Dublins New Student Magazine
All we want is to brighten up your day
written by~Joanna Robert
Whats the Craic? So this Australian bloke turns up on our doorstep one day ranting about needing a place to live. His name was Laurie, he lived on the second floor. Well no actually, he slept in the box room because that's where we told him to. To cut a long story short, he rebelled and here we are with a magazine. The Dub is a raunchy new publication - a feast of raunch if you will - dedicated to the voice of young and upcoming Dub- lin journalists wishing to share their sexy views with the most sensual of audiences. This bi-monthly debacle is set to release upon you a cacophony of new and ex- citing opinions and ideas. Keep reading and you will be fully immersed in the vibrant culture of this fair city the music, the food, the wonderful people and maybe even the odd shnifter of whiskey! The Dub is created and published by the Happiest House For advertising enquiries please contact email@example.com
Creator and Director Graphic Designer Editor and Legend
Laurie Mahon Conor Gaffney Philip Cahill
firstname.lastname@example.org email@example.com firstname.lastname@example.org
Sense and Sobriety written by~Sheila Armstrong
Sticky bar tops overwhelming drunkeness & that dirty dancefloor condition
Anyone who has been brave enough to take the step out into the delightful chunky soup that is the Dublin nightlife in recent times has no doubtedly come home sweaty, sore and not just a little sickened. What is it about the Irish clubbing scene that is so… revolting? Is it the blatant disregard for crowd control? The sticky bar tops? The ever-present and overwhelming drunkenness? No. After years of both underage and legal nights out, the problem ﬁnally becomes apparent: the unfortunate habit of the Irish population to consider themselves more attractive than they actually are. Evidently, na hEireannaigh are not all bronzed, tiny-waisted, Amazonian goddesses. But they say God does love a trier, and God love us but we try. The skirt doesn’t quite ﬁt? Just leave the top button open. That dress has more gaping holes than America’s foreign policy? The more skin on display the better. Those hotpants might look good on a Pussycat Doll, but believe me ladies; chunky thighs and kankles are not this seasons black. And, for the record, the darkest shade of fake tan will not make our naturally pasty skin look sunkissed no matter how many layers are slapped on. But all that said, our mangled interpretations of what is currently passing for style can easily be overlooked when it comes
to our conduct in the clubs themselves. The average Irish girl + a couple of tequilas = Shakira - or so she thinks. I admit it, I am as much of an offender as anyone, but once on that dance ﬂoor, that tiny voice of sense and sobriety gets steamrolled over and even the most self-respecting young lady becomes a twirling demon comprised of ﬂailing arms, hips and hair as she struggles to stay upright in her 6 inch heels. All of this is a far cry and a cocktail (or four) from the days of the Irish village dance in the local barn. Paddy the farmer’s son would put on his freshly Mammy-washed shirt and slick back his hair with his sweaty hands, while Mary would take her hands out of the sink long enough to put on her new dress. The young’uns from miles around would hop on the bikes and spend the night getting down and funky to whatever the 1950’s answer to electropop was. We ladies have come a long way. Sadly, our male counterparts have not. A common sight on a typical night out in Dublin is of the male college student, wearing his single crisp shirt that has been kept meticulously clean and folded ever since Mammy washed it at the weekend. The sweaty hand hairstyle has been replaced with generous dollops of whatever the cheapest brand of gel
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in Tesco was, not altogether a huge improvement. And then there are the others, the ones that make you wish for a nice clean boy in a nice clean shirt. Crowding outside the pubs after they’ve been kicked out for starting ﬁghts or vomiting over the bar, they howl and bellow after anything wearing a skirt. Sporting a dirty white hoodie, too-short tracksuit bottoms combined with a hat perched at an impossible angle, the idea that this is a smart outﬁt for a night out has somehow taken root in their heads. Unfortunately, we Irish were not blessed with style and ﬂeetness of foot. Despite our best efforts, we will never match our European or American counter
parts in terms of any sort of basic physical appeal. This is usually made up for by our winning (cough) charm and friendly demeanour, but under the inﬂuence of those bright lights we somehow lose all that. Combined with the inﬂuence of Mr and Mrs G & T, all that charm goes out the window along with our dignity. No, we were never meant to be famous for our looks. Possibly our tiny population and consequently stunted gene pool has obliterated the odds of an attractive Irish person ever hitting the Dublin dance ﬂoors, but we can dream. But in reality, we are, and always will remain, ungainly, ﬂabby and freckled – sad, but oh so true. 10
written by~Dan Sheehan
So the harbingers of doom have emerged after more than a decade of hibernation and warned us that it’s all over. A ﬁnancial meltdown is imminent and we should all stay in our houses, taking refuge under a pile of what little money we have left lest we be crushed by the collapsing economy. I don’t know quite what I was expecting when the ﬁrst utterances of the dreaded ‘R’ word suddenly turned into bold newspaper head lines, often accompanied by numerous exclamation points and maybe a skull and crossbones thrown in for good measure. In my mind’s eye I could see boarded up shop fronts on Grafton Street, queues outside the soup kitchen where Brown Thomas used to be, perhaps even a few tumbleweeds rolling lazily around Temple Bar just to complete the picture of poverty and desolation. Amazingly this has not occurred. In fact, if you emerged from the cave you were living in for the last few months and took a stroll through the city centre, you would be hard pressed to see any evidence that we were in fact at the beginning of the end. That is until you looked a little bit closer. Keeping up appearances is one thing but when a problem like this arises there is no hiding it. The signs are there be they ever so small and all you must do to ﬁnd one is visit one of the many lively
