Food & Drink

Might as well make a start

I think I’ll go out tonight and have a few pints. Between the scrofula, the beri-beri and the scurvy, I’ve been stuck in the bed all week and the fucking leeches have my skin destroyed. I’ll nip in to some fine establishment and have maybe three pints with an option on a fourth. Jimbo might be interested, and maybe the Balinese Pro-Consul. I’m hoping Joe-the-Racist goes into town as is his wont on a Wednesday, especially as I want to catch him about finishing my kitchen. He’s only a racist in the sense that he hates everybody, which of course includes people of ethnicity other than his own. I suppose we should really call him Joe-the-Misanthropist, but he hates that.

What do you make of this new Guinness Piss-Strength they’ve piloted in Limerick? It’s 2.8% alcohol, as opposed to the usual 4.7%, but it’s the same price. Also, Guinness are totally adamant that this has nothing to do with drinking and driving. Nothing.

Dum dum dum dee dum dee dee dee dum dum . . .

OK. Let me get this straight now. You walk into a bar and pay the same money to get half as drunk. That’s the first scenario. Same money, half as drunk. Right, I’ve got that. Good.

Or. You walk into a bar, have twice as many pints and drive home. With the same liquor in your belly.

OK, Mr Guinness, which is it?
Scenario One: Same Money But Half As Drunk.
Scenario Two: Twice The Pints And Still No Taxi.

It has to be number one, doesn’t it? No vast multinational corporation could possibly be that hypocritical.


More St Patrick’s Day Shite

Here we go again.

After a long hibernation, we’ve built up sufficient reserves of smugness to begin patronising the planet once more. On Friday, we’ll witness the annual Festival of the Freaks in every town and village in the country. Here in Limerick, we’ll thrill as the local Fat Knacker Marching Bands take to the streets. Hundreds of frozen-blue little girls with goosebumps and double chins wobbling down O’Connell Street. After the Fat Knacker Marching Bands, we’ll have five-year-olds on quad bikes with a coordinated display of pedestrian-knocking, followed by the Throwing-a-Black-Bag-From-a-Moving-Vehicle competition.

If you don’t like any of that, you can have the (dwindling) bunch of ancient Americans staggering down the middle of our main street and waving at the locals for no obvious fucking reason. I always liked that one.  Always.

Dad, who are those old people and why are they waving at us?

Shut up, son, they’re our American ancestors.

Or you could have the endless line of trucks with advertisements and nothing else stuck on the side of them.  Buy Hegarty’s Windows, and win a night with a Hungarian Hooker!!

I love the car with the couple of balloons tied to the wipers. Look, Dad. A car!  With a strange orange-skinned person sitting on the roof, waving to us. Could it possibly be Gavin Henson? No, it’s even better than that. Please, Miss Limerick, wave at me!

Don’t knock it: it’s the only culture we have left these days, and you can believe that all the other Patrick’s Day shit is a whole load of guff.

Some years ago, I reached an agreement with my son, then 10 years old. Standing in the freezing cold and pissing rain, he looked up at me, and we exchanged that glance that only father-son pairs understand. The look that says This Is Crap. And we’ve never been back.

Nobody ever says “shitting rain”. Isn’t that strange?


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