Dublin is very much in the throes of a sexual revolution right now, one with a distinctly new Ireland twist. The women of the Celtic Tiger, these feisty flame-haired tigresses are only too happy to show the boys a good time – but there are rules.
Chatting up or getting chatted up is relatively easy these days in Dublin. The smoking ban has made it a cinch – if you smoke. Simply leave the warmth of the smoke free bar, venture outdoors and huddle under a cloud of smoke and a mushroom heater with a bunch of like-minded soon-to-be lung cancer patients. So much fun is this social activity that it spawned a whole new term of its own: ‘smirting’, a mix of smoking and flirting. Get close and let the conversation commence.
Here, however, the ground rules begin to rear their ambitious heads. Any random Dublin dude will tell you that the first question the local lasses are most likely to ask will be: “Do you have a house?” Yes, it seems the Dub girls will only get frisky if there are assets in the coffers. Although filling them to the brim with whisky may also have similar effects. Racked with catholic guilt, said Dublin girl will vanish by dawn leaving no nasty hanger-on hangover to fret about. Dublin girls are everything and discreet.
The Irish accent was recently voted the sexiest in the world. With only a handful of the blaggards living on a scrap of land, millions of tourists are forced to travel to Ireland every year to savour the liquid brogue (more than 6 million visitors pass through Dublin airport annually). As luck would have it, the Irish have been blessed with the gift of the gab and cannot resist an audience. This makes everyone happy.
In short, Dubliners are a fun loving bunch, which the wayward traveller hoping to find some love and adventure will appreciate.
Like every city Dublin has its hardcore corners too. The first lap-dancing club opened about six or seven years ago. The archbishop, a few parish priests and scores of old ladies had hernias on the spot convinced it would destroy the moral fibre of the nation. Peter Stringellow opened a Dublin branch of his famous London club in early 2007. It closed six months later. No punters. Not that Dublin doesn’t have its fair share of dodgy dives and dirty old men, but unless you fit that category, it’s not obvious.
Dublin is young, cash rich and carefree. It’s a party. There are good times to be had…