waider

Someone had an advert in the run-up to 2000 for their shiny new beer (maybe it was Guinness pushing Breo?) which had a intended-to-be-devilish guy (black-suited, bald, sly smile, syrupy voice) talking about a new beer for a new millennium yadda yadda yadda. The advert was all jump-cuts and what not, and at one point he says, "it's not like I'm asking you to... SELL your SOUL", then there's a jump-cut, then he says, very emphatically, "DRINK THE BEER".

I'm sure that guy was sitting somewhere near me last night. Damn him. Oh wait, he probably doesn't need damning.

One of the people I just about worked with at Stepstone was having a going-away bash last night. He's going to cycle around the world, apparently. I went along, all dolled up after Louise laughed at the idea of me dressing up. Near-new black 501s (so they're still black), black shoes, black argyle socks, white Diesel shirt (out), and my cocktail-party jacket (as worn to Meredith's office party in SF). And I even went to the trouble of taming the squid on my head into something resembling actual hair.

The seisiún was pretty good. Stefan, the cyclist, is French, and when I arrived there were a few other French folk, Kristen from Hamburg, and Girgana (not sure if that's how you spell it, but that's how she pronounced it, except the g's were kinda aspirated, like 'gh') from Bulgaria. I was the first Irish person to show up! We were in Café en Seine, home to Dublin's longest bar, and the place was (a) huge and (b) packed. As Louise put it, all the beautiful people were there. Over the course of the evening I had a long conversation with Girgana (albeit not as long as I'd have liked, because she was cute AND smart) who it turns out is a qualified architect. I also had a conversation in bad french with one of the French guys, which at some point covered rugby of all things. You know, my French is bad enough without me getting into a conversation that involves specialised terms that I KNOW NOT. D'oh. Anyway, I eventually decided I'd had quite enough to drink, thankyou, and Louise graciously offered me the spare bed at her place. Again. If I stayed there any more often I'd have to pay rent. But it is a convenient alternative to the nightmare that is getting home from the city centre at 2:30AM.

This morning, I had a hangover, but at least I had enough fun to justify it, so that's okay. Also, I managed to spill some guinness on my nice white shirt. Aigh. Bad Waider, no cookies.

Oh, and I had another message in my MaybeFriends account this morning, complaining that all my messages are very short. So I replied with a very long message. Hee. Should be interesting to see what results that gets.

Cellphones are dangerous, dangerous things, especially when beer is involved.

Yesterday was my 29th birthday. I went to a bar, met friends, drank beer, went back to one friend's house, crashed on the spare bed. All in all, a regular night out, modulo it being on a Thursday and people giving me gifts.

I've been out.

No, I mean "I've been OUT".

I last slept in my own bed on Wednesday, and the amount of alcohol consumed between then and now is probably best left unconsidered. Still, it's been a fun, fun, FUN period.

I have to work tomorrow, yet the pubs are closed. Are we a religiously controlled country, or are we not?