Panic on the streets of Dublin. Panic on the streets of Harcourt. The Casual Fridays stand shoulder to shoulder to shoulder as the tills ring out, and ring out, and ring out again to the tune of several thousand kerchings.
The Londis queue is a coiled rattlesnake of eager boozers, out the door and around the bend, no greater fear than that midnight hour and the shutters coming down.
If you're good at the old time maths, you'll figure there's time for three or four quick jars before getting to the offie and relieving it of half its stock, carried home in a one-man mambo.
And the anger. The indignance. The "how fucking dare they tell us we can't drink on Good Friday, the bastards, and I'll tell you another thing, Jenny, they can stick their property tax up their arses too!"
The "I'm not letting any poxy civil servant..." and the "I wouldn't mind but if I was let drink tomorrow I probably wouldn't bother my hole..." and the "Superquinn are doing a great deal on that Rioja we had in Jimmy's last year..." and the this, and then the that, and then the pubs close and then the plaintive "oh bollix."
"It's grand, we have that bottle of port and those cans of Carlsberg in the shed."