pubs or clubs this city has to offer. What am I referring to? It is of course the ever present but increasingly popular practice of stealing drinks. Once the tactic of only the lowliest scabs, this dangerous pastime has gone through a revival of late, gaining active support among thrill seekers, those most afraid of ﬁnancial ruin and those who are just, well, scabs. The premise is simple, ﬁnd an unaccompanied or unmonitored drink and steal it for yourself, thereby saving a few precious euro to stuff under your mattress for an even rainier day. Though drink-stealers were once ostracised and reviled by Irish society (there were attempts made in the late 90’s to force any apprehended culprits to wear a bell before admitting them into certain pubs), these ninjas of the Dublin social scene are now spoken of with a certain awe. They walk in shadow, move in silence and will risk their safety and dignity just to sneak that half pint of Guinness out from under your nose. Their tactics have become more advanced, their movements near seamless and their courage the stuff of legends. I had the privilege last week of witnessing a young man, no more than 5’ 5” tall, steal a full pint from a table full of off duty guards in Copper Face Jacks (a bastion of drink thieves for
many years) and, in the chaos that erupted upon discovery of its absence, slip in and sneak away a second. In an instant he was gone; leaving Dublin’s ﬁnest to gripe about the one that got away. This man, like so many other men and women in the same questionable profession, will never have a book written about him. No statues will be erected in his honour. If we were to discover his name it would just mean that his efforts had failed. He exists only to push the boundaries of what can and cannot be done. Well, that and to get drunk for free but I’m sure it’s mostly about pushing boundaries. The exhilarating high of a successful grab is matched only by the humiliating low of getting caught in the act. So the next time you ﬁnd yourself in one of your local pubs or clubs in town, give yourself a moment alone to survey the scene. Towards the end of the night they will emerge, broken off from their respective groups, ready for the hunt. Whether you witness a success or a failure, these champions of the cheap night out will provide you with an entertaining few moments if you take the time to seek them out. Just make sure your drink is ﬁrmly in your hand when you do.
written by~Jessica Farrelly
“Well would you look at you and the price of carrots!” squealed the befreckled and distinctly rosy-cheeked girl beside me. Where was I the instant this perforated my eardrum you may ask, Cavan? Roscommon? A class in double Dutch? No people of Dublin, this was in fact uttered within the borders of our very own county. The language of Culchie ﬁrst came to my attention not in Ireland surprisingly, but in Germany, where I had the bewildering experience of encountering a group of Corkonians discussing the age old topic of the suffering of the Irish with an unfortunate local. “Ya see it does be like Crouchin’ Tiger, Hidden Garda so it does. The feckers hide in bushes so they doo, and may the Lord be with ya if ya break the speed limit boy! They leap out at ya out of nowhere with their guns so they doo!” He paused to take a much deserved breath as an accomplice piped up, arms and pint ﬂailing, “And as for the poore farmers!” There was a resounding chorus of, “Ah the poore farmers... Bein wiped out so they are, wiped out!!” The horriﬁed German was clearly conjuring up images of a government incentive to massacre the farmers of Cork as they slept, probably using the very same guns they used to annihilate speeding drivers. And they wonder why rural tourism is declining. The following day, when suggesting to the ‘boys’ that their unique description of a relatively harmless speed gun could have been misconstrued as some kind of weapon of mass destruction, we were met with a mixture of “Bejaysis, I was superlanged last night!” and dark mutterings about “Jackeens”. Maybe this incident sensitised my ears to Culchie, but suddenly I am being aurally assaulted everywhere I go. Colleges are a breeding ground of Culchie, in on-campus accommodation it could well be the unofﬁcial ﬁrst language. The 8th of December? Fluent Culchie speakers should be issued to all bafﬂed shop assistants in the Big Smoke to avoid sporadic outbreaks of muck-savagery. The word “culchie” itself is rumoured to be derived from “cúl a’ tí”, Irish for “back of the house”. No Dubs, not because this is where valuables such as land, cattle and the buried life savings are kept, but
because in rural regions it is common practice to enter friends’ and neighbours’ gaffs through the back door. The front door is reserved for Christmas. Seriously. I think it important at this stage to inform any country folk reading that this practice won’t be appreciated as being friendly in Dublin. Here we call it breaking and entering. Something else which must be discontinued upon moving here is the use of the phrase “doin’ a line”. This, fellow Dubs, is a term used to describe an informal relationship in which both parties are permitted to shift other ﬁners/eligible landowners. And they have the cheek to call us whoores. Anyway, to make a long story short, asking someone in a Dublin nightclub to “do a line with you” will most likely get you done for possession of a Class A substance with intent to supply. Speaking of nightclub etiquette, you will generally need a form of identiﬁcation such as a passport (a document required of people leaving the country) to gain admission. Telling the bouncer you are Paudie and Mary Murphy’s young fella from Termafeckin and that, “arra, sure you’re nearly eighteen” will not sufﬁce. Nor is, “D’ya hear who died?” an acceptable conversation starter should you manage to get in to the club. Listening to the death notices on the radio is not a widespread custom in Dublin. Live on the wild side, give a station that doesn’t play Daniel O’Donnell a go. And I know it’s hard, but try not to say the word “class”. That is unless you wish to endure the reminiscing of surrounding Dubs of what it was like to be eight years old and use this term themselves. That said, it is important not to regard people of God’s country as being of a completely different culture. In fact, I’ve been told that some recreational activities are quite similar to those in Dublin. One popular hobby is “lappin’”, which somewhat resembles going for a spin, minus the tinted windows and blaring music. Granted, it is also minus hindrances such as trafﬁc lights, speed bumps, crouching tigers and hidden Gardai, but this isn’t really exploited if you’re lappin’ with Mam. One tradition I think should be introduced in Dublin though, is that of cabbage-kicking. Particularly 10
