What’s it about?
Birthplace of Oscar Wilde, WB Yeats, James Joyce, and George Bernard Shaw, who all emigrated as soon as possible, Dublin is truly one of Europe’s great cultural centers.
Whether you’re a hammered Brit, a shitfaced American or an international corporation looking to create a European headquarters to wash profits through under astoundingly low corporate tax rates, then Dublin’s the city for you.
Any good points?
Dublin’s small, making it eminently walkable for Leopold Bloom in 1904 and you today. Which is just as well as it’s amazing how a modern capital can boast such a profoundly dysfunctional public transport network.
Established as a port town by Vikings to use as a base for raiding nearby Christian monasteries, over a millennium later, this proud spirit of theft and pillaging is carried on by the heroin addicts who congregate by the banks of the Liffey looking for tourists to pick-pocket.
Ireland’s love of traditional music makes Dublin a haven for buskers. As such, it’s nearly impossible to walk down Grafton Street without seeing an Ireland’s Got Talent reject doing a shit Ed Sheeran impression.
Wonderful landscape?
Building a city on an estuary’s flood plain was no big deal in the 10th century, but global warming is making that decision increasingly untenable. If you like your streets flat and soon to be submerged, you’ll love Dublin.
Why not enjoy a wonderful al fresco lunch in the beautiful Stephen’s Green, while you still can? Sample overpriced lunch options near a body of stagnant water erroneously named ‘a pond’ while fending off some of the most ravenous and aggressive seagulls Western Europe has to offer.
Or go for a seaside paddle at Sandymount Strand, being careful to heed the frequent ‘Do Not Swim’ signs which should append ‘unless you wish to be covered in human effluent from the nearby sewage treatment works.’
Tourism landmarks don’t come more disappointing than the Spire, a large metal pole in the middle of O’Connell Street – a former shopping street now full of bookies and grim casinos. You’ll be grateful for this 121m folly when your iPhone’s stolen and you need a familiar landmark to return to.
Hang out at…
After a night out in Copper’s, or any of the other grim, sticky-floored subterranean nightclubs on Harcourt Street, why not head to Charlie’s to console yourself with the other single losers by drunkenly gorging on a spice bag in a halogen-lit hell-hole?
In the mood to see groups of American tourists jokingly fondle the bronze bust of a Victorian fishmonger? Why not visit the statue of Molly Malone?
Or spend a lazy afternoon lounging in the grounds of Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland’s oldest, and most pretentious, university. Pretend you’re in a Sally Rooney novel and ignore the pissed privately-educated Irish wankers and the English students too thick for Oxford and Cambridge whose parents still wanted them to go to a nice old university.
Where to buy?
Millionaire? No? Fuck off then. Or be grateful for whatever dilapidated, single-bed hovel in the commuter belt you can afford. Enjoy your two-hour odyssey into work each day from Mulhuddart, until your home’s bought via compulsory purchase order by a multinational corporation looking to level it and develop a data centre on the land.
From the streets:
Tom Logan, 47, sociopathic Facebook employee and neo-slum landlord: “I love Dublin. I moved here from California to buy a small two-bedroom investment property in Rathmines to sublet. It’s true what they say about the Irish being friendly, all 13 of my tenants are delightful.”
