still a perfectly acceptable sport for a Dub to have an interest in. In fact, you will come across as odd if you don't like it. The best thing you can do is start following a Dublin-based League of Ireland team. Having an interest in junior football is also recommended, and if you can slip into the conversation that you once done a bit of scouting for an English club, all the better. You are advised to keep an eye on the English game as well, as it will give you something to read in the paper and the conversation in your local on a Sunday will undoubtedly turn to the previous day's action at some point. Supporting an English team, however, should only be attempted if you have a story to back it up. I once talked to a Dub in a bar who told me he followed Chelsea because a Christian Brother who battered him around at school once brought him back a Chelsea programme from a visit to London, by way of apology. This is a perfectly acceptable reason to follow Chelsea. Admitting you like an English team because they were winning things when you were growing up will mark you out as a glory-hunter who is not to be trusted. Make sure you also tell your pals, on a regular basis, about how close you were to making it as a professional footballer. And remember, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
You won't be able to bluff, however, when it comes to the sports every Dub should be good at. So start honing your skills on the pool table and dart board. You will end up out of pocket if you don't. Which brings me on to gambling, the main reason for a Dub's interest in sport. As well as the football, a deep knowledge of the ins and outs of racing is required. Horses and dogs. Not motor racing, that's just traffic. Some people say the bookmaker always wins. Dubs know this not to be the case. He always wins against amateurs and gobshites. So much so that he doesn't notice how much drinking money the real Dubs are taking from him. So get yourself a copy of the Racing Post and let's keep it that way.
Any sports I haven't mentioned aren't worth mentioning. I'll leave it there for now. Hit Follow and don't be annoying me, good men. Talk to yiz soon.
Firstly, some sports you should avoid. Any sport where the bandwagon-jumpers outnumber the real fans should be avoided. So that's rugby, cricket, Dublin GAA, and international football covered. A quick word on each of these first, though.
Rugby is a boring sport. There is very little skill required for this game. Only the fella who kicks it over the bar has the right to call himself a sportsman. The rest are just strong/fast lads who went to posh schools. Kicking the ball out for a throw-in is seen as a great move - boring. Rugby has attracted thousands of bandwagon-jumpers over the last few years, especially European "club" rugby. Our clubs weren't good enough to win anything, so they made up new super-clubs, funded by the national governing body, and to hell with the small clubs. I think I've got the jist of that. I could look it up, but I'm afraid I'd bore myself to death.
Cricket is a Brits game. We never really had much of an interest in it. Then the Irish team got to a World Cup. The usual nonsense started. I've no idea what the rules of cricket are, so I won't make much more comment on it. Then again, I doubt many of the people who followed Ireland in the World Cup knew the rules either, but a bandwagon's a bandwagon for these cunts.
Dublin GAA is a strange one. Gaelic football and hurling are bogger sports. They're played by bachelor farmers trying to get the sexual frustration out of their systems and watched by families of 27 who eat sandwiches out of the boot of their car on the way to the match. The only reason I can think of as to why Dubs watch these fights (or sports, I suppose) is to see Dublin people beating culchies at their own game. The problem is, Dublin lose more often than not. How the GAA even got permission to build an 80,000-capacity monument to inbreeding in the middle of a residential area in Dublin is anybody's guess (although if you're guess involves brown envelopes and free ministerial pints in clubhouses around the country then you're probably right. Allegedly.)
International football is an unfortunate one. Football (not soccer, that's a word only mullahs and Yanks use) is undoubtedly a fine sport. Dublin has produced some of the greatest footballers ever known. Liam Whelan, Johnny Giles, Pierce O'Leary, etc. Unfortunately, since Jack Charlton and Euro '88, international football fandom has become associated with leprechaun hats, "having the craic" and not having the first fucking clue about football. Real football fans are forced to sit among these drunken, clueless idiots if they want to cheer on their country. And that's if they're lucky enough to get a ticket. Funnily enough, there's never a problem getting a ticket for games against the weaker footballing nations. Not that I'm calling the general Irish public event-junkies or anything. Actually, that's exactly what I'm doing. And all this because the FAI and Jack Charlton decided it was better to have English-born "legends" like Terry Phelan and Eddie McGoldrick help an England B team wearing Ireland shirts scrap their way to major finals than to give the best Irish players a chance to represent their country. If you think there's nothing wrong with this then cop yourself on. How would you feel if you were the top Irish goalscorer in Europe, but you couldn't get into the national team because some cockney who'd never been to Ireland in his life decided it would be a good career move to mention he had an Irish granny?
