Antrophe
New Member
- Joined
- Jan 4, 2003
- Messages
- 342
So nothing is happening, some prick of a bouncer has confisctet half your cans before you even therewhere do you end?
Isoldes Tower: Once described by a good mate as the only place in Dublin "where forthy year old women grope your arse" and sounding like some fairy castle in myth - Isoldoe’s tower strikes me as a gay bar for half the night. But then at a certain time as if a beacon shines from its roof top batman like, it turns into everyone’s last chance saloon. The last chance to get your hole, your last chance to get in somewhere - more importantly your last chance to get served due to a late opening licence. But its cleaned up its act, now it seems that Erasamus students blend in with the mix of middle aged couples, desperate post thirties singletons, work gang parties and rejects from the George. If you’ve every been curious enough to scan through singles ads, Isolde’s Tower has the same underlining sleaziness about.
Doyles, sitting there quietly opposite Trinity, it took me about eighteen months of living in Dublin to realise the place existed. Then there was the wonder of discovering a house party atmosphere full of particularly drunk Trinity students. Being drunk, that can be a great thing. Being sober, it can be disconcerting. Being stoned out of your bin, knackered and sleep walking, after six hours of meetings, it can be horrifying, fascinating and somewhat exhilaratin. There have been nights there where intoxicated with the glee of drunken pranksterism we've pilfered drunks galore, ran around pretending to chaw our jaws shouting 'woo....woooo' at timid looking types in an effort to get them dancing, we've swung from the lights (briefly), instigated dance floor sit-downs for 'one more choon (again briefly), found ourselves in such paralytic states of cider intoxication that drinking cans in view of management was a sound idea to be preached to all and sundry. Doyles is fun, but like most places in Dublin, it's intoxication rather than the venue that creates the atmosphere and all in all that means an anti social behavioural sort of night.
There's another thing about that horrible hole that reminds me of Whelan's at its worst - and that's the tendency of drunken idiots to crash into you on the dancefloor. In every other Dublin club, people take care not to bash into someone else's space for fear of getting their heads kicked in. This healthy fear of violence broke down in the toothless middle-class indie-kid atmosphere of Whelan's, and all manner of twats would take intolerable liberties and simply crash into your path while you were preparing to throw the gob in on some teenage Strokes fan to the accompaniment of "Bohemian Like You". Of course, the advantage of said atmosphere was that you could retaliate without any fear of retribution; persistent tossers could be clothes-lined or elbowed in the face, and they'd never say a word, even if you knocked them to the ground. But it grew to be tiresome, even for a spiteful individual like me. Anyway, this shitehawkery has been revived on the Doyle's dance-floor, so if you venture there, be ready to shoulder-charge the cunts.
Furthermore, something is really going to have to be done about the Monkey Cunt behind the decks. A friend suggested the following solution: bring a sackload of bananas into the club and distribute them around the dance-floor. Then request "Monkey Man" by the Specials, which will be the cue for everyone to pelt the fruit at the DJ box, knocking the little shit out the window and onto the street below, where he'll hopefully be crushed by an oncoming bus.
So the promises to self have been made again, never to return. It reminds me of how three years ago, a few of us made a pledge after many nights of enduring nu-metal tripe in Fibbers that we would never return.
We returned about twice, pissed out of our heads of course - the victims of an old friends reluctance to go anywhere else. Past the surliest bouncers in the world, into that cavern of a club to be glared at by handfuls of teenagers all competing for a place in the most pissed off teenager in the world championship. It was real, 'fuck you I won't clean up my bedroom tantrums left right and centre on the dance floor, as angry Goths whipped each other with whirling hair and splashed sweat at each other. Fibbers was always for Goths and metal heads that had skipped the small town and were reaching for something different in Dublin. There's been a few occasions I've gone back in the last year, to be refused for lack of ID only to see brief glimpses of kids in Placebo shirts and Craddle of Filth gear running wild at the bottom of the stairs. Doyles is like that, it's the Fibbers of the trendy Bohemian set that feel no guilt about listening to a DJ that looks like a particularly lazy monkey spinning the same set list again, and again and again. Its a the cloning factory for all those posers skipping the queue in Dunnes on Georges St. Like Franz Ferdinand expect loadsa sweep over haircuts, blazers and Converse a-go-go.
As in Fibbers here's only one way to cope in there, copious amounts of drink and a hefty head ache in the morning, neither of which are positive. Make sure to watch out for the inevitable flying glasses, as the previously unconscious drunk at the opposite table flings there pint at you in a forgetful frenzy to reach the dance floor as the Strokes blare out.
