While speaking to a friend the other day, I was given a revelation. We spoke about the trials and tribulations of nights out, lamenting the tragedy of being underage in Cork. I’m twenty now, but given that the age of entry for most places in Cork is as unpredictable and endlessly fluctuating as the stock market, my luck with getting into places since I turned eighteen has followed roughly the same trajectory as the value of the British pound – pretty good at the start, and deteriorating rapidly ever since.
This is in part due to the demise of my formerly ever-successful fake ID, passed benevolently down from my older sister. Now, though, I’m forced to use my terribly unflattering student card and learner’s permit, which I’ve been told, when put side by side look like “the Biggest Loser, but going in reverse”.
Naturally, bouncers are hesitant to let whatever alien creature resides on my student card into their respected establishments. Also I’m not at that seemingly glorious age of twenty-three, at which you suddenly gain access to everywhere, like a some unheard of D-list celebrity. So I’m resigned to trying varying tactics I’ve heard of to infiltrate clubs and pubs across Cork. I’ve tried being nice, I’ve tried legging it straight through, sneak tactics, backdoors, actually waiting, being sober, blinking lots (apparently this helps you look sober, however shitfaced you might be) and many, many others.
But, no. The bouncers of the world, it seems, are out to get me. Could it be possible that they’re just trying to do their job? Just trying get through the night hassle-free so they can go home, the same as me when I’m working? Of course not. Clearly they’ve got a personal vendetta against me and I made this predicament known to my friend. Then, he gave me my revelation. “Yeah, I mean, you know you’ve always wanted to fight a bouncer”. This is true, I thought. And so, I made it my personal mission that, for once and for all, I would fight a bouncer, and definitely solve the problem and not just be that tit who tries to fight the bouncer.
Stage One: The Line.
Before embarking on my quest, I listened to every rap song involving the words ‘da club’ to get myself psyched up. As a result, on arrival at said club, I had about as much pent-up, aggressive energy as an unneutered jack russell. This, coupled with a bottle of buckfast that made me queasy, and the fact that I did not wear pants in while it was three degrees outside, made me a formidable opponent. I was ready for action.
Stage Two: The Door.
Up ahead, the gatekeepers loomed. The bouncers, like two bald, burly incarnations of Saints Peter and Paul, barring the entry to paradise. Sort of. Through my inebriated haze, I began to fumble for my IDs. My hands shook, undoubtedly from rage, and definitely not because I didn’t wear pants and was slowly succumbing to the sweet embrace of hypothermia. Finally, I removed my IDs from my wallet and stared defiantly up at the man before me. He scrutinised the little plastic cards for a moment, probably thinking that Jesus, when you put these pictures side by side it looks like she’s on the Biggest Loser but like, going in reverse. After a moment, the verdict.
Stage Three: The Disgrace.
“Sorry, love, not tonight.” The bouncer’s polite refusal sparked within me a fury I had never known before. I stood there, poised to tell him to fuck off, but the words came out in a mangled garble with the syrupy taste of Bucky. Betrayal. Indeed, words had failed, but I still had my fists. I drew back my right arm, thinking that I probably resembled Katie Taylor in this act of total badassery. In reality however, I probably more resembled Conor McGregor, in terms of total gobshitery. Around me, amused faces stared on. Above me, a face of pity and disdain. I had failed.
Stage Four: The Kebab.
At Speedo’s, I was greeted with a revelation. That maybe I didn’t need to be a hero, and sure look, if you’ve got a sick kebab, who cares if you look like the Biggest Loser going in reverse?