A Pint Of Poison

Sweary

You’re not getting a proper blog post today.

There. I’ve said it. The reason being that I last night I had a drink or four with the inspirationally talented and driven Kevin, and therefore am in no mood nor mind for coherence, word-manipulation, or taking the piss out of Mary Harney. Actually, you can scratch the last one like Colin Farrell scratches his mickey after a weekend on the tear; I’m always in the mood for taking the piss out of Mary Harney. She’s a great fat cunt.

Anyways, pints before 9pm are never a good move for me. As an Irish person, I should be able to sink into pints at any time of the day, and pop back out again for the Angelus or whatever. But I can’t. A pint before 9 and I’m finished; all I want to do for the rest of the day is laugh and drink and talk bollocks in gloomy rooms with fridges and lager taps. The idea of going to pubs in the middle of the day is a great one. It’s the coming out again into daylight that banjaxes me.

And because I’m writing Thursday’s blog post on Wednesday night, you’re going to have to put up with my leaving you early for more alcohol and chatter, minus Kevin who’s fucked off back to Engerland, and plus my mad cousin Balls. If you were in Carrigaline last night, do have popped over to say hello.

Unless, of course, you don’t feel the same way I do, and went for a post-work gargle and came home again in time for Home and Away? Tell all, because I’m feeling lonely on the Ledge of Lush.

And no, I don’t feel guilty for leaving you in the lurch. I wrote 2 posts yesterday, y’know. BZP is illegal now! Ain’t that a kick in the chat*?

*Cork skangers will get it.