I HAVE EXPERIENCED my fair share of grim nightclubs, both at home and abroad.
Indeed, there was a time in my early twenties when it felt like I had inadvertently taken a tour of Ireland’s Grimmest Hotspots.
Soaking up the sights and sounds of venues which still closed the evening to the opening bars of Amhrán na bhFiann was the outcome of every road trip my friends and I embarked on as college students.
Now don’t get me wrong; I was in no way above any of these establishments. In actual fact, I was their target demographic; a cash-poor student fuelled by own-brand vodka and a grá for €2 drink deals.
And yet despite my own (many) shortcomings, there was more than one occasion when I found myself clutching my pearls (thanks hun, Penneys), and staring goggle-eyed at the carry-on of my fellow patrons.
Up until last summer though, I thought the worst I’d ever experience was the time I bore witness to a couple having sex on a chair in full view of everyone while the National Anthem played.
Last July, however, someone pissed on my leg in a Dublin nightclub, and I realised that I would happily use that couple as my screensaver.
Unless you’ve had a stranger urinate on your bare leg in a public space, you may not be aware of the range of emotions you go through, and that’s where I come in.
Paint me a picture, says you.
So, I was standing at the bar of a venue which shall remain nameless, and which I hadn’t been to in at least five years, if not more.
While waiting for the barman to serve me, I felt a warm, stinging sensation on my leg.
For the first second or two I ignored it, but then felt compelled to glance quickly down to my left, and there I was met with the sight of a penis, aimed towards my leg.
The person attached to the penis looked like he had checked his brain with his coat, and was dribbling ever so slightly on himself as he urinated in the middle of a crowd of people waiting to buy drinks.
At this point, the stream of urine was hitting the floor with such force that it was splashing back onto my sandaled feet, so my natural instinct was to jerk backwards, grab my mate’s arm, point and howl.
So, sue me.
Given how densely-packed the crowd at the bar was, most people hadn’t realised that a person in very close proximity had his penis out and was merrily pissing up a storm.
But, unlucky for me, I chose to wear a skirt and sandals on the night Captain Incontinent and I crossed paths, so I was experiencing the full force of his 20-pint piss.
I momentarily questioned whether he was deliberately aiming for me, but another quick glance at his face confirmed that this lad couldn’t have picked himself out of a line-up, so I concluded the decision was born less of malice, and more of an innate desire to make a holy show of himself.
Oh, and a glaring inability to hold his drink.
I gave him a shove and told him to stop.
And this was when his mate interfered.
But instead of apologising on his behalf and yanking him out of the crowd, he told me to calm down and stop carrying-on… or words to that effect.
Arguing with a stranger over whether I was entitled to get angry after getting pissed on was definitely one of the more surreal moments in my Ireland’s Grimmest Hotspots tour.
And as the bouncer hauled Captain Incontinent out of the club, the damp fabric of my skirt bound itself to my calf and my toes scrabbled for purchase in my wet sandals, I wished that couple from all those years ago all the very best.