Saying all that, football is still a perfectly acceptable sport for a Dub to have an interest in. In fact, you will come across as odd if you don't like it. The best thing you can do is start following a Dublin-based League of Ireland team. Having an interest in junior football is also recommended, and if you can slip into the conversation that you once done a bit of scouting for an English club, all the better. You are advised to keep an eye on the English game as well, as it will give you something to read in the paper and the conversation in your local on a Sunday will undoubtedly turn to the previous day's action at some point. Supporting an English team, however, should only be attempted if you have a story to back it up. I once talked to a Dub in a bar who told me he followed Chelsea because a Christian Brother who battered him around at school once brought him back a Chelsea programme from a visit to London, by way of apology. This is a perfectly acceptable reason to follow Chelsea. Admitting you like an English team because they were winning things when you were growing up will mark you out as a glory-hunter who is not to be trusted. Make sure you also tell your pals, on a regular basis, about how close you were to making it as a professional footballer. And remember, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
You won't be able to bluff, however, when it comes to the sports every Dub should be good at. So start honing your skills on the pool table and dart board. You will end up out of pocket if you don't. Which brings me on to gambling, the main reason for a Dub's interest in sport. As well as the football, a deep knowledge of the ins and outs of racing is required. Horses and dogs. Not motor racing, that's just traffic. Some people say the bookmaker always wins. Dubs know this not to be the case. He always wins against amateurs and gobshites. So much so that he doesn't notice how much drinking money the real Dubs are taking from him. So get yourself a copy of the Racing Post and let's keep it that way.
Any sports I haven't mentioned aren't worth mentioning. I'll leave it there for now. Hit Follow and don't be annoying me, good men. Talk to yiz soon.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Foreign Affairs
We Dubs live in the finest little town in the world, but it may sometimes be necessary to leave the banks of the Liffey for a (hopefully) short period. In this post I will try to advise you as best I can on how to conduct yourself when abroad or down The Country without compromising your Dublin ideals. It should be pointed out, however, that this is an emergency guide only. Leaving Dublin should only be done if a) it's for work and you need money for pints, smokes and copies of the Racing Post; b) you're on the run from the Gardaí, gangsters or your bookmaker or c) if you have an interest of studying wildlife, or culchies as I will refer to them from now on. Holidays to the sun are also acceptable if you've a pain in your hole with the weather, as you inevitably will at some stage.
First, the country. Believe it or not, it is not necessary to bring your passport with you when crossing the m50. There are a couple of things I would recommend taking along however. A flask of coddle is a must. I will explain how to make it in a future post, but for now, if you are unable to concoct this magical potion, ask a friend or neighbour to help you out. If you explain you're going to The Country they will be happy to help. No Dub wants to see a fellow Dub survive on bacon and cabbage alone.
Some raw pig-meat will also be required. This is to distract any rabid locals that might come your way and threaten your well-being.
At this stage I think it would be wise to outline a culchie's appearance and habits, so that you will recognise and be better prepared to avoid them. A culchie will always be wearing a hat. It may be a flat cap or a fisherman hat, but whatever it is, it will be in rag-order. This will be his best hat, for Sundays and trips to the capital. His second-best hat will not be recognisable as a hat, it will be more like a few strands of twine on his big mutton head. The aforementioned mutton head will be massive, red and covered in dirty, white hair sticking out at odd angles. If you're leaving Dublin from the north or north-west, they will warn you of this unusual sight with their car number-plates, for example; 97-MH(MuttonHead)-2371. The last few digits indicate the number of brothers and sisters they have.
