Nightclubs

There are some really lousy nightclubs in Dublin. I don’t know why going clubbing is so popular here. "What’ll we do? It’s half eleven an’ I’m needing another pint." – "Oh, let’s go clubbing! It’ll be fun!"

There you have it: proof that alcohol does kill brain cells and impair judgement.

The liquor laws here in Ireland require pubs to close up shop around 11 PM or 11:30 in the summer. There are certain places that are, however, granted a late bar licence. O’Briens on Dame Street is an example of a (somewhat acceptable) Late Bar. Most places, though, that can stay open until two are so crowded, expensive, and full of scummers, that it’s almost impossible to maintain a good humor there.

Probably the worst one I have ever been to is this dive on Camden Street called Planet Murphy. Me and me bird told the others we’d meet them inside and stopped off at the Roma to line our stomachs with greasy cod and chips and burgers. Luckily there was no queue outside the club so we got right in. Immediately we were hit up for an outrageous £7 just to pay in. That done, the rude bouncers herded us into the cavernous din of Planet Murphy, aka The Palace, aka about five other names.

It took half an hour to walk around the club once, looking without success for our mates. This neon-strobed meat market is huge, and dim, and wall-to-wall with punks and slappers out for a shift. Underfoot is the constant crunch of broken pint glasses, the slushing of puke, and the snag of ruined coats dropped. I took ours to the coatcheck so they’d escape the same fate while Carmel attempted to fight through the throng at the bar. After twenty minutes of waiting, I handed our gear over to a short-tempered and sullen clerk. The £2.80 charge was almost certainly more than she was paid per hour for her duties. The bathroom attendants- inappropriately stationed, in a mens’ room consisting of a trough- were entirely unpaid, the nightclub equivalent of the homeless folk who desperately clean windshields in hope of some spare change. It was absolutely depressing.

I found Carmel just in time to frighten off some half-cut wastoid. "That bloke was asking me if I’d just popped an e-tab!" exclaimed my honey. She was chewing a piece of gum. Wankers aplenty had been trying to chat her up, an impossible task when attempted with words, techno music so loud. A DJ was perched on a platform high up near the vaulted ceiling, fugueing in the delusion that he was in Ibiza. I paid out the nose for two shitty beers, and we both agreed that Planet Murphy sucked.

Unfortunately, Planet Murphy is about the standard of the Dublin nightclub scene. Nudged a bit below average, by the abrupt, aggressive bouncer who hassled us while we were putting our coats on, but more or less what you can expect. All those spots on Harcourt Street and Leeson Street are just like that. Major Tom’s at least you get free into, if the bouncers feel they can squeeze a few more bodies through the door. Be forewarned: Dublin’s scene really blows. Perhaps if you’re deaf, very rich and zonked into nigh-oblivion like Mr. E-tab, it’s possible to have some fun. Otherwise get some offie and go back to a mate’s house if you want to keep the party going.

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