Imagine this: 

It’s a Saturday night and you’re getting hype for the night to come: bumping Glorilla, drink in hand, cigarettes and ID (because even though you’re well into your twenties, the cashier at Lidl still thinks you’re underage) locked and ready to go. It’s a beautiful night and you desperately need a break from gossipping outside the Arts Block and evoking Nietzsche for the seventh time in a tutorial (despite not having read any Nietzsche or, in fact, the texts you were actually supposed to).  We all get it, uni is hard. Luckily, drinking isn’t. 

So you stumble up Drury Street, realising you might have overdone the mostly vodka, a splash of mixer drinks at pres. Where do you go? Doyle’s, Chaplin’s, Hogan’s – full. Dicey’s? No – cesspit, a place where dreams go to die. Sisyphus, boulder: every night out is the same. Surely, as the “cream of Ireland”, Trinity students can find somewhere better, chicer, to go? 

May I suggest an alternative: an abandoned warehouse in the back arse of nowhere. 

That was where I found myself on a freezing cold night in January, definitely not wearing enough layers, despite having anticipated the inevitable frostbite. Going against every parent’s warnings, and my own better reason, I had decided this was an event to attend on my lonesome. Shock and horror ensued when I stepped off the Luas (after successfully avoiding social interaction with anyone who seemed to be going to the same place) and found myself surrounded by eerily twinkling street lamps, unsettling stretches of grass and a darkness so overpowering it seemed as though I had entered another dimension. 

In an attempt to “branch out” and “make 2025 my bitch” (jury is still out on how that’s going), I’d set my heart on going to an event hosted by House of Hibernia. I’d stumbled across their Instagram account and been following them for about a year, but had never got myself to buy a ticket – mostly because I’ve been let down by ticketed events (cough, cough, Trinity) one time too many. But, somehow the manic energy of being home for Christmas and studying for Schols pushed me to actually do something about my suppressed desire to go. An empowering moment, that was. Press donate. Fill in your credit card info. Stop for a moment to think whether you’re getting scammed. Finish, press buy. Email ticks in: “Heyho, thanks a mill for your contribution”

So that was how I found myself staggering self-consciously toward a desolate metal and concrete structure somewhere near the end of the Green Line Luas.  

Being a socially awkward twenty-something  can have its challenges. But one thing it’s good for is that I’m excellent at sussing out which girl to cling onto in order to ensure both of us evade the gruesome fate of a serial killer on the loose. Needless to say, the twinkling lights and oppressive darkness made it seem like the perfect occasion for exactly this move. 

I feel like such a man admitting that I can’t recall her name. But I do remember her long, blonde hair, leather jacket and black eyeliner. She’d also come on her own – her friends didn’t get tickets in time – and I think we both sighed with relief when I awkwardly approached her with a morbid joke about being lured into a serial killer’s den. Add that to the list of anecdotes you can’t get from your routine visit to the Pav. 

It’s funny how quickly you can bond when none of you know what lies ahead of you. It was the first time either of us had attended a gig like this – we noted the piñata hanging from the roof (if you can call it a roof), and the people driving around in a children’s toy car, swinging canned beer at anyone in their vicinity.

It wasn’t all anarchy – just the right amount. As anyone who makes it to a House of Hibernia event can attest, the nights are meticulously planned – on this occasion, the event wrapped up in time for all of us to get on the Luas home. Nonetheless, abandoned places have always appealed to those in want of adventure. I remember climbing through ruins as a teenager, believing that we were sooo deep for seeing the value and beauty in the deterioration. Really, I think it must have been the German imported vodka and Små Sure (sweet, gross Danish shots) – not the poetic qualities of creepy abandoned farm houses – that made us feel that future nostalgia. 

The warehouse where the gig was held had that same air of nostalgia. It felt as though, despite being desolate and, frankly, creepy as shit, the walls (or what was left of them) were made to be reignited by the purple and pink strobe lights. Much of this is owed to the effort of the team behind Hibernia. Shaymon – the anonymous head of operations – and others had worked tirelessly to make the place presentable. More than this, though, they had managed to create an energy – a vibe, if I may be so bold – out of a metal structure and a few Papier-mâché birthday cakes. Hibernia had their cake and ate it too, literally: someone brought out a real birthday cake toward the end of the night. It was the three year anniversary, after all. 

Believe it or not, though, the highlight of the night was neither the cake nor the unabashed annihilation of a poor, sunset-coloured piñata – it was the bands. Fighting the bitter cold and somewhat questionable stage conditions (it was an abandoned warehouse after all), the bands showed up. Ate up the crumbs of that aforementioned cake, and so on. 

Mickey Chaos kicked off the night, playing various smooth indie diddies such as ‘i <3 u Steve Wallis’ – a heartfelt song dedicated to the great Youtube stealth camper, Steve Wallis. Chaos was followed by Robbie Stickland, who gracefully asserted that it is indeed ‘Cool To Start Smoking In Your 30s’. Projective went on last, sending the wavering souls remaining in the warehouse off into the night with their soulful harmonies. 

Hibernia makes it possible to experience art in a way that feels organic and in touch with those who planned, those who played and those who attended. The organisers do a great job of putting humanity back in the modern “cultural event”, which can often only be described as inauthentic and commercialised. 

Buying concert tickets nowadays seems like more of a financially upending act than it used to – or ought to – be. While a cold warehouse might not appear to be the most accessible medium through which indie artists can show off their amazing talent, it sure is more genuine than those big arena concerts, where the artists appear ant-sized and you wonder why you had to spend €50-100 to be there. Paying €10 to see, to support, three independent bands is way more purposeful and, like, so much more fun. Plus, you get the added bonus of having a witty and quirky story to regale your friends – or the readership of Misc. – with. 

So the next time you find yourself in that eternal repetition of weekends spent in dingy bars, having the same conversation with strangers in the hopes of getting laid, think of all the abandoned forests, warehouses, and underpasses you could be in. Save a few bucks on the 6-8 euro Guinness, split a bottle of the cheapest vodka at Lidl (this is not sponsored), and indulge yourself in a cultural experience beyond the ordinary. Enjoy a night at Hibernia.