Your average mullah will be wearing a knackered tweed jacket and black trousers, shiny at the knees, held up by a bit of rope. Think a less sophisticated Worzel Gummidge and you've got the picture. He will speak in an odd series of grunts and whistles. There is no need to try and break this code, however, as he will only be talking about hurling (a strange, savage sport played only in The Country) and all things pork.
My final bit of advice on visiting The Country is to keep your windows closed and hold your breath when in the company of muck-savages. It will take you days the get the smell of shite out of your nostrils, and the fact that you will have to burn whatever clothes you were wearing when you get home will be proof of this.
Trips abroad are a bit more tricky. The only good thing I associate with foreign holidays is that you are obliged to have a pint with your breakfast as you wait for your 5.30a.m. flight in Dublin airport (for which you will need to get up two hours before you go asleep.) After that, it's all downhill I'm afraid. The flight will be full of crying babies, smelly mullahs and drunken gobshites. Your only hope will be to befriend some fellow Dubs on the flight and get rat-arsed yourself. Rest assured, the mullahs and gobshites will avoid you like the plague once you and your new pals start shouting and bawling about how much you miss proper pints, tea and batch bread, twenty minutes after you leave Dublin.
Once you get to your holiday destination, the first thing you should do is find a local. The standards that apply for your choice of pub at home should be forgotten about here. Pubs abroad are shite. The only exception to this rule is our old friends the Brits. They produce some exceptionally fine boozers, and their beer is like a nice version of Smithwicks, that doesn't make you shite rings around yourself. For the more popular, hotter holiday destinations, however, an Oirish pub will have to do. Under no circumstances should the Guinness be tried. It will ruin your memory of it. The foreigners have a thing called "lager" which will have to do you until you get home. The first proper pint back in Dublin will be all the better after making this sacrifice.
I would also advise you not to leave this pub unless absolutely necessary. It will be sunny outside and the average Dub's skin is not able for this. Your better half may also suggest day-trips organised by the travel agent or the local tourist board. This is to be given a very wide berth. They will always be to places of no interest, like a dormant volcano or the edge of a cliff, which is so important to local history and culture that they've stuck a tacky gift shop in the middle of it, selling all sorts of over-priced shite. If you do get dragged along to these places, get into the gift shop, buy your ma a fridge magnet and get the fuck back to your new local.
The day you get home, you may well overdose on Guinness, coddle and Brennan's bread. You will swear never to go away again, until the next time you get piles from sitting on damp walls waiting for the pub to open, and you will rashly book another holiday to the sun to get away from this miserable bloody weather. The whole cycle will then begin again.
I'll be back next time I get a bit of free time. I don't know what I'll be talking about but it will be worth reading. Don't forget to hit the follow button, and tell your mates. No mullahs though, thanks very much.
First, the country. Believe it or not, it is not necessary to bring your passport with you when crossing the m50. There are a couple of things I would recommend taking along however. A flask of coddle is a must. I will explain how to make it in a future post, but for now, if you are unable to concoct this magical potion, ask a friend or neighbour to help you out. If you explain you're going to The Country they will be happy to help. No Dub wants to see a fellow Dub survive on bacon and cabbage alone.
Some raw pig-meat will also be required. This is to distract any rabid locals that might come your way and threaten your well-being.
At this stage I think it would be wise to outline a culchie's appearance and habits, so that you will recognise and be better prepared to avoid them. A culchie will always be wearing a hat. It may be a flat cap or a fisherman hat, but whatever it is, it will be in rag-order. This will be his best hat, for Sundays and trips to the capital. His second-best hat will not be recognisable as a hat, it will be more like a few strands of twine on his big mutton head. The aforementioned mutton head will be massive, red and covered in dirty, white hair sticking out at odd angles. If you're leaving Dublin from the north or north-west, they will warn you of this unusual sight with their car number-plates, for example; 97-MH(MuttonHead)-2371. The last few digits indicate the number of brothers and sisters they have.