rife in Co. Mayo, it is generally taken part in on Halloween by those too old to trick-or-treat and too young to move to Dublin. This is an age group which, in urban areas, is usually preoccupied with vandalism of a non-vegetable related variety on this night. I admit a distinct lack of cabbages could be a problem, but not to worry, years without electricity, television, and even Daniel O’Donnell, led to the creation of plenty of other highly original pastimes to preserve anything resembling sanity. The conservation of such activities takes the form of an annual Culchie festival (yes, really), the highlight of which is the awarding of the much coveted title of “Culchie of the Year”. Only the contender who best endures the physically taxing and psychologically complex challenges of nappy hanging, potato picking and welly throwing will receive such an honour. Auld scissors will you cut I hear you say, but no, we stand to learn a lot from these grand lad-eens. So keep an eye out for our bumpkin brethren. Impart the knowledge that you actually need to hail buses here, and that one of the neighbours claiming to be the village taxi driver isn’t normal. Gently explain that rush hour isn’t conﬁned to the Mart on a
Thursday, and that the folk outside in their THE pyjamas DUB needn’t be reported to the local priest. Perhaps suggest weaning off marietta biscuits, tayto, ganzees and only putting the heating on in one room in the house. These sacriﬁces are a small price to pay to spare people the puzzlement caused by exclamations about the price of carrots. To any culchies (still) reading, I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to our luscious forty shades of grey. Bear these pointers in mind and ye will avoid all manner of embarrassments, so ye well. If not, well jaysis, we’ll be bleedin’ scarleh fer yis.
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Farrell & Brown Dublin’s best kept secret... CONHave you taken a walk down the high-street lately? Whether it's Grafton or Henry street, it seems we are bombarded by the same shops over and over; Topshop, Miss Selfridge, River Island, M&S, Principals, Next, Dorothy Perkins, Oasis, Wallis... and what do they all have in common? They're British. Now this might seem like an odd observation but in today's economic situation you have to ask yourself when was the last time you dropped some cash in an Irish Shop? CONThe face of Ireland has undergone some serious cosmetic surgery in the last few years; with each new nationality that joined our shores, seems like another non-national shop cropped up. Now I'm all for the integration of the species, but on the cusp of this economic downfall I think it's time we started putting money back in our own pockets. CONSitting on the corner of Nassau and Dawson lies Dublin's best kept secret. It's fresh, it's stylish, it's cheap and it's Irish. Trudging the same path I've walked a million times, I was stopped in my tracks last Saturday by the pounding bass of 'old school' hip-hop ﬂooding from the lobby of building No.1. What used to be the historic Morrison's Hotel building has this year been converted into the best thing since sliced bread.
I'm talking of course about Farrell and Brown. Not to be confused with mod eatery Fallon and Byrne, Farrell and Brown is an uber-trendy new outﬁtters that is sure to take the city by storm. For those of you that are devoted fans of the Abercrombie, Ralph Lauren and American Eagle posse,it's time to ditch the moose and join "The Wolﬁe Club". Represent your homeland by donning the Irish wolfhound. CONOpened on March 15th by its mother brand the Blarney Woollen Mills est.1823, Farrell and Brown is an eclectic mix of authentic heritage and contemporary cool. Designed by the quirky duo Emma Wilson and Paula Hanley, the store offers its own brand denims, leisurewear and catwalk worthy knits, that wont break the bank. Aimed at guys and gals in their teens to thirties, with a 10% discount for all students. Every Saturday you can catch the fresh electric sounds of young Irish DJ Hilary Rose while getting a bit of retail therapy. The ultra chic Georgian building is the most unique setting for the store. As you climb the steps of the curved entrance you're greeted by a high-gloss mahogany interior, wood clad walls, bookshelf display units, antique parke and marble ﬂoors. Even the ﬁtting rooms could rival the bathrooms of the Dylan
Hotel for style points, so you can understand my surprise in seeing €20 for sports bags and €40 for pure wool knitwear. The girls have reinterpreted the traditional "Aran sweater" and re-designed it for today's fashion savvy. A piece of clothing from Farrell and Brown says you don't follow the ﬂock. No, you run with the pack. CONThe founders have put thought into the smallest details to ensure you have a unique shopping experience, from the atmospheric lighting right down to the clothing tags that quote, "Born in Ireland, Made with Love, Worn with Passion, Still my Favourite". It's quaint and cosy, it's creative and in these times of pulling purse strings, it’s a real ﬁnd. CONIreland is becoming ever more globalised and slowly but surely we are losing our identity. The Hawkers of Moore street are a thing of the past. The pools of Butlins theme park have been cemented over and they plan on gutting Stephens Green to accommodate a metro. Farrell and Brown's motto is "give the dog a bone" and I believe its time we all did just that and gave something back to our struggling city. The historic motto of the Irish wolfhound is "Gentle when stroked. Fierce when provoked". I'm ready to join the club, are you?
