Debasement at Base Bar

I arrived at Base Bar’s student night really early, cause that’s what I do. My little Pride Guide told me doors opened at nine, but at twenty-past nine they were still locked. So I wandered around the Liffey river instead as the light was fading from the day. The place eventually opened at 10.30. A girl and two guys were taking pictures of each other in front of the Louis Vuitton store across the street, and when I offered to take a picture of the three of them we fast became friends. The girl, whose name was Niamh (as far as I could tell, it’s pronounced like ‘Neeve’) especially took a shine to me as she told me how they all knew each other and how they were friendly because they’re from the country (said almost like ‘CUUN-tree’). Instead the chicly-designed bar I bought Niamh a vodka and coke (my Europe drink was last year!) and they broke out some glow sticks they had bought and we all wore them as bracelets. I was glad to have made fast friends, as everyone at the place was quite young and trendy. Like my queer friends at home, they were all about their digital cameras, so now I think I appear in several photos with people whose names I don’t remember.

I went and danced a bit, and came back and Niamh bought me a drink and at some point when coming back from the washroom she said, “Michael Jackson’s dead.” The loud music combined with her ‘CUUN-tree’ accent made me have to ask her to repeat. “What?!” “Michael Jackson! He’s dead!” “Seriously?” “All the girl’s are talking about it in the loo.” I still couldn’t really believe it, so Niamh looked it up on the internet on her cell phone and confirmed it. “Apparently, it was a massive heart attack.” “But he wasn’t even that old,” I said. Even now, I still don’t really believe it because I was always expecting him to die in a blaze of bizarre glory, a fitting climatic end for a fallen prince. I didn’t expect him to just randomly and out of nowhere (I hadn’t heard anything about him for months!) to just die. How weird. Also weird was the DJ’s tribute to him by playing ‘Billy Jean’ and especially ‘Thriller’ later that night. Like, I get that it was in honour of him, but were we supposed to dance like we normally would? What is appropriate.

But Michael’s death was overshadowed by what happened next that night. At some point when I was making my way back to my new friends a young fellow, skinny and cute with a buzz cut, approached me. “What’s your name?” he asked out of nowhere. His name was Daire (pronounced ‘Dar-ah’, as far as I could make out). “Why did you start chatting with me?” I asked part way through our conversation. “Cause I thought you were really hot,” he said. Then he asked me to dance. “But first,” he added, “Can I get a kiss?” So you can imagine what happened next; plenty of making out. My first Irish snogging. When we eventually went to dance, he had this weird form of dancing where he linked our fingers and then moved our arms around, in constant danger of accidently punching other people, so I had to keep him in check. He was also distracted by a guy he had “snogged” last time he was here but now was acting “snobby” towards him. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we at least be friends? Would you be snobby towards me?” “I don’t think so,” I said. He wanted more to drink (I did not, having to go to work for the first time the next day) and throughout the whole night he kept me very close, dragging me everywhere he went, and asking me to wait for him when he went to the loo.

At some point, I asked him if he wanted to come home with me, and he said yes, but he wanted to dance more. Mostly, we just made out more on the dance floor, and caused quite the spectacle. Some time after 2 am I really wanted to head back, so I started to encourage him. Then, oh, I don’t even know how it started, but the next thing I knew this tall guy was sidling up to Daire. At first I thought they must know each other, but then I saw them introducing themselves. Next thing I knew, they were dancing together. I tapped him on the shoulder and screamed (over the music), “Whatcha doing?!” He shrugged, or mumbled something, basically brushed me off. Then they started making out... right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder again, “Okay, I’m leaving!” “Wait, what?...Why...?” And then I believe Daire said, and I actually wish I hadn’t heard him, something to the effect of “...You’ll find someone else.”

I suddenly understood why his other snogging partner may have been snobby to him.
I stormed off the dance floor, with red face, leaving the two together. Luckily, I found Niamh and I went out with her for a spoke. She became a classic fag hag shoulder to cry on, and I will always love her for that. “Y’know, don’t worry yourself about it!” she said. “I am aware of one night stands. I don’t understand one HOUR stands!” “That’s Irish blokes for ya.” (Oh God, I hope this isn’t universally true!) Then she got all protective of me “You going to be okay getting home? I want you to text me when you arrive safe. Text me! Next time I come down to Dublin, I’ll stay with you!”

I walked home still in shock. I just couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Maybe the old me would’ve cried, but I just found the whole experience bewildering... and in a way, a relief. Well, I thought, at least I didn’t take such a skeez home with me. And also, at least I am not like him. Every time I thought of it I just had to keep shaking my head.

At home, I checked the internet to see if Michael Jackson had actually died, and I checked my text messages. Niamh sent one asking if I was alright, and Daire sent one asking where I had gone. I considered sending back simply ‘FUCK YOU’ but decided instead to take the high road. Knowing that his new friend probably hadn’t worked out (why else would he look for me?) was conciliation enough. Well, almost. This morning, I got another text from him: “I’m sorry I was an asshole last night. You are a nice guy and hot.”

Yes, Daire, I am nice and hot. And while I appreciate your apology as it indicates what a phenomenally un-classy thing you did to me was, I am still not going to write back. You, alas, will not get to know exactly how nice and hot I am.

I will probably avoid Base Bar for the time being so as to not have to act snobby.