We’ve all been there at some stage or another (unfortunately some might say), 3 euro drinks, metal blaring from all the speakers, a smoking area reeking of weed and actually fuller than the inside of the club. Ah it could only be Fibber’s on a Thursday night.
Bustling through the crowd of hair, bandanas and eye make up (and that’s just the guys) I struggled to get to the bar. Placed my order politely and was met with an incredulous tone of facial expression “yes I did order six bottles of Desperados is that ok?” Jeez some people.
Shuffled my way back to the table to deliver my round to the lads, sweating profusely might I add, and at the table next to us is a gentleman wearing a long black overcoat and a top hat. Just why?
Meeting several people that I hadn’t seen in many years (I used to be a big metal head but realised I looked ridiculous in skinny jeans and chains so I definitely could pull that shit off any more) and realised that no one has changed.
Back to the bar. More bottles of Despie. Shots of sambuka. More shots of sambuka. Things were starting to blur at this stage, my t-shirt was so sweat soaked that it felt like I wore it in the shower. Sat down and top hat, long coat guy is still in full “mad hatter” attire not a bead of sweat on his freakishly pale face. Damn him and his ability to withstand horrendous heat. Downstairs for a bit of a mosh to Rage screaming “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” like I was fifteen all over again…fantastic.
Why is it that when men are raging out to songs like that they feel compelled to take their t-shirts off no matter how godawful they look with their hair down to their arse and the potbelly on show?
Triple H spraying beer over the crowd of “dancers” was something I enjoyed watching, people were confused as to where it was coming from, I laughed.
More Despies. More shots. And a Kopparberg mixed berry that one of the lads coaxed a girl that we had never seen before into giving us for no apparent reason (just remembered that there, don’t you just love hangover flashbacks?).
Something’s ringing a bell about a bet involving and older lady, twenty euro and acts that I simply cannot post on here and then going outside twenty minutes later through the cloud of hairspray and skinny jeans to see her involved in some equally horrific, publicly indecent behaviour with a skin head. Only in Fibber’s I tell ya.
Then came the long walk down O’Connell street to Burger King. Harry limping (I still don’t know why, don’t think he does either). Ordering my food and sprite (what came out was actually fizzy water) and Harry refusing to leave until they gave us coke instead, I never did get that Coke by the way.
Vaguely recall someone, I’m not entirely sure who, running up and down the quays trying to find a taxi that would take 7 of us to Lucan and Celbridge. Next thing I know I wake up without opening my eyes and thinking “hey this isn’t as bad as I anticipated” then opening my eyes and feeling my retinas turn to ash inside my own head. Love hangovers….hate that sarcasm doesn’t translate well over text.
In bed, dying, listening to a bit o’ Lynrd Skynrd…much more my style.