Dublin is being socially cleansed of rabble like us, either through the pressure of emigration or having to hightail it to the ‘burbs over rackrent prices. These days the meeja, politicians and other muppets declare the rise of the Celtic Phoenix, while landlords write letters to santy asking for another bubble.
As the Harboisation of large swathes of the city continues, we’re pinning our hopes on third generation really existing dubs to keep the shit real. Until then, here’s our take on Dublin’s five most bougie spots.
This place is well north, putting lie that old myth that all wealth is south side. It’s full of auld lads in beige yacht wear, looking like second-rung cast members of the Love Boat. Then there’s the Tennis Club with its flocks of dads in dazzling whites, probably bleached in the urine of their enslaved au pairs. There’s even a landmark stretch of protected long grass, that should be renamed the “the social barrier reef” as residents use it to divide the land of Jeeps and Dubes from their poorer cousins in Portmarnock. Malahide has boutiques, not shops – where the soy latte sipping Moms plough down kids named Fuinneóg and Uachtarreoite while parking their range rovers outside. Dress bland but well. The police will be called if you are rocking your latest counterfeit Adidas tracksuit.
Ah yes, a favourite of the LovinDublin brigade. Cork St truly could be said to sit somewhere between devastation and utter Harboisation. We’d like to think the oul fellas in pubs like Kennedys, The Dean Swift and The Liberty Belle are made of stern stuff though, and judging by the way Irish Water were fucked out of the area it’ll take more than a Weekend Review to transform the Coombe to Kreuzberg. There’s also hope the flocks of madjouvits frequenting District 8’s yoke fests squat the carcass of those bits of St Teresa’s Gardens left abandoned by another failed Public Private Partnership and rave it into the ground scaring the limpsters out.
Who gives a shit if The Joinery, one of Dublin’s most established independent art spaces has closed down when you can go pay €4 for a coffee with hardly any milk in it! Not only that, you can cruise up to the local gastropub and order your meal off a menu that’s, wait for it… hidden in the center of a book, how kooky! Rent is great value too, a two-bed on Arbour Hill went for only €1795 last month! For Dublin’s more aspirant squeezed middle, the only drawback is that you are quite close to those crusty squatters in Grangegorman, but hey, they’ll be all turfed out soon, taking with them some of the only damn spirit left in the area. With that new DIT campus opening soon, we can expect the plague of pretension and rip off rents to spread deep into Phibsboro and Cabra.
Wha?! No but seriously, Ranelagh has been “hollowed out”. The old fashioned village atmosphere and traditional small businesses have disappeared as the bedsits synonymous with the Triangle have been gutted for top-dollar homes. The population decreased as much as the average wage skyrocketed. Ranelagh now is more a pissant strip mall of bland cafés than the bustling village outside the canal of old. Yoga mats. Gyms. Go Ranelagh
Fuggedaboutit. Once your area is the eponymous lead in a TV reality show you know it’s time to roll up your copies of Alive and get the fuck out of Dodge. Camden St. has long managed to keep a mixed broth of oul man pubs, rock venues, hipsters, groovers, shakers, fishmongers, chippers and county jerseys on the boil. God knows how but the centre cannot hold. From hipster honey trap festivals like Canalphonic and Camden Crawl to the vodka fucked zombies playing Froggr with taxi drivers and buses at night, you’d be better forsaking your daily kale focaccia for the local greasy spoons of the Northside proper.