On Q.

I was out power drinking on last Thursday night. The type of night that causes your brain to grow a set of teeth and eat the backs of your eyeballs the next morning. I joined the party an hour late in Mulligans on Poolbeg street. A popular bar, where old men, young men, middle aged men, and the occasional woman come to drink. Serves a good pint of Guinness. Best avoided on the weekend, unless you want an insight into the life of the sardine.

The drinking began. The ladies arrived all at once, effectively quadrupling the number of women present. There was much feeling of Mark Kearney’s ass. Michael chose this to be the night he started drinking Guinness. Things were shaping up nicely. A few pints to the better, a decision was made to go to the Q-bar.

The Q-bar – A History.

The Q-Bar started life as The Harp. The Harp, like Mos-Eisley, was horrible; a more wretched hive of scum and villainy you would not find. I was there once, drinking with the boys from a shop I used to work in, now closed. They told me they going to show me a real night out. I was a little green, they were inner inner city Dublin lads. I was having a conversation with one of them before I went out.

ICDL: Con, you should take some E.
Me: Naw, I’m OK
ICDL: I take about 6 or 7 ‘mad bastards’ when I’m out, we’ll start you on half of one.
Me: Em, maybe.
ICDL: I have to smoke a little heroin when I come back into work, to stop me buzzing.
Me: Oh.

We went to go to get a bite before we went out. McDonalds. The bouncer told us “not tonight lads.” I had never, and have never since, got refused from a fast food outlet. We went to Burger King. The bouncer came and stood beside us while we ate, and saw us to the door. Time to drink, we went to the Harp. The bouncer said “nice to see you, lads.”

I walked in to a sea of Ben Sherman, gold earrings and bad attitude. I got quite drunk and did some disco dancing, then went home. My workmate came to me the next day.

ICDL: Check out John-fuckin’-Travolta last night. It was every thing I could do to stop you getting beaten up.

I didn’t notice, probably a primal reflex. I never went back to the Harp; I am an IT worker not a knacker anthropologist. Some years later it closed and became the Q. They changed the bouncers and the clientele. While not becoming upmarket, it became far less low rent and violent.

The Q-bar – Present day.

The Q-bar is an ultra-modern meat market. All glass, mirrors, running water and high seating; the bar is like every other Dublin saloon that has been refurbished over the last ten years. It slid into mediocrity even before it sold its first alco-pop. The upstairs is a chrome heavy bar area, downstairs houses a disco. The only thing that Q has going for it is that it sells drink late, any day of the week.

Our crew went downstairs and started to drink and dance. I was easily the most hirsute person there. I was not the oldest person in our group, but was still easily ten years older then anyone there that I didn’t know. Hey, it’s that kind of bar. It was retro night, only nineties tunes. The majority of the bar hadn’t heard them before outside of their parents’ houses. All pretty standard stuff, then things took a turn for the surreal.

I was talking to Gerry when I was subjected to the mating dance of the greater breasted Dublin trollop. Out of nowhere, this girl, whom I shall call Betty because it was printed on her top, comes out of the crowd. She was going home with someone that night, and foolishly she picked me. I became fully aware of her presence when I suddenly found her ass in my lap. Betty didn’t speak much, obviously educated in Mrs. Slut’s filthy school of dancing mute tarts. I tried to let her know that this really wasn’t on.

Me: Ahem!
[ass grinding against leg]
Me: Excuse me!
[ass being wiggled in front of me]
Me: Do you realise…
[ass on leg again]
Me: that I am married?
[ass in lap]
Me: WOOAH! Get off.
[Turns around starts high kicking, gets back to her ass antics]

Gerry is laughing his socks off at all of this. I really try to ignore Betty. She finally gets the message and finds more willing meat. I see her kissing this guy on the dance floor. Good for her, at least she’s out of my hair. Ten minutes later she’s back. Still not talking, still using her body as an offensive weapon. This time she decides to spread herself across both of us, just in case one of us is looking for a good time, and possibly a sexual disease. Finally she leaves, good riddance.

This was the cue for me to leave, but I had to find my charge. I found him sitting on the other side of the bar, asleep. Come on Michael, we’re going home. Walked outside at two thirty and hopped in a cab. Some things have changed for the better.