Trouble in bubblin’ Dubbelin

The trouble with Dublin is the women scare me and the men drive me round the bend on a regular basis. It’s got fog that’s wetter than rain and the city reeks of burnt barley. The community is incestuous and has its own cultural maffia. It’s somehow both backward and too far ahead of itself. It accepts the filthy Corrs in its midst. When it stings, it stings you bad and when it asks for money, you end up broke.

But when it soothes, you don’t want it to end.

Perfect. That’s how I’d describe our little visit to Dublin last week. So perfect that coming home – normally a thing of beauty – pales in comparison and I’m having a hard time getting back into my groove.

Mr Hg and I flew in just before noon on Thursday. We checked into the Central Hotel on Exchequer Street. We grabbed excellent pub lunch (roast chicken & chips) at Davy Byrne’s and tried a new stout (Guinness Brew 39. Our verdict: watery, bland.). Got caffeined up at the Avoca café. Then saw Hazel O’Connor belt out a few old ones and a few new ones at Tower Records, hooked up with a friend on the spot, chatted with Ms O’Connor about mutual acquaintances and then sauntered down to the O’Reilly Theatre for Consigliere Friday’s outing with the Crash Ensemble and Gavin Bryars. Which was very, very good. Except for Bryars’ Jesus Blood Never Failed Me, which I’ve always detested. Die, tramp, die.

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