Live at the
written by~Evan Kane
fist wavingly infectious
If this reviewer somehow failed to categorise Jape for an opening paragraph he may be so bold as to compare him to a food type. If Jape was to be compared so, he would be a strawberry, seemingly exotic, dripping with juicy beats and a spasmodic performance style, yet un-arguably home-grown, very much rooted in Dublin. His Joycian like ﬂow of lyrics reminds us that this fruity act is indeed one of our own, and should be enjoyed and cherished accordingly. Richie “Jape” Egan takes to the stage with an eye-bulgingly bowled over like expression, and if you avoid the clichéd yet plausible possibility that this is chemically induced you come to realise it has more to do with his genuine excitement to be back in Dublin,. playing in front of a large, devoted and rapturously welcoming crowd Egan in turn charms the packed Button Factory with a supreme mix of danceable foot-stompers, lyrical gold and moments of anthemic anticipation. Armed with a set of drumsticks, an electric
guitar and a whole arsenal of synthetic noise-making madness Jape opened the set with the impossibly up-tempo numbers “Christopher and Anthony” and “Strike me down”. These tracks taken off his latest album “Ritual” went down a treat and showed the extent of Egan’s rising popularity with a good proportion of the crowd singing along like seasoned veterans. Those who were new to the Jape show were given a spectacular glimpse of what was to come. Egan made dramatic use of the stage and orchestrated events with Christy Dingham like hand movements until “Rituals” big hitting single “I was a man” and the cult classic “Floating” pitched the tempo into overdrive. This unsurprisingly was the crescendo of Egan’s winding orgy. Lines such as “popped my cherry to November Rain” and “sucked in a lifetime through nostrils and a mouth” were spit back with fevered gusto. Perhaps more surprisingly was the down set which started with the delicious yet tender
“Graveyard”,where Egan dons his storytelling hat, and shares moments of insightful reﬂection during a youthful, late-night romp: “it’s such a short, short distance from the nipple to the soil”. The night’s most poignant moment came during the touching acoustic ode to his hometown hero “Phil Lynott”. A respectful open mouthed silence accompanied Egan’s gentle plucking until the now legendary lines “and one day I will be a dead man who plays the bass from Crumlin, who plays the bass from Dublin, like Phil Lynott” were devoured by all. If the night’s performance showed anything, it was that Jape’s schizophrenic, genre - hopping style is impossible to pin down, impossible to label, and yet impossible to ignore. It is ﬁst wavingly infectious. Jape without being one thing nor the other ends up being the complete package: song- writer, musician and ﬁnger on the pulse performer.
WRITTEN BY OISIN MURPHY
Default Band Name 1 are something of a rarity: a student electronic outﬁt who seek to (or rather, seek not to) publicise themselves almost entirely through word-of-mouth. Save the occasional interview on Raidió na Life, the oracular duo: Richie Wade and Ferdi Actiman, have steered clear of any clichéd wave-making or head-turning on the independent music scene. Working exclusively with sample -based electro hooks and programmed beats, combined with whimsical subject matter and entertainingly irreverent (if infrequent) lyrical breaks, their creative output blurs the lines between authentic, innovative dance music and arrestingly visual musical comedy. The self-styled ‘techno-capital ists’ join me for an interview in Trinity’s Pavilion bar, eager to discuss the enigma that is DBN1, 3 years after they ﬁrst began making music together. Richie Wade is talkative, engaging and clearly passionate about the band, leaning in to explain his points between gulps of Amstel, while Ferdi adopts a more aloof stance, making the occasional joke or brief elaboration, but remaining ﬁrmly on the perimeter of the conversation. It’s not a busy night (it’s a Thursday) and I am encouraged to begin the interview at my leisure, taking time to soak up the atmosphere, and discuss pressing current issues with the charming duo. They are both disarmingly cordial, sharing anecdotes about themselves and friends (mostly friends) and joking freely about every topic we discuss. To say that their music reﬂects their selfeffacing, witty characters would be an understatement. But, as Richie is keen to point out, DBN1 can deal with serious issues, and promises that their future recordings will explore deeper, untapped territory, advancing the cause of independent electronic music in Ireland. As Ferdi returns with the second round of cans, DBN1 go on the record for their ﬁrst ever print interview... Well, ﬁrst things ﬁrst: how did you
two meet? Richie: Over online Pictionary, in fact - we were competitive rivals! Online Pictionary? Ferdi: You haven’t played it? R: It’s pretty self-explanatory, really. I suppose our relationship just moved into the real world, where we’re just regular Pictionary rivals, in many ways. And how did that lead into musical collaboration? R: Isn’t it obvious? Funnily enough we were both sound engineers for a band a couple of our friends were in called ‘The Heartbreak Crew’ or something, and we accidentally set up all the gear for a practice on the wrong day, so it was just us two and a roomful of instruments. We ended up jamming, and... F: It grew quite organically from there. Did you ﬁnd you developed an artistic vision as you went, or did you both have very clear objectives with your songwriting? R: I ﬁnd that we have become a lot more sophisticated and complex in our arrangements since ‘Is That Yo Momma’s Purse?’ (their ﬁrst album, from 2006), but if we had any objectives when we started writing music together, I suppose it would have been to get fans; both male and female. And to expand the world, musically. (laughs) F: That’s true. Has it been easy for you to get noticed? R: I’d be lying if I said we’re very pro-active about publicity, so I suppose you could say it’s been very easy for us not to get noticed. F: It’s a real nightmare! (laughs) And what about the independent music scene in Dublin: is it a good environment for up-and-coming bands to promote themselves? R: I would say no. But you have to keep on pushing! Not us though. F: It’s all smooth sailin’! It would be fair to say that you haven’t exactly ‘made it’ though, wouldn’t it? F: 4 radio shows, 4 albums and a concept album on the way! R: And easily 40 fans! Check our bebo. (laughs)
