I braved Flannery's. I did, you know. It was Thursday night last and the tenth anniversary of our college debut, so those of us that could make it headed along to the Bleeding Horse for pints and pints of good old lager beer.
It was topmost fun, my only regret being that 5X was lounging in Paris and Lynn was taken up with matters educational. Myself, Michelle, Ollie, Denise, Marko and Owen in the same seats where we celebrated Cowzer's 21st, oh, EIGHT years ago this December. Sweet divine mother of Michael it's been a long time.
As the evening turned to 9.30 or 10 we decided to flog the horse and head for the Great Satan on Wexford St.
In fairness to it, it wasn't too bad to start. You could walk unflustered from the front to the back and sit and drink Baby Guinnesses to ones heart's content. Granted, the bouncer was a bit of a prick and gave Owen some ill-deserved ire, but that was quickly forgotten as we got ridiculous.
That was all very well until I got up to leave, around 12 or 12.3o. I was greeted by a crowd the size of Croke Park, barring my exit which seemed a 100 metres away or thereabouts. Countless whoopses and sorryses later I was eventually spat to the street, like trying to get that last impossible Airwave out of the chewing gum wrapper. No good, but I dusted myself down, squoze out the beer spilt on my trip through the throng and headed for home.
In terms of craic, it was in my top five nights of the year, and the hangover wasn't so bad as to warrant drugs.
On Friday I managed one last effort at work, seventh day on the bounce, and came home to where I currently sit. It's Sunday morning and I've barely left since - just a trip to the friendly local butcher yesterday - so I've been sitting and drinking the lovely tea given to me by Dorte and contemplating everything and nothing at once.
Crap telly last night once the fitba had finished - Reid gave a masterclass, it's generally agreed - but I did happen on the 100 Greatest Stand-Ups on E4.
It occurred to me that Lee Evans is roughly as entertaining as a pile. Ditto Al Murray. If you're looking for blatant cultural differences between us and the English, it's encapsulated in the fact that they seem to lap up this shouty, lairy, butch bollox while we tend towards the genius that is Dylan Moran. And he is a genius. And he only made number 14 or something. Harumph.
The Big Yin topped it. Fair result.