Right. Let’s just get this off my chest before we go any further: Dublin is not in the UK. It never was, and if one more person asks me how far we are from Buckingham Palace, I might need a lie down.
This blog is my safe space now. I’m retired. There are no TripAdvisor reviews hanging over me. I no longer have to smile politely when someone says, “You all speak really good English here!” So buckle up.
Because this is the post where I tell you everything I couldn’t say on the tour — either because there were kids around, someone was filming me without asking, or I needed the tip.
1. Please Stop Licking the Ha’penny Bridge
It happened more than once. Why would anyone lick a bridge? It’s not chocolate. It’s not even clean. I had a lad from Leeds who said he read somewhere that “the ironwork was good luck if you kissed it.” You know what else is good luck? Not catching tetanus in your mouth.
Also, the bridge wasn’t even there when half the famous Dublin events happened. It’s like licking a bus shelter and calling it historical immersion.
2. You Don’t Have to Touch the Statues, I Promise
Yes, Molly Malone’s breasts are shiny. No, that’s not a tradition — that’s just years of inappropriate tourist groping. I had a nine-year-old girl once ask her mum why everyone was “polishing the fruit lady.” The mother said it was part of “the Irish fertility myth.” That woman should write fiction.
You can look. You can take a picture. You don’tneed to fondle.
3. The Bullet Holes Are Real. Your Joke Isn’t.
Outside the GPO, I used to do my big historical moment. Talk about 1916, the rebels, Pearse reading the Proclamation, all of that. Always powerful. Always gave me chills.
But without fail, someone — usually American, usually wearing a leprechaun hat — would shout:
“Guess they weren’t good at dodging bullets, huh?”
And then they’d laugh like they’d invented humour.
I’d smile. I’d nod. I’d pretend I didn’t just die inside.
4. Yes, There Are Toilets. No, I Won’t Take You There.
Look. I love helping people. That’s the job. But asking me mid-tour if I can personally escort you to a toilet is… a bit much. Especially when the question is whispered like it’s a criminal confession.
Just ask out loud. We’re all human. Except the man who once asked me if it was “acceptable to wee in Phoenix Park because the deer do it.” You, sir, are not human. You are chaos in cargo shorts.
5. Stop Naming Everything After Bono
Not every building with black windows is “probably Bono’s.”
Not every restaurant with a queue is “where U2 goes.”
Bono is not hiding in the Guinness Storehouse.
He’s not even in Dublin most of the time. He’s somewhere warm, counting his sunglasses. Let the man rest.
6. The Ghosts Don’t Like You Either
Look, I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but… Christchurch Cathedral has a vibe. You feel it. That air shifts. But tourists never just absorb it. They have to go full Ghostbusters.
One fella brought a homemade EMF meter. Another asked if he could chant. Chant?! In a cathedral?! I told him if he summoned anything, he’d have to be the one to walk it back through customs.
7. The Irish Accent Isn’t One Thing
I once asked a Canadian woman what part of Ireland she thought I was from. She said, “The leprechaun-y bit.”
So that’s where we are.
Our accents change every 15 miles. Some Dubs sound like they were raised by YouTubers. Others sound like they’re chewing gravel. Neither are wrong. It’s just local flavour. Not every Irish person sounds like a character from Derry Girls. And if we did, we’d all be a lot funnier.
8. No, You Can’t Get a Refund Because It Rained
You’d be amazed how many people asked. “It says sunny on the booking app!” they’d cry, standing in sideways wind, wearing a poncho like a damp ghost.
Look — if you come to Dublin expecting a sun holiday, that’s on you. You don’t get sunshine. You get atmosphere. Grey, dramatic, romantic drizzle. Perfect for poetry. Or umbrellas that immediately invert.
And there you go.
Eight things I held in for years. There’s more, obviously. Oh, so much more. But I need to pace myself. If I say everything at once, I’ll explode like a pressure cooker in a chip van.
This blog will give you the real Dublin — the stuff under the surface, the stories I saved for special occasions, and all the weird, wonderful questions I never thought I’d hear but did, repeatedly, in front of confused German pensioners.
Stick around. The truth is messier than the brochures — but I promise it’s a hell of a lot more fun.