Tell me about this concept album. R: Basically, it’s a huge departure for us, in many ways. We’re going to try to make a religious album, dealing with the life of Jesus, and making the story relevant to young people again. F: We haven’t really thought of a title yet. That’s quite ambitious, can I ask whether you’re both Christians? R: Eh... F: We believe that one can believe. As an unsigned band, does the inevitable media-endorsed ‘indie’ label sit well with you? R: DBN1 is the heart and soul of young society, this isn’t ‘indie’, this is techno-capitalism. F: And to all those media - what’s the word - ‘naysayers’? R: Yeah. F: Money makes the world go round, not ‘global warming’. R: And you can print that! (laughs) What do you mean exactly by ‘techno-capitalism’? R: It’s taking a walk down easy-street and picking up the cash! Where to now for DBN1? F: Well, there’s the concept album, which is a work in progress... R: Believe it or not, we were considering doing bus tours of Dublin to make some extra cash! I feel we could make the city relevant to young people again...(laughs) We also want to get some DJ sets in too F: Mucho mucho cash! R: Basically, it’s all about the money. Ethically sourcing the money, though. F: A man’s gotta get paid! How would you describe your sound, or what it’s becoming, in light of this recent departure? R: As I see it, if Heaven and Hell were to have a mighty battle, and Heaven won, then... F: That’s what DBN1 sounds like. R: Since the beginning, our songs have always reﬂected a battle between good; like ‘Inside Out In Love With You’, and evil... F: ‘Devil’s Trousers’. R: The possibilities are endless! DBN1 is the world, if the world were turned into music. Isn’t that a bit ambitious? F: No.
29 december Button Factory
Make sure to come along and dance off some of that Christmas dinner!
With 2008 soon closing to an end, the same worry lies on everyone’s minds. What the hell am I going to do on December 29th? It’s well known to be the one day each year that plagues people up and down the country. Boredom on the day has risen to fatal levels in recent times and this year One Track has decided that they’re just not having any of it. They’ve lined up a night in the Button Factory which is set to leave you pantsless. Yes, that’s right: Dancepig Vs. €
in, you will be treated to individual sets from both acts as well as an exclusive live performance from the two as a duo. On top of all that, there’ll be support from Jon Averill and Barry Donovan from EC/Lunar Disko. For the past two years, Dancepig has been bringing his unique sound to the infamous clubs of Berlin but has also ﬁtted in a few other places like London, Porto and Barcelona. He was seen
nearer to home this year at Electric Picnic and has some exciting upcoming releases including a collaboration on Tensnake’s debut album and a Dancepig album for Space Factory to follow up his much-played Beneath Me EP. With plays from Laurent Garnier to Lindstrom & Prins Thomas, Mano Le Tough is fast becoming one of the success stories of Irish dance music. Mano is renowned for raising the bar with his electronic live sets which have seen him play in some of the best venues in Barcelona, Berlin, London and Dublin. He has also received wide spread acclaim for his work as a producer and has a number of collaborations with Nightguy (Kompakt), Dancepig (Space Factory, Kingnail) and Aaron Hedges (D.O.C.). Mano is currently working on a lot of new music so don’t miss this chance to check it out. Doors are at 11pm, so make sure to come along and dance off some of that Christmas dinner!
written by~Olive Rant
If you look in the wrong direction you might see or smell something fishy! CONLast Wednesday was the ﬁrst time I ever set foot in a gym. It was deﬁnitely a memorable moment as the gym itself is quite unusual. Although I had never been in a gym before I still obviously had some idea of the general decor, layout and overall atmosphere, but nothing could have prepared me for this! First of all, you walk in and all you see is chandeliers, gold mosaic tiled ceiling, a ﬁre in the wall, black marble ﬂoors and a big luxurious velvet couch. The lighting reminded me of that in a casino and for a minute I thought we had mistakenly gone to the wrong building. The gym looked like Bam Margera or some rich Persian guy had decorated it with its dark velvet walls, gold tiling,
chandeliers everywhere, etc. In all it reminded me of a whorehouse. To add to this perception, when I entered the bathroom there was a topless woman leaning over the sink doing her makeup and hair. Why it had occurred to her to put on her track pants and not a bra I do not know. I can't say I wasn’t uncomfortable and am surely glad that the other girls were at least wearing towels (even if they were opening their legs a little too wide so that you had a sneaky suspicion that if you looked in the wrong direction you might see or smell something ﬁshy). conThis of course got me thinking. With the risk of sounding like a dried up auld bitch, why, in this day and age, do women think that it is appropriate for them to lounge around naked just because they are in a room that says "ladies bathroom" on the entrance? To be quite frank I didn’t want to see some fat smelly women's bush (which I’m told happens a lot in my sisters gym). I think that I should at least have the choice of whether I want to be in this type of situation or not, there should at least be a warning! I mean MTV have warnings for this kind of thing, DVD's even state on the box if there will be nudity during a ﬁlm!
