Dublin Craic (again).

Another ad hoc bar crawl in Dublin. Lots of Guinness, Jameson, muffled conversations over live music, and the occasional tumble off a wooden stool.

Impressions/Thoughts:

Temple Bar.

Temple Bar is a shower of shite. It’s world renowned and I don’t know why. Two pints of Guinness and two shots of Baileys = 27 euros. Nothing distinguishes this particular craphouse of a drinking den save its almost anachronistic talent for making one feel like a fool.

Mission: Impossible.

It’s (almost) impossible to get ejected from a Dublin bar. You slur your words and just barely manage to point at the whiskey bottle of your choice yet the bartender serves you up. It’s comforting.

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Fisticuffs.

A group of women, rather scruffy lookin’, wailing and spitting at each other outside of what I think was a job centre. It was a horrific sight, albeit slightly surreal.

O’Connell Street.

Wow, a casual stroll down this boulevard made me tingle. Peppered with cracking little bars, it’s a keeper.

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Guinness Storehouse.

I greatly enjoyed its alluring view of the city from the rooftop bar. The rest was the expected corporate paradigm, but then Guinness is a global brand so why shouldn’t it be. Nevertheless, I did feel perplexed at times during my Storehouse ramble. A tour guide eloquently waxed upon the dimensions and parameters of proper Guinness ‘tasting’ to a room of us, each clutching a small measure; it was like he was describing a surgical procedure. I downed my tipple whilst playing with my phone, nonchalantly disregarding his recommendation that I sniff it (the Guinness, not my phone).

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Outside, stood in the freezing cold, are poor bedraggled horses waiting to tug tubby tourists back to their hotels for 40 euros a carriage ride. Gruesome.

The Zoo.

There is a zoo. I wonder if they sell booze on the premises. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Fresh air.

Dublin smells nice. It smells mostly of booze. Sublime.

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Coca-Cola cans.

Bar managers aren’t fond of clientele bringing their own mixers in. You still don’t get chucked out, though.

Dublin Airport.

Security staff have always puzzled over cans of tuna chunks stored in my carry-on luggage. This airport is no different. It’s a can of tuna, mate. Treat it with the respect it deserves.

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