Monday, October 11, 2004

Black shirts

The story of Saturday night with Simon begins with three key elements. These will by now be familiar to anyone following this blog on a semi-regular basis. I will go through them methodically for once.

1) Hair

Hair is one of my single insurmountable problems. Does my hair defy looking good? It doesn't seem to matter where I go, how much I pay, what I ask for, the result is always the same - a bad haircut. This problem is compounded by the phenomenal speed that my hair grows out. Actually, the word "grow" doesn't do justice to this phenomenon. You can almost see my hair getting longer, like someone is steadily turning the handle on a human Mr Potatohead...






2) Clothes and my Barrel Chest

3) Going outside

We went to two nightclubs, Redz and Boomerang

We had a drink in a place on the quay called Panama. It's okay in there, the decor is this frustrating mix of brickwork, exposed pipes, and wood. I'm not sure why, but there's something apocalyptic about the space, it's way too easy to imagine it flooding or being stormed by commandos in shiny uniforms. I pondered this as we had some drinks.

Having read through one of the free guides to entertainment in the city, we had elected to go to a club called Redz for starters. The guide had scored it highly for the following...

"I think that's it," said Simon, pointing over to a building opposite O'Connell Street with the windows lit up in red.
"It's definitely red."

It costs just 5 euros to enter Redz, and we descended in search of the pure hit of nightclub pleasure that the entertainment guide had alluded to.

What hell! What hell was this!

"I wouldn't come here to be crucified," I offered, by way of an introduction to my thoughts.
"I'm seeing hairstyles straight out of the 1980s... and they are being worn without irony."

Simon was right. There were bushy-haired squirrel men, wooden-limbing it on the hankie-sized dancefloor. There were shy 17 year old girls with chunky arms, trying to look alluring as they drained their drinks (that conformed to the basic formula of Something Alcoholic + Coke + Ice)

There were people there with patriotic inflatable hammers. I have still to have this explained to me.

We had to leave, we had to get out.

We took a recommendation to check out Boomerang, a club in Temple Bar.

hillbilly sniffers, 4 to a cubicle

the bumpkin who commemorated a particularly good line of overtime-sponsored dust by pulling down his trousers and dancing in his Tommy Hilfiger pants in front of a mystified male toilet clientele

being asked if I was French... the continued battering of my self-image by people who don't think i "look like i'm from round here" - what part of Earth would i look at home in? vote now...

touching your neck and nerve damage, waving arms to I don't know who you are/but you must be some kind of superstar

cleaning

bashed-in Britney

being left for dead, but only in the easy-to-survive, cry-harder-you-fool, sexual-rejection way

these are my grim reminders

1 Comments:

Blogger bhikka said...

Hello Mr Potato head :) Good Morning to you too, had no credit.Have you seen my new greenpeace groupy pic?

7:00 PM  

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