Against all propriety, against every impulse to stay home and recover from the previous two nights of nonsense, against everything my liver holds dear I went on a series of little sessions yesterday with a man they call Fitzbollix.
Fuck, it was glorious.
The Bank for two pints and for fish and for chips.
The Stag's Head and the seat beside the window, the best in the house, listening to an earnest man trying to get the ride from his Brazilian friend at the next table. His attempts were hamfisted, saying the least.
Then the darkest corner of The Long Hall when we knew this Smithwicks experiment would not end soberly for us.
The Long Stone beer garden.
John Mulligan on Poolbeg Street and then, finally, to a pub on the quays that I'll never know the name of. It's on the north side, just up from Horrible Monstrosity Liberty Hall.
It's early the next day now and I'm out of paracetamol, but I'm comforted by the fact that I said the funniest and most disturbed thing I'll ever utter in my lifetime. It was something to do with things crashing into things.