Up until now I had always thought that every Irish person could sing. In all my years of coming to Ireland I have been constantly amazed by the amount of hidden talent in this country. I have found these people in all corners of this land. From young to old, it didn't matter. So from there sprung this belief that every Irish citizen has a talent for singing.

But this night I was proved to be very wrong indeed.

I was in Carlow for the Eigse Festival. On this particular night I went out for the evening with Brendan, who was working at the Riverside hostel, and Hermo, a South African staying at the hostel. During the day I had been told there would be a traditional Irish singer at a pub called Deveraux. We arrived to discover an empty pub. The barman explained that there was music upstairs. There was indeed music upstairs, but firstly it wasn't traditional, and secondly there was a cover charge. Lately I refuse to pay money just to get into a place where you then have to pay more money to buy your drinks.

Brendan and Hermo agreed, so we left and found music in Joyce's down the road a little. A sign advertised a traditional session and we entered to find two guys preparing to play. So we ordered three pints of Guinness and sat down. When the music began we were deafened by the horrendous voice booming over the PA system. It was horrible, so we downed our pints and left.

Our next stop was in Finnegan's. Hermo left us here, as he had to get up early. As Brendan and I entered the pub a huge wave of unease spread over us. Noise levels dropped and strange life forms stared at us from tables and bar stools.

'Do you want to stay here?' asked Brendan, in a low voice.

'No,' I replied, without hesitation.

So we left.

Down the road we found a pub called Racey Byrne's. A sign out front announced that tonight was Karaoke night. There had been no sign of any traditional music, and we were fed up with looking, so we went in. We sat at the bar and ordered a couple of pints of Guinness. The beer was excellent here, and the barmaid was quite attractive; things were looking up. Suddenly the Karaoke struck up, and one of the girls from a group seated behind us was the star of the moment. And my god she was awful.

What is it about the Karaoke that seems to bring out the worst in people's voices? The string of singers that followed her were no better. It seemed like the pub was full of Popstars rejects. I can understand it when people are completely pissed and go up there knowing they can't sing and thus do it for a laugh. But some of these girls actually thought they were good. They would yell and dance and say things like: 'Alright! C'mon everyone!!'

'Do you do this often?' I asked the barman.

'No, he replied,' his face squirming everytime she hit a high note. 'Can't you tell?'

A little while back I had been listening on the radio about how the fella from the Popstars series is now heading up a project in the States, called American Idol. He is being criticised for being rude to the contestants and telling them blatantly that they cannot sing or have no talent. In his defence he is quoted as saying:

'This is a show that is looking for the American Idol. If these people come here to audition then they obviously believe they are the American Idol. If they are this bad then they have no right to believe such a thing and someone should tell them. I just want to be honest.'

I couldn't agree more. As a result of this they've had to bring in a councillor to council these people for stress and depression caused by his honesty. (And this is the most powerful nation in the world?) But listening to some of these people singing tonight, I wished he could be here to tell them the same, or I wished someone would. It's actually inhumane not to tell these people that they are awful and completely hopeless singers, and stop them from embarrassing themselves further; and give our ears a rest.

It appeared there had been some traditional music a little way down the road in a pub called Teach Dolmain, a venue for many of the festival's events. But we had missed it. Halfway through our second pint we were befriended, I'm still not sure how, by Mary and her extremely short friend, Sharon. Sharon was not much taller than my eight year old nephew. The two girls invited us to a night club. I'm really not one for night clubs anymore. Aside from the fact you have to pay to get in, it's just impossible to talk to anyone there. It's times like this when I start to show my age. Next I'll be listening to Radio 2. Wait a minute, I already do. Anyway, against our better judgement, and the fact that Mary promised to get us in for free, we followed them. Now if we had found these two girls attractive you might have forgiven us for doing such a thing, but we didn't.

Now, in Carlow the place to be is the Dinn Rí - and that's not just because it rhymes. The Dinn Rí is a huge complex housing a hotel, two giant bars and a night club upstairs. It would be very easy to get lost here for days. It sits in the centre of town on Tullow street. When I first came to Carlow with a couple of friends at the beginning of the week we had come to the Dinn Rí, but to the bars downstairs. I had no idea this was here at the time. It's big, it's trendy and it has all kinds of music in each of its bars and the club. It certainly is the place to be, if you like that sort of thing.

Mary obviously did, and, insisting that I dance with her, pulled me to her waist. Well, I suppose I should give her one dance seeing as she got us in for free, I thought. Mary then wrapped her legs around me and said, 'In Ireland we do it like this.' She then began gyrating her waist against mine. Even after the shot of whisky I'd just had, I still didn't fancy her. Suddenly, in mid-gyration, Mary grabbed my head, pulled it towards her chest and rubbed my face between her ample bosoms. An unfortunately-timed intake of breath meant that I inhaled the full pungent odour of her extremely bad BO problem. My stomach heaved, my head went dizzy and my throat wretched. I managed to force the bile in my throat from rising to the top and being propelled over her top - although it might have been the hint she needed - and also managed not to pass out. Composing myself, I managed to hold my breath for the next pass, and then made an excuse to discontinue our dance.

After a visit to the toilet, I stood at the top balcony. It's funny how wherever you go in the world, night clubs are invariably the same. You have your crowd of people dancing, laughing and having great fun. You have the guys chatting up the girls on their own, and you have the people who go out in twos and seem to just stand there all night with a bottle of alchopop in one hand, finger tapping the side of it, and head moving back and forth to the music. They are almost like the nodding dogs of nightclubs.

Another amazing aspect of night clubs is that you always seem to enter with someone, and leave alone because you lose them. Once separated with your friends in a club it's just impossible to find them again. You search and search the area, walk round the club hundreds of times, but they've simply disappeared. It's no good asking anyone because they would never hear you. So in the end you conclude that they too have gone home. Brendan was nowhere to be found, and I really didn't want to find Mary and Sharon, so I left the Dinn Rí and ended my evening off in a tradition that has been celebrated since the dawn of nightclubbing, I went for something to eat. Back home we usually go to the nearest kebab van and delight in eating the scankiest and most unhealthy food on the face of the earth, served by a man who confuses you by saying things like:

'You want chilli sauce, please?'

'What? Are you asking me for chilli sauce? You're the one serving me.'

Here I went to Ireland's equivalent of the fast food chain, Supermacs and ordered a smokey bacon burger. One thing I will say about Supermacs in comparison to Ireland's, or any other McDonalds is that the staff actually have brain cells. You can order something slightly altered, like no lettuce, and they don't have to consult the company handbook to see if that is allowed. They use their initiative and actually make sure it's done for you. The food is also better and served with a smile.

I returned to the hostel with slight swagger and a mouth covered in smokey bacon burger to find Brendan had lost me also and thus left and returned to the hostel before me. He had also been subjected to Mary's desire to propagate on the dance floor, and subsequently her BO problem.

And this was just a Thursday night.