MK Ultra

The bouncer looked me up and down, and said: ‘English or German?’


He swallowed, looked over at my shoulder to the black gate for inspiration, said: “Ok…let me tell you something….’

I had flashbacks of the The Valk in Ballinrobe in the early 90’s, or Cp’s in Galway, except there they just told you to fuck off and that was it. Here I felt a speech coming, an explanation, and I was right. 

‘You won’t be getting in here tonight.’



‘At all?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Not at all, at all?’

‘Never. No chance.’

Beat. That tree in the German night, dipping her leaves to listen, wondering what’s this Irish lad going to come up with now. Could be a gem, the besht yet. 

There was an instagram hopping with trendy tips, see,  and this was one of them. But the rumours of the must see, hippest spot in town were looking shaky.

‘Any reason why?’

‘The way you’re dressed for a start.’

‘I thought I wasn’t too bad.’

‘You need to be kinky.’

I let that settle. Definitely never heard that in Ballinrobe. Said: ‘How d’ya mean?’

‘And you need a woman on your side.’

I was thinking: Are you a sex therapist or a bouncer?

Then he continued with: ‘It’s swingers night.’


‘So you need someone to swing with, understand?’

‘No exceptions?’

‘There’s a nice place around the corner. Goes all night. Probably suit you better.’

Three more came along. Globish broken English. Her in the blue jeans. The two lads in runners and gammy t-shirts. The bouncer looked at them, asked: ‘German or English?’

English, said the girl.

Ok, he said, let me tell you something… 

At least they could swing, but the runners made a shite of them. Come back next time he said, but dress appropriately. Black is good, sexy, fetish, latex. Something unique but nothing you would wear normally at home, in the office or going to the supermarket. 

The trilogy walked away, their serotonin somehow assaulted but not in a bad way. This’ll be good on phones, status updates, somewhere in the ether of the digitized soul. It’s all about relatable content and gammy runners. 

Buses went by on the road, heads stretching, spinning and  swiveling through the windows, Jacob’s ladder job. Tim Robbins shtuff. The club around the corner had a queue alright and all the gang from the Instagram group were in there after getting ran from the last place too. More tourists sidled up, adding to the line, waiting for the door to open and tick some tickled box of the Berlin nightlife. The Gods of indecision were in a fierce debate. The queuing craic and getting turned away, had enough of that down in Mantra in Castlebar one night. And the place half empty, just trying to make it look good. Best of luck. Is that a bus, where’s it going, who cares, sure hop on and see where ya land. Wonder will the driver want me looking kinky or am I alright the way I am. Fuck it sure, chance it. 

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