If girls want to do this then there should be a separate bathroom for people who don't like to see nudity. I mean you might be comfortable with your body, but that doesn't mean the rest of the world is going to be happy looking at it (cellulite on peoples butts and stomachs is not a pleasant thing to have unexpectedly thrown in your face). CONAlso just because there's only going to be women in the room shouldn't mean that this should be acceptable, maybe back in the 1930's it would have been ok but nowadays things aren't so innocent. I mean lesbians, believe it or not, are also women. They use the same bathroom and also get turned on by women's bodies the same way men do. So maybe I’m being a bit naive or something but how is this different from men using the same bathroom? The excuse that it’s ok for women because they have the same bits and see them everyday doesn't ﬂy with me because I’m pretty sure guys are just as familiar with these bits as us. I mean with internet, TV and magazines it’s hardly a secret. CONNow I know I sound like a prude. But having naked, fat nastiness unwillingly catapulted into my day will bring that out in me.
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The Transatlantic Travels of a Terrible Trio
We just got rid of college and the bank had decided we were somehow eligible for hefty loans
It’s Sunday 7th July and I have just ﬁnished my forty-second Marlboro Light. It’s getting well into the afternoon yet the room once known ironically as the living room is still ﬁlled with stragglers who refuse to call it a day. We sit amongst the giant blaring speakers searching for both more cans and an answer to what the fuck we were going to do when we land in a foreign country the next morning with heads like a wheelbarrow full of piss. Why had we even decided to go in the ﬁrst place? Oh yeah, that’s right. Because we had just got rid of that awful thing called college and the bank had decided we were somehow eligible for hefty loans. Let’s get mangled! Well we fucking made it. Pistachio, Heidi and Fernandez (mostly not our real names) have landed in Toronto. The ﬂight over lasted a gruelling eight hours but it was very much tasty after that. With faces melting from the 35° heat we fell into the hostel and made sweet, sweet love to the air conditioning. Our fragile minds weren’t ready for much the ﬁrst few days, but we caught up on some precious sleep and had a nice look around the city. Visited the Eaton Centre, traipsed around an
old distillery in an historic district and then somehow gravitated towards an Irish bar for a few pints in the evening time. Discovered that Canadian weather has a ﬁne ability to turn from searing heat to full-blown thunder storm in under twenty seconds. Screams of “Jesus Christ here we go!” heard from a young man falling over his table and rolling head-ﬁrst into the pub should have been a dead giveaway but pitcher upon pitcher had slowed us down considerably. Needless to say we ended up having to stay there for a drunken dinner. Haven’t been that messy eating a shepherd’s pie in quite a while. On Thursday we took a ferry to the Toronto Islands and spent a day wandering around carnivals and lakes. Got a few beers in with some very strange animals and marvelled at a goat with enormous testicles. On that note, I must admit it has been a bit of a slow week thus far. A delectable time had by all nonetheless. Tomorrow we’re going to bus it up to Montreal and stay with some Aussie friends. See what sort of nasty things French Canadians get up to. LET THE BADGERING BEGIN. To be continued...
............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ THE DUB
Philicity’s Cooking Corner written by~Philicity Hugandkiss
This will fill roughly 3 greedy bastards: 50g Flour 2 Eggs 1kg Potatoes 500mL Cooking Oil 1 pack Wedge Seasoning Mix 100g Fresh Breadcrumbs 2 Lemon Sole Fillets 300g Carrots 200g Green Beans 1 Lemon
Welcome to the ﬁrst of many editions of cooking with Philicity! If you’re sick and tired of eating the leftovers of your ﬂatmate’s burnt goodfella’s pizza out of the bin, I’m here to help. Stop getting so disgustingly drunk before 6pm in the day and give some health a go. Seeing as it’s the ﬁrst week I’m starting off with a rather tasty and nutritious dish – fresh ﬁsh with homemade wedges and delicious veg. This one is sure to impress
your friends and ﬂatmates. Fuck they might even pretend to like you for a few days after. Ok so ﬁrst of all, cut each of the spuds up into 6 or 8 wedges and lash them into a large pot of water. Bring to the boil for about 3 minutes and drain when they are nearly ready to eat but still have a little bite to them. Don’t leave them for too long or they’ll end up the same consistency as that scanger you scored in 21 last Monday night. Next throw them into a baking tray and mix the wedge seasoning thoroughly and evenly throughout. Feel free to add salt, pepper and anything else you can ﬁnd in your kitchen that hasn’t been sitting there for two and a half years. Drizzle plenty of oil over the wedges and pop them in the oven for 20 -30 minutes. This should be preheated at 200 degrees Celsius or gas mark 6 if that’s how you choose to live your life. Next comes the messy bit. You can use any ﬁsh you like, but I recommend Lemon Sole as it tastes like heaven and costs less than six cans for two ﬁllets. Jump on the auld bike and tear up to Thomas Mulloy on Lower Baggot Street. He’ll sort you right the fuck out with a bit of trout. Cut the ﬁsh up into medium sized pieces and cover in ﬂour. Meanwhile pour at least half a litre
of cooking oil into a deep enough frying pan and heat up until it’s sizzling hot. Take the ﬂoury ﬁsh and dip into beaten egg mix and then cover in breadcrumbs. The ﬂour and egg come together to form a kind of slurry that builds up on your ﬁngers and leaves you looking like a rapist. But sure that’s all part of the wonderful cooking experience, isn’t it? Get in there and get your hands ﬁlthy I was always told. Once covered in breadcrumbs, throw the ﬁsh pieces into the searing oil and allow to cook for 4-5 minutes or until golden brown, texture like sun. As a ﬁnishing touch, add some nice vegetables. If you want to be fancy go get yourself a steamer like me and steam the arse out of a heap of carrots. None of the hassle with all of the nutrients and a lot of the taste. Green beans also complment fresh ﬁsh rather well. Actually if you could bothered, go for Tanzanian ﬁne-trimmed beans. €1.69 a pack in Tesco, which can also be found on Baggot Street just a few doors up from Tom. Serve with some lemon on the side and your friends will make love to you slowly and passionately. “Phil that was the nicest dinner I’ve had all year. Please let me have sex with you.”
