Not coincidentally, perhaps, I have returned with not moderate gusto to the alive and wild world of midday whiskey drinking. Happily esconced in the embryonic and fluidly folds of notably sacrosanct Grogans pub. Shielded happily from the blasted sun by the entire and proper utter lack of windows. I felt it fitting to dip once more happily into a drop of the craythur.Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,
a gentle Irishman mighty odd
He had a brogue both rich and sweet,
an' to rise in the world he carried a hod
You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way
but the love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his way each day,
he'd a drop of the craythur every morn....
Note to the bulimic and moronic bint who body checked me haphazardly while threading self consciously though the ample confines of the bar. You're three more vomiting sessions away from hospitalisation.
And I think you're looking fat.
I seriously considered picking an actual fistfight with her. But failed models can be awful scrappy. Theres gotta be a joke about going down easy there.....
Sitting to the other side was a Peruvian(?) one man band in full clown costume and makeup, stoically necking a well deserved pint. And someone who could quite well have been Colin Farrell alternating accents.
Hope it was. Only person who said a word to him was the ould lad at the bar he came to meet. Proper order too.
Happily launched back into moderate drinking at the weekend with a 6 hour slow gorge.
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