I got ridiculous last night here in Dingle. Myself and Dave started early enough in John Benny Moriarty, what with the stout and all, and treated ourselves to toasted sandwiches even though there was far lovelier stuff on the menu.
Emma Nar joined us in Hannie Agnes', or Hannie Sheas as my granny would have known it seven thousand years ago, and I moved from Guinness onto beer.
We went to Dick Macks and sat outside. Brian - a lank-haired 5x-alike from Cork - joined us with the Kiwi singer I just met ten minutes ago looking worse for wear. They took intermittent breaks to the jacks together to get more than slightly baked, and trains of thoughts were lost by 40-year-old Brian as he made up stories to us about stoned priests in London. Fun.
We watched The Netherlands destroy Italy while eating scampi and drinking lovely lager in Geaney's. After that it was An Droichead Beag. The pub was a rare thing in that I had never seen its insides before (I thought I'd been to every Dingle innard. Not so.)
We were getting rightly wankered, and I now boast a fat lip from falling arse-over-tit on my way to the gents. More fun.
At that stage we decided on the sea, and bought cans of cider and stout and looked out at the boats in the midnight hour. It was very beautiful. I love love love getting locked with Dave and Emma, feels like home. Don't know what time we got back to 'Tigín a dó,' but it was late and I think there may be a stray can of Bulmers adding time to itself above.
I'm away to have a look.