RALPH bloke Shane Cubis puts in some training for St Patrick's Day, when he pisses on double-fisted in Ireland’s capital.
The bloke at customs at Dublin silently stamps my passport and waves me through the gate with a glare. That must be the famous Irish friendly cheer we hear so much about. When the bus driver from the airport pays the shit out of a couple of Pommy tourists for asking directions to their hotel, I decide to forge my own way into Dublin.
Paddy shack
Irish people love telling tourists how much they don’t like rules and how many rebellions they’ve had against invading powers and so on. So it’s weird that we cop about 37 seatbelt warnings on the 45-minute flight from London. Shit, there are even instructions and warnings on garbage bins. Way to stick it to The Man.
After wading through the rules and regulations governing my entry, I head into the city in search St Stephen’s Green – the address of my hotel. I assume it’s a street, but it turns out to be a bloody big park that revolutionaries seized in the 1916 Irish Republican Army (IRA) uprising against the Pomgolians.
After circling the Green a couple of times in the drizzly arvo gloom, I realise the hotel isn’t in there, so I settle into a nearby bar for a solid drinking session to try and figure it out. Eventually, I do, when I realise the bar is part of my hotel. Booze – is there anything it can’t do?
Local zero
An hour later, feeling refreshed, friendly and Gaelic in the hotel bar, I order another Guinness for myself and a Black Russian for a pretty bird sitting nearby. She turns out to be a new arrival from Australia, too. We’re both shocked to see the cocktail is made from Tia Maria, vodka, Pepsi and Guinness.
After downing my pint and the abomination of liquor heritage she politely declines, I set sail for Dublin’s Literary Pub Crawl, which seems like a good way to soak up some culture – and more beer.
Unfortunately the tour-directed pub crawl isn’t actually on that night, so I improvise by stumbling into the Temple Bar. Half pissed, I soak up the traditional atmosphere – Sinead O’Connor posters, U2 blaring, toothless bloke in the corner. I decide to get fully pissed so I can appreciate it even more.
With a fresh beer in hand I chat up a table of blonde Colleens, but they aren’t as impressed with my repeated slurred calls of, “Where’s the craic?”
I put Plan B into action – sober up a bit and have dinner with a willing woman. Over a spud-heavy dish at a joint called Elephant & Castle, I switch to bottled beer but it’s too late. Dublin waiters apparently have no problems laughing at hammered patrons right in front of them. I stand affronted by what the bloke said, even though I’ve already forgotten it, wolf down my companion’s fettuccine while she pays the bill, then stagger back to my hotel. Alone.
What's the best boozy holiday you've been on? Leave your comment below.
Super hot slideshows
RALPH salutes gold medal glamour Lydia Lassila
World's Top 10 Most Beautiful Countries
Travel
World's Best Beer Cities
