Panadola Diction

About two years ago, I went to the bar in Dicey Riley’s Garden and asked for two pints of Smithwicks. I paid with a red note and waited for my change. “40 cent please,” said the bartender. “Ahahaha,” said I, and I vowed never to go there again.

In the interim period I have heard two stories about the place - one involved Colin Farrell, and the other involved a bare-chested man trying to pay a waiter for a round of drinks with cocaine in the toilets, as he’d run out of cash. I think they were unrelated incidents.

Last night, against my better judgement, I went there to meet some friends, to celebrate multiple birthdays. I arrived at 9:30 and was asked to fork out a fiver to enter. Sigh. As I walked in the door, Ireland equalised against Serbia. Woo. I bought a pint of Smithwicks - €5.50. Argh. I met my friends and they told me I was sunburnt, I told them no, it was merely a hat-mark.

Then began two hours of constant harassment from ‘Praetorian Security’ - laughable suited assholes with hi-vis vests telling everyone that they couldn’t stand wherever they were standing. You weren’t allowed stand anywhere in the beer garden - only constant movement was acceptable, apparently. And then there were the heaters, which were on full-blast despite it being a warm evening. And the overcrowding. And the half-hour bar queues. And the music (bad). And the clientèle (vapid). And the €6 lager ( I felt like a peasant drinking my cheap ale).

If I were the son of a property developer and had a bland stripy white shirt with a little designer logo on it, sunglasses on my head and a slack jaw, I would no doubt go to Dicey’s Coke-yard every week and be very successful at pulling sparkly hellpigs.

I can just about understand why someone who worked nearby might go there for a couple of ciders on a sunny Monday evening, but as a venue for a weekend night out, Dicey’s makes no sense to me at all.

I made excuses, left early, headed for the other end of the scale - Carnival (a half-empty, dingy, perfect gloom-hole, with good music and a poorly-stocked bar), and thought about calling in the air strike.

i passed by on my way to the POD last night, it looked like a nightmare. dandelion, coppers, d2, diceys… it’s one dodgy walk to pogo on a saturday night.

Indeed, it may have been worth your while jumping on the Luas from the Green to Harcourt, then you could have admired the queues from a safe, glass-encased distance.

more fun to laugh at their haircuts and streaky fake tans (both the ladies and the gents).