I was reminded of an anecdote last night, which I want to recount for y’all (you two readers, I mean).
In the late summer of 2004, my son, a mutual friend, & I went to Ireland. If you’ve never been, understand that the pub is the center of life- political, philosophical, & social. With that knowledge "on us" (as is said there), we frequented as many pubs as conceivably possible.
One night found us in a small pub in Cahir, "The Bell" it was. A finer bunch of folks will not likely come this way again, I’m thinking. Anyway, it had been a long day for our trio, especially for my son who was doing all the wrong side of the road driving. As we settled in to the warm confines of our little pub after our large evening repast, we enjoyed much good Guinness & Jameson’s whiskey.
‘Twasn’t long before my boy’s head hit the table, arm over the head, blissfully snoozing away to the sounds of Irish ditties being played by the house musician. We let him be.
Our bartender, Liam, having observed my boy head down, was a bit concerned. He stopped over to where I was standing, looked to the lad, and asked,
"Does he hurl?"
"No, but he’s pretty good at football".