Your average mullah will be wearing a knackered tweed jacket and black trousers, shiny at the knees, held up by a bit of rope. Think a less sophisticated Worzel Gummidge and you've got the picture. He will speak in an odd series of grunts and whistles. There is no need to try and break this code, however, as he will only be talking about hurling (a strange, savage sport played only in The Country) and all things pork.
My final bit of advice on visiting The Country is to keep your windows closed and hold your breath when in the company of muck-savages. It will take you days the get the smell of shite out of your nostrils, and the fact that you will have to burn whatever clothes you were wearing when you get home will be proof of this.
Trips abroad are a bit more tricky. The only good thing I associate with foreign holidays is that you are obliged to have a pint with your breakfast as you wait for your 5.30a.m. flight in Dublin airport (for which you will need to get up two hours before you go asleep.) After that, it's all downhill I'm afraid. The flight will be full of crying babies, smelly mullahs and drunken gobshites. Your only hope will be to befriend some fellow Dubs on the flight and get rat-arsed yourself. Rest assured, the mullahs and gobshites will avoid you like the plague once you and your new pals start shouting and bawling about how much you miss proper pints, tea and batch bread, twenty minutes after you leave Dublin.
Once you get to your holiday destination, the first thing you should do is find a local. The standards that apply for your choice of pub at home should be forgotten about here. Pubs abroad are shite. The only exception to this rule is our old friends the Brits. They produce some exceptionally fine boozers, and their beer is like a nice version of Smithwicks, that doesn't make you shite rings around yourself. For the more popular, hotter holiday destinations, however, an Oirish pub will have to do. Under no circumstances should the Guinness be tried. It will ruin your memory of it. The foreigners have a thing called "lager" which will have to do you until you get home. The first proper pint back in Dublin will be all the better after making this sacrifice.
I would also advise you not to leave this pub unless absolutely necessary. It will be sunny outside and the average Dub's skin is not able for this. Your better half may also suggest day-trips organised by the travel agent or the local tourist board. This is to be given a very wide berth. They will always be to places of no interest, like a dormant volcano or the edge of a cliff, which is so important to local history and culture that they've stuck a tacky gift shop in the middle of it, selling all sorts of over-priced shite. If you do get dragged along to these places, get into the gift shop, buy your ma a fridge magnet and get the fuck back to your new local.
The day you get home, you may well overdose on Guinness, coddle and Brennan's bread. You will swear never to go away again, until the next time you get piles from sitting on damp walls waiting for the pub to open, and you will rashly book another holiday to the sun to get away from this miserable bloody weather. The whole cycle will then begin again.
I'll be back next time I get a bit of free time. I don't know what I'll be talking about but it will be worth reading. Don't forget to hit the follow button, and tell your mates. No mullahs though, thanks very much.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Churches and Boozers
There's two counties in Ireland: Dublin and The Country. No matter which one of these counties you live in, there's two places you're not going to be able to avoid; pubs and churches. Whilst I'm sure mullahs (that's dwellers of The Country for our international readers) have their own expectations of the behaviour required in both boozers and places of worship, I have no desire to find out what these are. Therefore this post will concentrate fully on how to go about yourself when the time comes, as it inevitably will, for you to step into one of these establishments as a true Dub.
The Dub-etiquette for going into churches is very simple; don't. This does not mean you have to give up your religious beliefs, nor miss out an important family christening/wedding/de-frocking (I assume they do that in front of a crowd?) Far from it. You, as a Dub, will go along to the church, but you must stand outside smoking for the entire service. Inclement weather should not stop you carrying out this centuries-old tradition. In fact, that makes it all the more satisfying. The smokes used should be unfiltered. Sweet Afton will win you the favour of your fellow church-goers, as will rollies.
