The drunken Irish – oh how we love to be the wobbliest and loudest. How we love the idea that one Paddy can pack away more pints than a small community in Belgium. We are so entrenched in the idea that it is our inalienable right to be sozzled, that we sometimes lose sight of why we want to get so drunk. Why is the natural sober state of an Irish person so repugnant that we constantly want to be tipsy, drunk or semi paralytic? It is only in the last 250 years that we have become such vessels for intoxication, but that is next weeks’ blog, and I have someone very special to blame for that one…and it’s not just the beer companies.
Sober Paddy
Keep busy or face the consequences
In this video blog I chat briefly about the need to keep busy. I also touch on the theory that after 21 days of repeating something, it becomes habit. If you can repeat good habits, you’ll progress and can improve yourself to infinity and beyond…
When I worked as a taste tester for Guinness
I had my first taste of beer today in a long, long time. For those of you who don’t know, I run a very busy Irish bar in Bondi. Strange you might think, for one so abstemious to operate forty or fifty hours a week in the capacity of a publican. But that’s what I do nonetheless. A representative came in from a beer company and had a new “Pale Ale” he was offering for sale. He had a sample with him, so I tried it – kind of as simple as that. The beer was crisp and tarty, with a high sour aftertaste that hit the top of your throat. There were hints of hoppy, yeasty fermentation, yet the beer quickly culled this with a sharp dryness that made you think you needed to drink more. There was a fine balance between heavy and light and it got me thinking about my life and career….
What St. Patrick means to me….
It has been a hazy, green week for a lot of people around the globe. Sore heads mix with sunshine. Pints of the black stuff copulate with swift and nifty chasers in pubs and bars from east to west. Giant leprechauns dance with shrieking lassies of Celtic delight. Gentle and not so gentlemen rediscover their love of what I like to call “Speedy Ostrich Yahoo Dancing”. This is when the male manages to extricate himself from the three deep bar, holding three pints of Guinness and three tumblers of Jameson whiskey balanced precariously on top – his upper torso remains rigid and balanced to prevent the alcohol from spilling, while from the waist down there is a rapid rhythm and flailing of legs which mimics the beats of the Bodhrán and fiddle pounding around room – his face is a blend of concentration, raspberry tongue and winks, as he nods and shouts back to his mates in the corner.
An Irish queer
Back in the sixties, the Irish playwright Sean O’ Faoilain remarked that an Irish queer is a man who prefers women to drink. He hit a few nails on the head with this wry observation. The mentality of the Irish man is that your strength and toughness are defined by how easily and readily you consume alcohol. Being a ladies’ man without getting blind drunk and shagging the ugly fat chicks in the process, is not something which is regarded as “manly”. How you handle the “pint” is also a point of acclaim and a veritable badge of honour. You will hear in hush tones in quiet old pubs how Paddy Hughes can “put away” sixteen pints of the black stuff and ne’er a bother on ‘im. We are suspicious of men who cavort and charm, while only sipping on a glass of champagne for two hours. And more to the point, what sort of a man drinks champagne?
Tales from near and far
It’s been a frustrating week on the poker tables. I have been haemorrhaging cash on all sides and finding it difficult to keep any sort of traction and momentum going. I’ve just finished playing for nearly six hours and have been dunked out of two massive tourneys online with nothing to show for it but a whole load of expletives. It has been a case of one or two bad decisions, mixed with a horrendous run of bad luck. It’s a tough game and it’s made all the tougher when luck goes against you. Poker is a big release for me and when it goes wrong I find myself shrinking into a deep, dark spot. There is no alcohol to drag me out of this, so it means I have been facing myself every day with nothing to cover the wrinkly down turned lines on my face. I see myself for the bushy haired, balding, softly sagging man that I am. Gambling is emotional and losing opens sore pores. I’m not a happy camper.