Culchie, naggin and Wezz: No where is quite like Dublin

Sure look, Dublin isn’t all that bad, but yeno yeah it’s quite crap, but nah, it’s a bit of a shitehole actually. In Dublin, we strive for mediocrity – here’s what makes it the most average spot in the world, but incomparably unique.

You goin’ Wezz?

If you’re a Dubliner, your first shift was probably in this sweaty nostalgic sports hall. Here you were reborn – you became a hot-pant wearing, chain-smoking, rough-talking rogue shadow of your former self. Basically like everyone living in Ballybrack. Even when you thought the dark days were over, pictures on Facebook of you eating some lad in Benny’s face off, or the time you wore a bra and knickers out resurface. The wrath never ends. Ever.

“Dublin? I have a friend who goes to uni there, do you know (insert name)?”

Of course, I also know Bono personally.

Dublin Institute of Technology

If you didn’t get into Trinity or UCD, you can always get into a business course in DIT. The only entry requirements are a burrito joint loyalty card, an interest in girls and a pair of tight Adidas tracks. Also, are you a DJ? Yeah, thought so.

If you’re not from Dublin, you’re a culchie

Definition of a culchie: A person from any vicinity from which one would find eighteen-year-old girls wearing pink peplum skirts and boys wearing their school shoes and cargo pants to a nightclub whose name is inspired by elements on the periodic table or a state of matter. Zinc, Liquid, Molten, Neon, etc.

Diceys

The only place in Dublin where you might bump into your geography teacher on a night out.

Penneys

Primark means nothing to us. Nothing.

It’s called a “naggin”

Despite being told in Britain that a naggin of vodka is called a “quarter” bottle, the Irish will never grow accustomed to this vague term.  First you take our land, then our drinking culture? I’ll have my naggin Brits, cheers.

Dutch Gold

The Strongbow cider of the Dublin youth. “If you’re not drinking Dutch, you’re paying too much”, as they say.

Driving up Viewpoint

The inevitable destination of a Tinder date and the romantic getaway for couples separated by age. If you’re here on a Thursday night you’re probably desperately clinging onto the remnants of your secondary school past as you were just the coolest lad in school. While overlooking Dublin city, the best view is the steamed up windows of your mum’s Ford Fiesta. Fair fucks.

‘Knackers’

It doesn’t matter where in Dublin you’re from, if there’s a nice patch of green somewhere you will find travellers, including on a roundabout.

Talk to Joe

Where would we be without the valuable political insights of those who ring up Joe Duffy for a chat live on radio?  The radio show explores topics at the forefront of current affairs; including whether fat people should be allowed to wear revealing clothing.

Dundrum Town Shopping Centre

Believe it or not, this modestly sized shopping centre is celebrated as a national treasure. Families travel across the country to drink over-priced coffee and pay good money to spend three hours lost in a car park. Nonetheless, it’s become the agora of the privileged south Dublin youth who just “couldn’t even” without that morning frappuccino with the gals.

The bookies

If Dundrum town centre wasn’t culturally stimulating enough, we can always head down to the local bookie and place bets on horses using our student loan. Paddy Power opens at the break of dawn every morning, so those early bird folks can begin drinking and squandering life savings before the working day even begins. You know nothing about horses. Have you ever even seen a horse?

The races

Every St. Stephens day Leopardstown Race course is a flurry of Michael Kors handbags, Daniel Wellington watches and faux fur coats. You put so much effort into looking posh and you’ve sent your whole family photos of your first sophisticated day out at uni. Little do they know that you’ve snuck in a Volvic bottle full of vodka and you’re definitely going to Palace later to get your hole. It’s fucking freezing. It’s the first time you’ve seen a horse.

You goin’ Maga?

At the same time the British ‘yahs’ discovered spirit animals in the realms of Thailand, experimented and attempted intellectual conversation, the Irish went to Magaluf to get bojangled on Rushkinoff vodka, listen to shitty house music in Coco Bongos and make friends with street-sellers walking around at four in the morning selling sunglasses.

If you’re a Southsider, it’s not socially acceptable to go anywhere other than BH Mallorca, where dignity is destroyed. You will know of a Jono or a Damo that booked Maga for a two-week bender and never returned. You will have a friend who spent the holiday in hospital, and another who got a tattoo of their ex-boyfriend’s name on their lady parts. If you don’t, and you’re not talking about it two years later, you probably weren’t doing it right.

Dublinese

A language incomprehensible to even our close, bog-dwelling neighbours.