The Q bar
holds well to it's namesake
. You will spend half the night in a "Q" to get into the place.
Upon your long awaited arrival to the door, you will be greeted by the most ignorant door staff of all time. Surely the surliest of bouncers in town. They will demand that you show them your passport, look you up and down like a piece something they found on the sole of their shoe, and basically interrogate you as to why you wish to gain entry to the bar.
Meanwhile, little miss underage tramp face, with her mini-skirt and two bras simply bats her Accessorize eyelashes and it's "Go on ahead love, enjoy your night" followed by a cheeky wink from the bouncer as if to say, "You saucy little tart, even though I am married and have 8 kids, you know I could have you any day of the week."
After the inquisition, you may be "fortunate" enough to gain entry to this fine pseudo-pub. As you gaze across the sea of Ben Sherman and Gossard Ultralift, your eyes will be punished by the blatant overuse of chrome and glass, as well and the "modern styled" semicircular serving areas and high stools. Strip lighting, of the fuschia and baby blue variety, is utilised as much as possible, no corner is spared. The effect is enhanced by the mirrors plastered to every bit of wall space available.
Everywhere you look, you see yourself, cubed.
On to the music.
Tunes o' the week are spun on scratched CD's by some young bucko who fancies himself as the next Paul Oakenfold. The Britney Spears and Destiny's Child tunes he pumps out are complimented beautifully by the completely unrelated MTV videos being piped to every corner of this wretched shambles.
On the floor, you will see all sorts, shaking their bits to the hits. Gaggles of pissed fat girls dancing badly around handbags are standard, as well as the spotty drunk culchie men trying to "get their holes". Phrases such as "Have you got a mirror in your pocket?" and "Your from abroad? Have you got any Irish in you?" run rife through the pheromone laden atmosphere.
Not the type of of place where you will hear such exquisite chat-up lines as "Would ye roide me loike a donkey, Missus?".
Combine the above information with overpriced, dirty drink, the possiblity of getting your head pounded because you glanced at someones extremely good looking girlfriend, and you have the Q Bar in a nutshell. Along with the Coyote bar, these are two of the most hateful places in Dublin.
Avoid like a dose of syphillis.