More Blacks, More Dogs, More Mediocre Irish Men.
Dedicated to Paul Mescal
– without you, none of this would be possible.
Details:
Age: 29 (we’re all in our twenties).
Height: 6 ft 2” (in a pair of Air Max 90 Terrascapes – the lift we all need every morning).
Location: London (zone 1 if you’re looking).
Prompts:
1) All I ask is that you:
Let me drink pints with your father.
2) I’m looking for:
Planning permission.
3) Together we could:
Have two pints of Guinness and a fat snog.
London town, for centuries it has seen a multitude of Irish pass through its metropolis. Historically, famine, severe economic depression and crippling poverty had driven young men and women over the Irish sea. The offer of prosperity and hope drew in the downtrodden and disenchanted. Men took to the shovel while women darned their scrubs and filled the wards. These generations of systematically degraded ‘paddies’ or ‘micks’ paved the way for us – the current influx.
‘Babies of the Boom’, ‘Teenagers of the Recession’, ‘Graduates of the Housing Crises’ or in short ‘Generation Emigration’. We are the children of the early 90’s who saw our communion cards of (what transpired to be borrowed) money replaced with unemployment – where a part time job was as rare as true feelings being expressed in an all-boys secondary school. Granted, prosperity ‘returned’ in our twenties, just so long as you adhere to the simple societal guidelines: get engaged, mortgage yourself into a nursing home and go to the same overpriced avocado and eggs eatery every Saturday morning or, well, you could, eh ………
Download Hinge & hightail it to London.
As a long-time champion of the ‘Average Irish Male’ (defined as: customarily atrocious rig, primitive emotional intelligence, abysmal hygiene, an obsolete fashion sense and an unfaltering eagerness to throw weight behind a few problem solvers on a Thursday evening) - it has been refreshing & revitalizing to see the hankering lust of an extensive contingent of London’s female population, across a myriad of cultures unequivocally echo a strong positive sentiment about the Irish attractiveness. Yes, I am aware we are riding on the coattails of Paul Mescal and his mullet but there is no shame in that - he is the lamb of god who brought about this mass & vast female melting pot having a perverted obsession with bagging dates with Irish male mediocrity - have mercy on us.
Coupled with this nouveau ‘Mescal Movement’, we are in the midst of dating app pandemonium. In yester-years it would have been the famed & storied London dance halls and late bars that the sub par Irish brothership would frequent, now the likes of Hinge bring that devilment, high jinx & tomfoolery directly to our fingertips – with no capacity limits, no closing time and the 3rd biggest catchment area in Europe to cast our mediocre net in to.
So whether you are a Tilly, Milly, Lolly or Poppy from South-West London, a Brixton Caribbean queen, a Hackney Hipster with more tattoos than sense, an Aussie or Kiwi on a two year ‘lets get f*cked’ visa or a housewife of Clapton with your whippet on a leash there is a sub par Irish male in his late twenties coming ashore to not live up to your Sally Rooney Normal People chain dangling expectations.
P.S. Ladies be warned, if you don’t have at least an Irish grandparent it’s just going to be another meaningless fling. Fenian blood is hard bet.
Years, lovers & pints of Guinness – things that should never be counted.
Outkick your coverage.
Carpe C’ream