Tag Archives: drink

Homeward Bound

And here are last night’s unedited scribbles, as promised. I haven’t read it (& never will, it doesn’t seem such a good plan now) but I hope it’s not really (please regard that “really” as being in italics) bad…

There is a man sitting in my carriage, in a suit with a half-opened tie and wearing a trilby. He has just finished his third phone call, letting each person in tuen know that he is on the train. Apparently this is important.
If he makes one more call he’s going to be beaten to death with his own hat.
The fact that I am on the train that I hate so much tells you all that this evening (or yesterday evening, since I’m posting it this morning, or last Friday, if you’ve been on holiday and are reading this in early June) did not stop at two cocktails. To get home by bus now I’d have to get two of them, and I’m not sure that the first of them would arrive at the half-way stage in time to catch the second one.
We had a greta time (I noticed that typo, I’m not that pissed, but I’ve decided to leave it there, since it sums up the way I feel now, I’m on a crowded train while I just want to be alone). They showed us how to make a Cosmopolitan, then we all had a go, and drank the results while they set up the glasses for our next effort.
If you go to a cookery class your first effort may not be edible. This is not a problem in a cocktail class, no matter how badly we did it the result was drinkable. And very pleasant. They then showed us how to make a Mojito, and we had a go at that, then again got to drink the result.
By that stage we were not leaving, we were just starting to have fun. Though the class was now over and we were now spending our own money we were going to have more cocktails. A couple of the lads had a go at inventing their own, saying things like “I’ll have a measure of Cointreau, two measures of vodka, a dash of Cinzano (seriously, does anyone know what’s actually in that?), a splash of cranberry juice and a slice of papaya.” Hopefully the results were enjoyable and helped to kill the pain at the fact that a drink like that costs about 35 euro.
I went by a much more logical route. Firstly I had another mojito, to see if it tastes as nice with the one and a half measures of rum that it’s meant to have than it did with the two measures that I’d sneaked into mine. It tastes stronger, because they very cleverly don’t stir the crushed ice into it, so when you suck from the bottom of the glass (God, I’d no idea where that sentence was going for a second) all you taste is the rum and it seems much stronger.
I selected my next drink by handing the menu to one of the other guys and saying “pick a drink for me, anything that doesn’t have whiskey in it because that makes me sick, but don’t tell me anything about it.” I ended up with a thing called an Emerald Isle. It was the colour of the green slime in Ghostbusters, and since he indeed told me nothing about it I can’t tell you what was in it, other than a slice of kiwi fruit. This sank gradually t the bottom of the glass as I drank, and when I finally picked it out and ate it it was practically pickled, as indeed was I.
My final drink was called a Rhapsody, chosen purely because it had crème de banana in it (oh, and vodka).
By then I’d to leave if I’d to have any chance of getting home (there’s a lot of noise behind me, a load of young guys are being thrown off the train by security, God I hate the DART).
As I write this I feel terrific. I may not feel terrific as I post it, but have promised not to change it in any way, so I can’t let you know (strike the early part of that sentence, the man sitting opposite has just sneezed on my knee).
I hope you are all having a good morning. I just hope I am too.

Psotaday 20whatever

As I have said before I bring my netbook with me to work each day and write on both the way in and the way home on the bus.

This evening, in a few minutes actually, some of the company are taking part in a cocktail masterclass in the restaurant below our office. You pay 30 euro (our company’s paying half, bless them), you learn to make coktails and you get finger food and two free cocktails.

This might be very civilized, or might get very messy. We might decide that what would finish off the evening nicely would be another cocktail, with a cocktail to wash it all down and a cocktail after that as a nightcap.

So I was reluctant to bring the netbook today, since I reckoned I probably wouldn’t using it for the journey home. But I’d have had nothing to do on the way in so I brought it anyway.

And now I’ve decided that I will write something on the way home, and am pledging to post it in the morning without correcting or amending it in any way.

It might be legible, if things have gone quietly.

Or I might get investigated by the CIA, in the belief that I am writing in code.

Nice Work

Tinson2’s Work Experience problems may be solved.

Our wonderful Justice Minister Dermot Ahern (no, I didn’t slag him off when he made all off-licences close at 10pm, or when he said that banks wouldn’t be robbed as often if we didn’t want them to carry money. Well, maybe just a bit) is bringing in the Test Purchasing of Alcohol Scheme. This scheme will allow the Gardaí to employ 15-17 year olds to enter licensed premises and attempt to buy alcohol.

I hope Tinson2 applies. I’d feel such pride if he got the job, like George H Bush must have felt when George W was elected President, or like Apollo must have felt when Apollo 11 flew to the moon.

It’s the pride of one’s son carrying on in one’s footsteps. For I too have attempted to purchase alcohol when I was under 18.

