Bratislava? Quick! Get there before the Brat Pack

So where should all those hen parties, stag nights and weekend booze-ups head for now that Dublin has called time on the English invasions? You don't hear much about them these days, which suggests revellers are scratching their heads to find a new venue. It could just be Bratislava.

So where should all those hen parties, stag nights and weekend booze-ups head for now that Dublin has called time on the English invasions? You don't hear much about them these days, which suggests revellers are scratching their heads to find a new venue. It could just be Bratislava.

With beer at 30p a pint and cocktails £1 a throw, it's cheap - at least until Slovakia joins the EU on 1 May - and it's accessible, thanks to SkyEurope's flights from Stansted. When I was there in January, braving an icy wind blowing off the Danube, a trickle of pioneering students from Leicester and Goole had snuggled into the cosy, smoky bars of the Jazz Café, El Diablo, Galeria Duna, Woch, and Hlava XXII (Catch 22). "It's brill," said Michael on his fifth Topvar, a local pilsener. "Why didn't we come before?"

Then there was the Buddha for new jazz and the Babylon for just about everything else. If you don't like one, another is only two minutes away, so compact is this city. For techno disco music and a slice of history, go to the U-club, couched behind the psychedelic doors of an old nuclear shelter under the castle. The city's a crossroads of cultures - Habsburg, Soviet and Thatcherite - as potent a brew as Borovicka, the fiery local spirit.

All the ingredients for Slovakia's capital to become the latest party destination are in place. It can only be a matter of time before the Brat pack arrives. For all that, Europe's newest country is still relatively unknown, not least to George Bush, who told a Slovakian journalist: "The only thing I know about Slovakia is what I learned from your foreign minister, who came to Texas," shortly after meeting the prime minister of Slovenia.

With Slovaks' enthusiasm for the market economy, it is hardly surprising that socialism is never alluded to. No matter, it makes digging out the memorabilia all the more fun. At the KGB bar you can order your Zlaty Bazant beer and have comrade Lenin, in the form of his bust at the bar, peer over your shoulder. I almost asked him what he wanted to drink. Stalin was hanging out at the far end, along with a portrait of some steely-eyed Communist leader. What looked like instruments of torture hung from rusty nails on the whitewashed walls. Josef, the cheery barman, put my mind at rest: "Do not worry. Ironic. Post Modern. It is our history." Oh, I see, I thought. Never mind.

The real Soviet legacy, however, is the concrete jungle of Petrzalka. Block after block of high-rise flats flow like ideological lava over the monotonous plain on the Danube's south bank. The urban nightmare is best seen from the castle ramparts, which provide superb views. From here you can see the bizarre flying saucer café perched high above the Communist-built bridge of Novy Most.

Don't miss Bratislava's newest icon: the peeping Tom sculpture in the old town. A man's head appears through a manhole, and from his unique vantage point and with nothing to do, he's clearly eyeing up the women: a satirical comment on the Communist credo of jobs for all, I was told. But the best place to get a taste of the Cold War is the tourist office in Klobucnicka street. Here the frosty-faced staff break off from their puzzle books with a sigh when asked some irritating question about their beautiful city. They then grunt some Stalinesque riposte and return to their reading matter.

Music, it seems, is everywhere. Young Slovaks appear to shift effortlessly from rap to requiem at the flick of a cultural switch. Classical music has always been at the heart of central Europe, where, far from being the élitist pursuit of the older generation, it is the lifeblood of the people. In January, at the Slovak National Theatre, you could see Carmen, Tosca, Don Giovanni, Rigoletto, The Barber of Seville, The Magic Flute, La Bohème and Lucia di Lammermoor - for about a tenner each.

You can get fat in cholesterol city, and I did. Except that now you can vary traditional Slovak cooking - bryndzove halusky (gnocchi topped with sheep's cheese and bacon), for example - with lighter, trendier cuisine at cool places such as Peoples. But you have to go for the works just once. I went to the Slovenska Restaurancia on Hviezdoslavovo namestie. The first thing to come round was the schnapps trolley. I opted for Becherovka, which came in a tall, thin glass with a bulge at the bottom. The waiter explained the strange shape by tucking my glass into his waistcoat pocket. "This is a pijacik," he said, and held out his arms as if in the clutches of a sinuous blonde. While shadow waltzing, he said: "You see, the drink stays in the glass as I dance." Then came the roast goose, acres of it, pancakes curled up next to it and succulent red cabbage nestling alongside. I really didn't want the apple strudel and cream after that, but I'm glad I did: it was out of this world.

Next it was off to the ice-hockey to see HC Slovan Bratislava play MHC Martin. The bar at the stadium was the Hysteria, so at least they were honest. The beer flowed and the frankfurters and sunflower seeds were, well, interesting. On the rink, 16 gyrating cheerleaders waved their tinsel to Bruce Springsteen. Three little men dressed in Newcastle United shirts spun on to the ice: the umpires; three of them because this game can get unruly.

Players sent to the sin-bin for the two-minute time-out had invariably clobbered an opponent in the most painful part of his anatomy. But because everyone was wearing sinister Hannibal Lecter masks, you couldn't see who was grimacing and who was grinning. Oh, the score? Slovan beat Martin 3-2 after extra time.

With the sky as blue as a Tory party rosette, I hopped on to a bus, which negotiated the vineyards up to Kamzik hill. Here children, smothered in scarves, frolicked in the snow, hurtling every which way on toboggans, carrier bags or nothing. In the café at the TV tower I met an English teacher preparing her lessons, getting inspiration, she said, from the view of the Alps. Over a varene vino (mulled wine), she echoed my thoughts. "Bratislava is not like Budapest, or Vienna, or Prague," she said. "It's manageable, fun, polite and small." And it's nothing like Dublin, either.

GIVE ME THE FACTS

How do I get there?

Robert Nurden travelled to Bratislava courtesy of ITC-Travel (00 421 25249 4668; www.itc-traveller.com). He stayed at the Radisson SAS Carlton Hotel, Hviezdoslavovo nam 3 (00 421 25939 0000; www.radissonsas.com), which offers double rooms from Skk7,250 (£119) per room per night, based on two sharing.

Where can I find out more?

Slovakia Tourism (00 421 48413 6148; www.slovakiatourism.sk). A useful publication is What's on Bratislava and Slovakia, available from kiosks in the city.

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