If, however, you don't smoke, you have no reason to stand outside and will look like a spare prick. In this case, it is advisable to enter the church and stand up against the back wall, preferably reading a tabloid newspaper. Yes, your priest/rabbi/Star Trek Welcomittee Captain (I'm not making that up) will see you, but he will know that, as a Dub, you already know everything there is to know about religion, or anything else for that matter, and will just be pleased you have graced his building with your presence.
You do not respond to the prayers as you don't need to. The culchies up the front will be chomping at the bit to jump in and show the priest how good they are at remembering the responses and saying them as loudly as they can, so you'd only be drowned out anyway.
When the shakey-hands bit comes around, don't offer your hand first. You never know who is standing beside you. Even if it's someone you trust, leave it. You don't want people talking. However, if a hand is offered to you a quick touch will suffice, in the interest of good manners. Just get it over with quickly and remember to wipe your hands on your trousers afterwards. The last thing you want is culchie germs on the hand you feed your dog with. Rabies treatment is expensive and you'll need all your money for the pub.
Pubs are the very fabric of Dublin city and even if, for some reason, you're not a fan of them, you will end up them quite regularly. I challenge you to think of one occasion which a Dublin person doesn't think it right and proper to adjourn to the pub afterwards. Christening? Pub. Wedding? Pub. Funeral? Pub. Match? Pub. Work? Pub. Hangover? Pub. I could go on and on.
Firstly a few words about your choice of pub. It must not be in Temple Bar. It must not be a "gastro-pub." It must not be a nightclub, or anywhere that the music is so loud you can't hear Ann Doyle tell you about things you couldn't give a shite about from the television in the corner. It must not be a student pub, even if you are a student. If it does a "County Colours night" then forget it; it's a place for bogger Gardaí to meet bogger teachers and have a laugh about how fifteen men with sticks from his part of The Country could beat the shite out of fifteen men with sticks from her part of The Country, or some such shite. There are a few specific pubs I could recommend, but we'll get to that in a future post. For now, avoid the aforementioned places and you should be okay.
Now onto what to do when you enter your boozer of choice. If you are on your own, or the first of your group to arrive, head straight to the bar. There is nothing more odd than seeing somebody sitting at a table away from the bar on their own. If you're sitting at the bar, you will look like you belong there. Similarly, never wait outside for your friends to arrive. There's beer inside and you'll look like a tosser. A bit of preparation is also required for this part of proceedings. A paper should be acquired on your way there. Bury your head in this once you've got your drink and you won't be bothered by any travellers selling DVDs or mulcheros selling turnips who have snuck in when the barman wasn't looking. The paper you choose is up to you, although The Examiner should be ruled out for obvious reasons. If you're going for a few pints in the evening you won't have a choice, as unfortunately the Herald is the only evening paper currently available in the city. I do know one old Dub who reads the last ever copy of The Evening Press, which he's had laminated and bound, but the Herald will have to do for most of us.
The drink you order should always be a pint. Guinness, preferably. Chances are you haven't had your dinner/lunch/breakfast in your rush to get to the pub and stout will fill that hole. There are other stouts on the market but they're only drunk by rednecks, whose tastebuds are destroyed by years of eating bacon and cabbage three times a day every day anyway, and can't taste the difference. Large bottles of Guinness or MacArdles are also acceptable, once they're off the shelf and not out of the cooler. Freezing the taste out of beer is a cunt's trick, mostly practiced by Yanks because their beer tastes like fizzy piss.
When your friend(s) join you, you may move away from the bar if you wish, but not before buying the first round. If your pals are also proper Dubs, they will also offer to pay for it. Whoever gets it, don't get into a mock-row over it. This is a stupid yuppie thing to do and won't go unnoticed by the bar's other patrons, who will instantly lose respect for you. You're going to return the favour anyway so what's the point?
