So … where do the cool kids hang out these days?
I found myself asking a younger, cooler colleague this very question recently because guess what? When you’re 26 years and 9 months old (the ripe old age for a quarter-life crisis, I’m told), your finger is no longer on the pulse of the hottest nightclubs.
It’s your own fault, to be fair. You switched pre-drinks for pasta. Instead of crop tops, you opt for cotton cosies.
Do you want to go out? Why, is it someone’s birthday? Derry Girls/Grey’s Anatomy/Room to Improve is on.
Anyway, the names of the hippest joints start to sound increasingly alien to you. Tramline? Garbage? A silent H?!
HOW DO I DANCE? My little sister asked me this question before her first disco (I made her show me her moves in a seemingly innocent yet ultimately humiliating act) and now, a decade later, I find myself in a similar predicament. Do people still slut-drop? What if everyone laughs at my dad-at-a-wedding dance moves?
WHAT DO I WEAR? As mentioned, the crop tops have been laid to rest but what now? I mean, I could wear that backless top but will I not catch my death? Legs out means I have to buy a razor and fuck that. Is jeans and a nice top too safe? Will everyone think I’m a nun? Should I just bite the bullet and get a mom haircut?
WHAT TIME CAN I GO HOME? I hear more calls every day for Ireland to relax its drink laws and extend pub opening hours. THIS IS A TERRIBLE IDEA. I already stress over whether or not it’s uncool to go home before 1am and now you’re throwing European club hours at me? Fuck outta here.
WHAT MUSIC IS THIS? Look, I’ve made no secret of the fact that I detest 90pc of modern music and opt for Classic Hits 4FM to avoid daily bouts of rage and confusion over artists whose names increasingly sound like a very secure password. What’s wrong with Britney?
I went to a gig in the Academy recently with my friend and I felt as if we were the chaperones of the night. Our midriffs were covered so we may as well have had Zimmerframes. We proceeded to find the nearest seat and tut at the rude youths who kept talking during the acoustic numbers. I may have even said, “Well I never.”
But look, we had a beer and now I’m covered until the next engagement party arises and I must once again pretend that I, too, am a sesh monster. Why yes, I love spending €12 on a gin that tastes like a meadow, and wasting my Sundays eating crap, suffering through an ever-worsening fear.
In the meantime, would anyone like to go look at some model kitchens? Go for a brisk cycle? Do some meal prep for the week? Meet for brunch in a place that’s not too loud? Call me!
Lead image: 30 Rock/NBC