I do worry about my generation, but only when sober of course.
Isoldes Tower: Once described by a good mate as the only place in Dublin "where forthy year old women grope your arse" and sounding like some fairy castle in myth - Isoldoe’s tower strikes me as a gay bar for half the night. But then at a certain time as if a beacon shines from its roof top batman like, it turns into everyone’s last chance saloon. The last chance to get your hole, your last chance to get in somewhere - more importantly your last chance to get served due to a late opening licence. But its cleaned up its act, now it seems that Erasamus students blend in with the mix of middle aged couples, desperate post thirties singletons, work gang parties and rejects from the George. If you’ve every been curious enough to scan through singles ads, Isolde’s Tower has the same underlining sleaziness about.
Doyles, sitting there quietly opposite Trinity, it took me about eighteen months of living in Dublin to realise the place existed. Then there was the wonder of discovering a house party atmosphere full of particularly drunk Trinity students. Being drunk, that can be a great thing. Being sober, it can be disconcerting. Being stoned out of your bin, knackered and sleep walking, after six hours of meetings, it can be horrifying, fascinating and somewhat exhilaratin. There have been nights there where intoxicated with the glee of drunken pranksterism we've pilfered drunks galore, ran around pretending to chaw our jaws shouting 'woo....woooo' at timid looking types in an effort to get them dancing, we've swung from the lights (briefly), instigated dance floor sit-downs for 'one more choon (again briefly), found ourselves in such paralytic states of cider intoxication that drinking cans in view of management was a sound idea to be preached to all and sundry. Doyles is fun, but like most places in Dublin, it's intoxication rather than the venue that creates the atmosphere and all in all that means an anti social behavioural sort of night.
There's another thing about that horrible hole that reminds me of Whelan's at its worst - and that's the tendency of drunken idiots to crash into you on the dancefloor. In every other Dublin club, people take care not to bash into someone else's space for fear of getting their heads kicked in. This healthy fear of violence broke down in the toothless middle-class indie-kid atmosphere of Whelan's, and all manner of twats would take intolerable liberties and simply crash into your path while you were preparing to throw the gob in on some teenage Strokes fan to the accompaniment of "Bohemian Like You". Of course, the advantage of said atmosphere was that you could retaliate without any fear of retribution; persistent tossers could be clothes-lined or elbowed in the face, and they'd never say a word, even if you knocked them to the ground. But it grew to be tiresome, even for a spiteful individual like me. Anyway, this shitehawkery has been revived on the Doyle's dance-floor, so if you venture there, be ready to shoulder-charge the cunts.
Furthermore, something is really going to have to be done about the Monkey Cunt behind the decks. A friend suggested the following solution: bring a sackload of bananas into the club and distribute them around the dance-floor. Then request "Monkey Man" by the Specials, which will be the cue for everyone to pelt the fruit at the DJ box, knocking the little shit out the window and onto the street below, where he'll hopefully be crushed by an oncoming bus.
So the promises to self have been made again, never to return. It reminds me of how three years ago, a few of us made a pledge after many nights of enduring nu-metal tripe in Fibbers that we would never return.
We returned about twice, pissed out of our heads of course - the victims of an old friends reluctance to go anywhere else. Past the surliest bouncers in the world, into that cavern of a club to be glared at by handfuls of teenagers all competing for a place in the most pissed off teenager in the world championship. It was real, 'fuck you I won't clean up my bedroom tantrums left right and centre on the dance floor, as angry Goths whipped each other with whirling hair and splashed sweat at each other. Fibbers was always for Goths and metal heads that had skipped the small town and were reaching for something different in Dublin. There's been a few occasions I've gone back in the last year, to be refused for lack of ID only to see brief glimpses of kids in Placebo shirts and Craddle of Filth gear running wild at the bottom of the stairs. Doyles is like that, it's the Fibbers of the trendy Bohemian set that feel no guilt about listening to a DJ that looks like a particularly lazy monkey spinning the same set list again, and again and again. Its a the cloning factory for all those posers skipping the queue in Dunnes on Georges St. Like Franz Ferdinand expect loadsa sweep over haircuts, blazers and Converse a-go-go.
As in Fibbers here's only one way to cope in there, copious amounts of drink and a hefty head ache in the morning, neither of which are positive. Make sure to watch out for the inevitable flying glasses, as the previously unconscious drunk at the opposite table flings there pint at you in a forgetful frenzy to reach the dance floor as the Strokes blare out.
I do worry about my generation, but only when sober of course.