Conversation must initially revolve around sport, weather and the quality of the pint. You will eventually get onto all sorts of nonsense but these are the three starting points. When it is your round, you will order more pints when your group are about two-thirds the way through their current drinks. This gives the new pints time to settle without your friends having to wait for another sup after their glasses are empty. If at any stage you feel a bit peckish, peanuts are the only acceptable pub snack to order in Dublin. Crisps and sandwiches are only acceptable at parties, and even then I'd be careful nobody was watching. If you ever hear anybody ordering chocolate in a pub, you've obviously gotten lost and ended up in The Country. Retrace your steps until you can no longer smell cowshite and be more careful next time.
I think that just about covers churches and pubs. Thanks for reading and be sure to hit the follow button. Next time I'll be advising you on how a real Dub conducts himself on trips abroad and on those rare occasions when a visit to The Country is necessary. Good luck.
The Dub-etiquette for going into churches is very simple; don't. This does not mean you have to give up your religious beliefs, nor miss out an important family christening/wedding/de-frocking (I assume they do that in front of a crowd?) Far from it. You, as a Dub, will go along to the church, but you must stand outside smoking for the entire service. Inclement weather should not stop you carrying out this centuries-old tradition. In fact, that makes it all the more satisfying. The smokes used should be unfiltered. Sweet Afton will win you the favour of your fellow church-goers, as will rollies.
If, however, you don't smoke, you have no reason to stand outside and will look like a spare prick. In this case, it is advisable to enter the church and stand up against the back wall, preferably reading a tabloid newspaper. Yes, your priest/rabbi/Star Trek Welcomittee Captain (I'm not making that up) will see you, but he will know that, as a Dub, you already know everything there is to know about religion, or anything else for that matter, and will just be pleased you have graced his building with your presence.
You do not respond to the prayers as you don't need to. The culchies up the front will be chomping at the bit to jump in and show the priest how good they are at remembering the responses and saying them as loudly as they can, so you'd only be drowned out anyway.
When the shakey-hands bit comes around, don't offer your hand first. You never know who is standing beside you. Even if it's someone you trust, leave it. You don't want people talking. However, if a hand is offered to you a quick touch will suffice, in the interest of good manners. Just get it over with quickly and remember to wipe your hands on your trousers afterwards. The last thing you want is culchie germs on the hand you feed your dog with. Rabies treatment is expensive and you'll need all your money for the pub.
Pubs are the very fabric of Dublin city and even if, for some reason, you're not a fan of them, you will end up them quite regularly. I challenge you to think of one occasion which a Dublin person doesn't think it right and proper to adjourn to the pub afterwards. Christening? Pub. Wedding? Pub. Funeral? Pub. Match? Pub. Work? Pub. Hangover? Pub. I could go on and on.
Firstly a few words about your choice of pub. It must not be in Temple Bar. It must not be a "gastro-pub." It must not be a nightclub, or anywhere that the music is so loud you can't hear Ann Doyle tell you about things you couldn't give a shite about from the television in the corner. It must not be a student pub, even if you are a student. If it does a "County Colours night" then forget it; it's a place for bogger Gardaí to meet bogger teachers and have a laugh about how fifteen men with sticks from his part of The Country could beat the shite out of fifteen men with sticks from her part of The Country, or some such shite. There are a few specific pubs I could recommend, but we'll get to that in a future post. For now, avoid the aforementioned places and you should be okay.
Now onto what to do when you enter your boozer of choice. If you are on your own, or the first of your group to arrive, head straight to the bar. There is nothing more odd than seeing somebody sitting at a table away from the bar on their own. If you're sitting at the bar, you will look like you belong there. Similarly, never wait outside for your friends to arrive. There's beer inside and you'll look like a tosser. A bit of preparation is also required for this part of proceedings. A paper should be acquired on your way there. Bury your head in this once you've got your drink and you won't be bothered by any travellers selling DVDs or mulcheros selling turnips who have snuck in when the barman wasn't looking. The paper you choose is up to you, although The Examiner should be ruled out for obvious reasons. If you're going for a few pints in the evening you won't have a choice, as unfortunately the Herald is the only evening paper currently available in the city. I do know one old Dub who reads the last ever copy of The Evening Press, which he's had laminated and bound, but the Herald will have to do for most of us.