And I wasn’t even getting paid.

Shanghai Express

Being Shanghaied was something that used to happen to sailors when unscrupulous captains were looking to fill a crew for a voyage.

A man would go into a bar, people there would get him very drunk, and he’d awaken the following morning aboard a ship bound for the far east to pick up spices (and scurvy).

The modern, Tinman equivalent is to go out for a quiet drink and come home having committed yourself to go to a football match in England next Saturday.

I was out with a friend last night when his phone rang. His side of the conversation went “hello…what, why can’t he?…well, maybe we can get someone else…actually, hang on a second.” He then turned to me and said “how would you like to come to Manchester United v Sunderland on Saturday,” and yet again the derealised me heard a voice very like mine saying “sure, I’d love to.”

Now, I do like football, and have been to matches in the UK before. Indeed, this will be my eleventh game. But the first four were when I used to be sent to the UK for work, and was there anyway, and the later ones were reached through the medium of flight. I used to bring Tinson1 to a match each year as a Christmas present, then the last time we brought Tinson2 as well, and the tradition only ended the year I was blacking out, & we decided it probably wasn’t a good idea.

Each year we made an event of it, flying over and staying in a hotel both the night before and after the game. In other words, we did it in style, and, if we weren’t quite part of the “Prawn Sandwich Brigade” so denigrated by Roy Keane, we certainly weren’t the re-incarnation of old fans in flat caps with rattles. If anyone ever chanted “who ate all the pies” at us, we’d have to reply “well, not us, because we wouldn’t eat that crap.”

My friend and his three mates (well, two this week, which has opened the door for me) don’t do it that way. The match is on Saturday. They are leaving Ireland on Saturday, and leaving the UK on the way home on Saturday. And doing it all by car and boat.

As far as I can make out, the itinerary is: get up at six, get picked up at seven, drive to Dun Laoghaire, catch the boat to Holyhead, drive through Wales to Manchester, have a few drinks, watch the match, have a few drinks, drive back from Manchester through Wales to Holyhead, have a few drinks waiting for the boat, catch the boat back to Ireland (having a last few drinks on the boat) and then be driven home, arriving at 7am on Sunday (I should point out here that the driver is a non-drinker – we’re not totally mad). All that just for 90 minutes of football (well, 96 minutes, probably – it is United, after all).

As GoldenEyes here at work says, it sounds like the kind of weekend that four 25-year-olds would have. But, although I am the age of two 25-year-olds, I don’t have twice the drinking capacity, and I’m quite worried.

My mate is hoping that it’s a good game. I’m just hoping I don’t throw up in the car.

Now You See Me


The Road Safety Authority is to circulate 30,000 high-visibility jackets among rural pubs for them to lend to customers walking home.

I think this is an excellent idea, and fully intend to wear mine the entire time that I am in the pub, since I have often, when my glass is empty, suspected that I am invisible to the bar staff.

Whereas many years ago I used to own a number of rugby-shirts, even though my own career had ended at the age of 13 when I arrived back to training to discover that every 13-year old in the country had put on five inches and two stone over the summer, and I hadn’t. Two games later, fed up with feeling as if I’d been hit by a tow-truck every time I was tackled, I decided soccer would be safer (or parachute jumping, for that matter).

rugby-shirtAnyway, the picture on the right is the closest I can find on Google to one particular shirt I used to wear a lot, though mine also had a lot of orange in it.

One summer evening I arrived into my local to find a pint on the counter ready for me. “I saw you coming across the road,” explained the barman. I turned and looked at the frosted-glass door and window. “Well, yeah, I could only see a shape,” he admitted, “but no-one else in here wears a shirt that colour”.

See? It works.

A Wineless Whine

As we were on holiday  – in a country where wine is sold and drunk virtually everywhere – when the new drinks laws were enacted, they pretty well passed us by. Certainly Mrs Tin knew nothing about them, and last night decided she’d fancy a glass of wine, dropped down to Tesco and arrived at the checkout with a bottle. Since it was three minutes past ten, they wouldn’t allow her to buy it.

This ass-covering, self-aggrandising, make-it-look-as-if-we’re-doing-something, petty piece of legislation is typical of a Government that hasn’t a clue. They can’t control the economy, can’t fight crime, can’t manage the health service, but they can stop fortysomething young women (she might read this, and she hasn’t had any wine) from buying alcohol at ten o’clock in a 24/7 shop in an increasingly 24/7 world.

Look, Mr Ahern, LEAVE THE ORDINARY PEOPLE ALONE. As I said about Wicklow County Council, if you can’t do something useful, just don’t do anything.

There are already laws against drinking in public, being drunk in public, violence, vandalism and littering. Just get them enforced.