"The Craic" McGrath...

Just had a madly stressfbizzy day feeding the burghers of Gorey, in Wexford.

No break, whatsoever, from 6.30 this morning to 3.30 this afternoon.

My bladder was seriously considering applying for an emigration visa.

Eentually got home, and said...

Fuck.It.

I.Am.Going.To.The.Fuckin.Pub.

One Nice Pint Of Gooiness later, the kinks start to straighten, and start to settle, like the aforementioned Ebony Nectar.

By half-time on the second, I'm brave enough to unsheath The Beast.

And point it at The Craic....

The Pint, and Pose, were just too good to resist (a bit like the pints...)

In attempted reparation, I offered to buy him a pint.

"Not at all", he says, "Sure I'll have my fill in Punchestown next week. Should I go on the batter for two days, or three?", he asked me.

(To the EquinelyUneducated, Punchestown is THE big local annual race meeting, and The Craic, I think, owns a share of a contender...)

And now comes the unique logic and mathemathics of Irish drinking.

"Well,", he says, " Im going Monday and Tuesday annyway, so I'll just lose Wednesday."

"Go on", says I....

"But if I go on the Wednesday as well," says he, "Im fucked til next week."

The cumulative debilitating effect of Slow Horses, Fast Wimmin, and Both Fast and Slow Pints, Obviously.

Night now.