DUBLIN AFTER DARK

DON'T LOOK NOW

DUBLIN after dark is at its very, very best only if the before dark part is handled with equally tender loving care. The slow build-up's more my style than the wham-bam-that's-30-quid-down-the-drain-ma'am nights of my long lost youth. With age comes wisdom - and an aversion to Batchelor-beans-for-a-fortnight endurance tests - the price all too often painfully paid for a night on the tear.

All of which sounds dreadfully square and predictable. I suppose it is too but not having to gaze at regular excursions of my intestinal contents wending their way into the toilet bowl is a welcome relief. And somehow I never did manage to pull off the look. I aimed for an Annie Lennox carrot orange and got nauseous grape; a Chrissie Hynde fringe introduced me to precious few Jim Kerrs but did manage to acquaint me with a disconcertingly large number of intrusive telegraph poles; Edge's torn Levi's look wrecked my one and only pair of jeans and displayed my distinctly uncool purple knees to a none-too-impressed public.

And the ultimate indignity: my seriously limited edition U2 T-shirt (specially couriered from L.A.) with its deep and meaningless admonishment that "Everything you know is wrong" disintegrates into a pathetically mutated "Euthanasia is on" when it sits atop my unSchwartznegger chest.

Is it any wonder I turned my back on cool?

Dublin before and after dark is at its eccentric, egocentric and smog-ridden best when viewed from Three Rock as the Wicklow Way whispers its way out of the Dublin Mountains. It's the bright lights big city seen from a distance, with a little breathing space. And it's open all night - after hours at your backpack's discretion. And not a sign of tuxedoed Neolithic monster to sully the moment.

Failing that, on a rainy night the alternative's easy: a bench in Mulligan's of Poolbeg Street where the barman will be guaranteed to throw dog's abuse along with a decent pint in my direction. My needs are simple.

• Siobhán Long