A bar fly alights in Nighttown

THE weekend stretched out before me like an open plain of endless possibility. Theatre, movies, restaurants? Nope, been there done that, time for something completely new. So what about getting drunk, you know, just like young people do? Definitely not PC, but what the heck – we’re here for a good time, not a long time, as the Ibiza travel reps always say.

So OK, a few ground rules – hit only unfamiliar bars, order unusual drinks exclusively and

– most important

– chat with everyone. My bankroll for the evening is €100, equalling about a dozen pricey drinks and there’s absolutely no going home before 2am, however peculiar things get. Alright then, let’s do this.

First lesson: most early-evening pub patrons are tourists – smiling Scandis, broadshouldered Yanks and the inevitable stag lads from Newcastle.

I start with ‘tea gin’

– that’s gin soaked with four Earl Grey tea bags. Darn tasty. By eight o’clock I’m telling a risky joke to a widow from Des Moines, and graciously accepting an invite from a Midwest church pastor to “come sing with us” if I’m ever passing through. Towards 10pm, we’re well down the cocktail menu – wine, vodka, dark rum, craft beer – all the while trying to abide by Hemingway’s dictum: “I drink to make other people more interesting.” In fairness, the topics covered with total strangers have been surprisingly entertaining – living in Bali on $20 a day, why Jim Gavin really hates RTÉ and which ‘early houses’ are best for a pint during morning rush hour. Maintain a modicum of politeness, keep the volume low, don’t knock over anyone’s drink and mild inebriation is tolerated, even welcomed, by my fellow bar flies.

All have their favourite quotes about the demon drink, with Sinatra’s (left) observation cropping up repeatedly: “Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the ‘Bible’ says love your enemy.” One guy from Cavan recited 21 words for getting drunk – best one was “crapulent”. Around 11.30 the atmosphere changes as the late-night romance dance hits fifth gear, with girly shrieks and male guffaws rising like climatic twisters everywhere around the room.

On my fifth visit to the gents (when did I get so bad at holding my own?), I accidentally detour to the smoking area only to discover a heated haven of romantic possibilities.

Accepting a proffered fag (even though I haven’t smoked in years) from a happy cadre of Polish call centre girls, we’re quickly swapping war stories about poor wages and high rents to beat the band. One of them winks at me, but maybe it’s just the effect of my sesame and popcorn daiquiri.

Were I rendered single again, the smokers’ section would surely see more of me. By 1.45am, the change in my pocket adds up to a paltry €18 ... just enough for a taxi home, or a final alcoholic flourish with a French 75, comprising gin, sugar, lemon juice and champagne. You can guess my choice.

I woke up at 4pm, still fully clothed, head and mouth foul, with a phone number scribbled on my wrist.

No matter its origin ’cause I’m never going to dial it, but kept instead as a treasured trophy from my own tipsy version of ‘Ulysses In Nighttown’.

Cheers.