How to Beat the Recession CONOk, I know. No one wants to hear it anymore. But unfortunately, just like exams and STI’s, not talking about the recession won’t make it go away. It just makes things worse. And itchier. You know things are bad when Tesco starts slashing its prices. Their touchy-feely ‘Every little helps’ slogan, accompanied with gentle references to the credit crunch may seem harmless enough, but really what they’re saying is ‘The world is fucked, we’re all fucked! It’s the end of life as we know it! Start buying bottled water now! Which, by the way, we’re selling at 10c a gallon! Every little helps… if you want to live!’ So if you want to avoid absolute crisis, here are some handy money-saving tips to implement in your life, and beat that pesky recession:
Follow Peter Pan’s lost boys’ example, and don’t actually buy food. Instead, sit around imagining you’re eating the food. This way you can eat whatever you want, it doesn’t cost anything and you lose weight! It’s a win-win situation! Start a fashion trend making your own clothes from things you have lying around the house, like carpets and curtains. As time goes on you may have to resort to tablecloths, tea towels, lino ﬂooring, ﬂexible wood etc. Just tell people it’s all the rage in Paris and laugh at their ignorance, as you start drilling armholes in your bedside cabinet. Rent out your apartment (or bedroom in your parent’s house…who are we kidding here), and live in a bush in the garden. Keep a copy of the key so you can sneak back in periodically, to shower and use the kitchen for imaginary eating. Dress up in old clothing, raid your granny’s attic for old coins, and act like you think it’s actually 1905, when everything was a penny. Use phrases like ‘excuse me bar-keep, could I trouble you for a quick tipple’, and ‘Good morning merchant, half a pound of your ﬁnest cuts for elevenses this
glorious day’. If people think you are actually insane, you can pay for things with old pennies, and no one will question it. No one ever questions a crazy person. Continue paying in pennies and saying ‘codswallop’ until you are inevitably committed to a mental hospital. Which, by the way, gives you free room and board. Sweet. Tell your family on Christmas day you love them so much that putting a price on that love would be an impossible task. Therefore buying presents was not an option. Spend the rest of the day complaining that the iTouch they gave you is the wrong colour. Insist on monetary compensation for the emotional trauma caused. Make a hollow mould of yourself with a slot in your head, and leave it at supermarkets and shopping centres. If young scouts can ask complete strangers for their weight in coins, why not you? Get a piece of that action! Alternatively, make one of those swirly penny tunnel things where the coins spin round and round before dropping to the bottom. I love those. Stick your face looking sad on the side, just to make it legit. Find someone named ‘Recession’. Kick the shit out of him.
How to purchase a window for someone youâ€™ve never met CONCrawdaddy winds to a close one friday night. A quick scramble for our jackets and then we all stumble outside into the freezing cold. Everyone standing around waiting for the obligatory arse who always takes their sweet fucking time to get their jacket only to fall out of the place with a few young wans ensemble. Finally, with everyone still well under the creature, we make a steady swagger towards the ubiqitous Harcourt Diner. Fall in the door shouting and screaming, hanging out of the walls. Immediately the security are all over us, sliding a sneaky hand in between trying to seperate us up and spread the chaos out across the shop. Not a hope. Piled three deep against the counter screaming "CHIP BUTTY SPECIAL WITH ALL
THE SAUCES". A meal not on the menu but our man on the inside, Young Chap, has his own secret menu. Fucking delicious, it's like theres a savage drunken butty in my mouth and I'm slobberin all over me chops. Suddenly, I'm standing alone in the centre of the ďŹ‚oor and there's what feels like an expectant hush from the crowd. Fuck OOOOFFFFFF, I hear myself sing. Jaysus, that went on for ages, I'll try that again. "Jesus, fucking christ will you not shut the fuck up you ginger c*nt ya" replies a stranger. Why are they all such nasty people? Outside with Young Chap for a sing and a dance, sure throw him up on your hips and swing him round to the music. Sure just fuck him against that window there, I'm sure it'll hold.