The drink you order should always be a pint. Guinness, preferably. Chances are you haven't had your dinner/lunch/breakfast in your rush to get to the pub and stout will fill that hole. There are other stouts on the market but they're only drunk by rednecks, whose tastebuds are destroyed by years of eating bacon and cabbage three times a day every day anyway, and can't taste the difference. Large bottles of Guinness or MacArdles are also acceptable, once they're off the shelf and not out of the cooler. Freezing the taste out of beer is a cunt's trick, mostly practiced by Yanks because their beer tastes like fizzy piss.
When your friend(s) join you, you may move away from the bar if you wish, but not before buying the first round. If your pals are also proper Dubs, they will also offer to pay for it. Whoever gets it, don't get into a mock-row over it. This is a stupid yuppie thing to do and won't go unnoticed by the bar's other patrons, who will instantly lose respect for you. You're going to return the favour anyway so what's the point?
Conversation must initially revolve around sport, weather and the quality of the pint. You will eventually get onto all sorts of nonsense but these are the three starting points. When it is your round, you will order more pints when your group are about two-thirds the way through their current drinks. This gives the new pints time to settle without your friends having to wait for another sup after their glasses are empty. If at any stage you feel a bit peckish, peanuts are the only acceptable pub snack to order in Dublin. Crisps and sandwiches are only acceptable at parties, and even then I'd be careful nobody was watching. If you ever hear anybody ordering chocolate in a pub, you've obviously gotten lost and ended up in The Country. Retrace your steps until you can no longer smell cowshite and be more careful next time.
I think that just about covers churches and pubs. Thanks for reading and be sure to hit the follow button. Next time I'll be advising you on how a real Dub conducts himself on trips abroad and on those rare occasions when a visit to The Country is necessary. Good luck.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
There yiz are now
Welcome to the blog. This is it, none of your bells and whistles. Just simple advice on how to go about your business the correct way in Dublin city. And yes, there is a correct way of doing things in this neck of the woods. Which must mean that there's an incorrect way: There is, and it's my witnessing of these faux pas (or 'making a bollix of things' as it's known in Dublin) that drives me to write this blog.
Too many times have I seen people in the pubs, restaurants, streets, etc. of this great city put their foot in it, Dub-etiquette-wise, often without even realising their mistake. And don't for a moment think that it's just the tourists and up-for-the-day bog-trotters that make these unforgivable errors. The reputation of many born, bred and buttered Dubs has been irreversibly damaged in my eyes by their failure to follow Dublin protocol.
The aim of this blog is to teach you, the reader, the many codes that must be followed if you want to get by in Dublin without making an arse of yourself. I hope it will be useful not only for Dubs, but for mullahs trying to blend in with the, let's face it, superior Dublin people while they're going about their everyday lives as Gardaí, teachers and prison officers in the capital. Tourists, I'm afraid, will need more than a blog to avoid looking like anything other than a giant traveller's cheque in a specially-printed "Andy's Stag Do" t-shirt to a real Dub. Nevertheless, I'll crack on . . .
Too many times have I seen people in the pubs, restaurants, streets, etc. of this great city put their foot in it, Dub-etiquette-wise, often without even realising their mistake. And don't for a moment think that it's just the tourists and up-for-the-day bog-trotters that make these unforgivable errors. The reputation of many born, bred and buttered Dubs has been irreversibly damaged in my eyes by their failure to follow Dublin protocol.
The aim of this blog is to teach you, the reader, the many codes that must be followed if you want to get by in Dublin without making an arse of yourself. I hope it will be useful not only for Dubs, but for mullahs trying to blend in with the, let's face it, superior Dublin people while they're going about their everyday lives as Gardaí, teachers and prison officers in the capital. Tourists, I'm afraid, will need more than a blog to avoid looking like anything other than a giant traveller's cheque in a specially-printed "Andy's Stag Do" t-shirt to a real Dub. Nevertheless, I'll crack on . . .
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