written by~ Auntie Madge any problems? send them to firstname.lastname@example.org
An Itchy Situation Dear Madge, your problem page sounds like a wonderful idea – it’s great to have someone to talk to about these things! My problem is a little bit embarrassing but I need to get it off my chest soon. I have some sort of rash growing in my nether regions and it’s getting worse. It’s red and itchy and I feel extremely inconﬁdent around the opposite sex. Boys aren’t even looking at me in the same way anymore and it’s upsetting me terribly. I am far too embarrassed to go to the doctor even though I know I should. What should I do Madge? Please help! Jenny Response: Ah Jenny me love there’s a few things here that need sorten. First off, what dirt bord where ya riding to set your gee on ﬁre like that? You need to get that sorted pet or else no fella will ever lay a ﬁlthy paw on ya again. Look, I’m not getting on to ya. Ole Madge has had many a rash in her time. I remember when me 2nd husband came back from workin in England he brought me back more then a toblerone. I nearly killed the ﬁlthy rat but sure did’nt I love him. Back then we didn’t have the fancy ointments that are around now. Get yourself to your pharmacy and get one of them anti-inﬂammatory’s. If that doesn’t sort your gee out then your gonna have to head to the clinic. Its better in the long run love, get
yourself sorted and you will get your conﬁdence with the lads back. I’m sending ya on my special leaﬂet called ‘’How to get the horny bastard to wear a johnny without killen the passion’’. I hope ta god ya feel better soon. Madge
He just cant get enough Auntie Madge, my boyfriend and I were having problems so we broke up but were still living in the same house and having sex now and then. I've just found out he has been sleeping with another woman. He even brought her back to the house and did it in our bed and all over the kitchen but he ended it as he realised it was a big mistake. Now he wants to work things out with me. I love him so much. He says he is going to change and wants to get help as he feels he is addicted to sex. What do I do in this situation? Christina Response: Jaysus pet, there’s no easy way to say this. Your some eejit!! This fella wants his cake and also a bit of meat and two veg on the side. Get shot of him love cos your never gonna change the bollix. I’d say he’s fond of the ridin allrigh. Ya see, this fella knows he has a good one in ya. Sounds like ye have a lovely home and I bet the bollox is comfortable having you around to
do all the sodden work. Get him outta the house if ya can and get some new sheets for the bed. If ya have any hassle getting rid of him, give ole auntie madge a buzz. I’ll come round with me grandson. He’s only 15 but I’ve seen him throw a Micra into the canal. We’ll show him the door alrigh! Might be able to do ya a deal on the new sheets too!! Good luck getten sorted Christy!! Madge
Scared of a good time Hello Madge. My 26 year old cousin has just told me that he smoked weed in college. I promised not to tell my parents, and I won’t tell anyone, but I'm scared. He made it sound like everyone does it in college. I always thought he was the kind of guy who wouldn't do something illegal, but now I know that he has. I'm scared that when I go to college, I'll end up in a bad way too. I've always been a good girl and I want to continue, but I'm really, really terriﬁed. I don't want to do drugs or sleep around or anything like that. What do I do? Kate Response: Sounds to Madge like you need to get your head out of your arse love, life is all about experiences. You don’t get your education out of some ﬂipping books and notes.
You need to open your eyes to what Dublin has to offer. A bit of the weed never hurt a soul but I’m telling ya just cause some long haired greasy bollix with a guitar trying to look deadly offers you a go doesn’t mean you have to take it. Life is all about decisions love, you can lock yourself away but also you would be some eejit to deny yourself the basic pleasures of yooth! Your Auntie Madge has done a few daft things in her time that havent ended well. Like the time I ended up going out with a Spanish fella who ownded a boat down on the Quay. I though he was a well off fancy man. Turns out he was trying to get gear into the country and ended up doin a score in the joy. No regrets from my side love. I learnt valuable lessons from that and many more mistakes. Just try and avoid any Spanish fella’s with boats!! Give me a bell if ya need more advice. Madge
Done the dirty Howya Madge, how are ya? I have been going out with a girl for a year and a half now and I love her dearly. The only problem is that I’ve always fancied her best mate and recently ended up sleeping with her at a party. My girlfriend was also passed out on the ﬂoor beside us the whole time which made me feel even guiltier. I don’t want to ruin things with my girlfriend, but I can’t stop thinkingabout her best friend and the night we had together. Is there anything I can do? Paddy Response: Paddy, I’m glad you’ve come to your Auntie Madge. You’re a young fella with his brain in his head and another in his trousers and I know which one gets the
more blood. Can your wan’s friend be trusted to keep her trap shut or else is she gonna blab to your misses? It wasn’t a nice thing you did but what’s done is done. Personally, if I caught ya I would cut off the blood supply to that brain in your pants. If your determined to save your relationship you need to make sure that slapper you rode keeps her mouth closed. If the shit hits the fan and you need an excuse then your gonna have to think fast. Maybe tell your wan you where lashed out of it and it was dark and you thought you where banging her. It’s a long shot but it might work for ya. You’re a dirt bord but Madge understands, Madge