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Diageo (that'd be the guys who own Guinness) announce a €24m "global centre of excellence for beer research". I think you'll find that's usually referred to as "a pub".
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Wow. My favourite publicans' representative group has declared a freeze on the price of drink for the next year, effective immediately. I'm sure there's a fast one being pulled here somewhere, because I am naturually cynical and suspicious of these clowns, but hey, nice move.

ow, dammit

Sep. 20th, 2008 11:31 pm
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So one of the more peculiar post-race injuries appears to be my right shoulder. Now, it's entirely possible I slept on it the wrong way or something, but I don't recall having any trouble with it this morning so I can only attribute its current state of "please do not lift me in that direction" to the race.

This is obviously a major concern, since this is my drinking arm, dammit.
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Distance: ten miles
Target time: (a) beat last year's (1:13:52) (b) 70 minutes
Condition: VICTORY!

After a completely overcooked 6:10 on the first mile, I dropped my pace somewhat and stuck more-or-less to plan for the rest of the race, passing the half-way mark at about 34:00 and crossing the finish line a full minute and a half ahead of target at 01:08:27.

Having done that, I then drove from Dublin to Galway (a little over 200km) to participate in an informal game of five-a-side soccer as part of a stag party (3-3 draw until we decided that the stag should get a few goals), and then off to the dog track for a bit of gambling (over €30 profit, thank you doggies) and finally a few beers with the lads.

Needless to say I'm pretty tired and sore at this point, but delighted with the run.
waider: (Default)
Dalkey, with a population somewhere short of 10,000, currently has at least four coffee shops and a half-dozen pubs where you can also purchase the brewed bean. That hasn't stopped Starbucks from renovating a premises in the middle of the town, due to open some time soon going by the "Staff Wanted" notices. Personally I'm hoping that their general downturn in fortunes due to rapid expansion might mean that this particular outlet never sees a single customer...
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The above line is generally used as an excuse for having a second pint, but evidently it can also be applied to one-day commemorative events that have suddenly become festivals. St. Patrick's Day was the first one I was aware of that made the leap from National Day of Drinking to National Week of Drinking; now I see that Bloomsday, celebrating a book which takes place in a single day, has become the Bloomsday Festival. I'm sure Jimbo would be appalled.
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Apparently one of our elected representatives is embarrassed at being arrested for driving under the influence. But it's okay; one of his fellow TDs says he had apologised profusely, and was aware that it is inappropriate to drink and drive. Well then! I'll be sure and remember that the next time I feel like putting my own life and the lives of others at risk!
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The VFI are still the same bunch of misanthropes as the last time I checked: they're expected to criticise proposals to lower the legal blood alcohol limit for drivers, because let's face it, people should be allowed drink and drive, nanny state, our own business, etc. etc. etc.

And Bank of Ireland aren't quite done on their admission of laptop losses; apparently they lost one in Kildare 7 years ago. The bank seems to be treating it as an unconfirmed allegation, while RTÉ seems to be taking it as fact.
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A quick Google search for a Firefly Drinking Game reveals that neither of the main contenders (from FireflyWiki and DrinkiWiki respectively, largely stolen off each other from the looks of it) suggest doing anything when Mal punches out or otherwise threatens a member of his own crew. Seriously, folks. How could you miss that?

I also note the absence of any activity pertaining to a member of the crew being seriously injured in a firefight. I'm pretty sure they all got shot at one point or another during the TV series, with the possible exception of Inara.
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In addition to "Saturday Stag Party, Sunday Hangover", I had "Monday Queasy, Tuesday Doctor". In discussing the evils of drink, the doctor noted that while I'm young enough and not alcoholic enough[1] to be doing permanent liver damage to myself (basically, yes, the alcohol will abuse my liver, but the liver will recover), an alcohol level of 100 wossnames-per-doodad triggers the killing off of braincells which (dramatic chord) never grow back.

Except, um.

(a) I seem to recall that the whole Alcohol Kills Braincells thing was either disproved or certainly not fully supported by research;
(b) I did some brief research (Wikipedia[2], and references found therein), and found that some USC guys in 2004 discovered that the cessation of alcohol consumpution resulted in not just regrowth of braincells, but pretty spectacular growth at that[3];
(c) it's not the cells it kills, it's the dendrites. And they grow back, but they don't necessarily grow back the same way. So you might not be able to flip that beermat on the bar quite as stylishly, or something. Or you'll suddenly be able to play that one guitar solo on air guitar. Actually, I'm pretty vague on this whole bit, but it's a world apart from what my doctor was saying.

Which is not to say that I'm going back out tonight to see if I can empty a keg single-handed. Frankly, I did have too much to drink on Saturday night, and it's really not smart of me to try and reason my way around that, so I won't. I did neglect to mention to the doctor that my consumed alcohol was over a 10-hour period (thanks to a restaurant->pub->late pub->house party migration), but that's not exactly a sufficiently mitigating circumstance either.

[1] Yes, go back and look at my Carnivale-style partying last year and point at me and laugh. Not only did I stop doing that, but I took up a healthy lifestyle in its place with the occasional pub evening. Go me, or something.

[2] Yes, I know. Do not go to Wikipedia for answers, for it will say "yes" and "no" and "this article is insufficiently unbiased", and "this article is protected from editing"...

[3] In rats. Alcoholic rats. Who had been made alcoholic by feeding them alcohol for 4 days, and then given a complimentary full-on cold turkey withdrawal. I suspect the braincell growth was caused by them trying to figure out a way to exact revenge on the researchers.
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Guinness sent me a birthday card.
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[livejournal.com profile] peglegpete is in town. drinking occurred. ow my head, etc.
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I don't have the patience to invent one. But there should be one. And it should feature things like "post using the word twitter or variant thereof: drink", "post about posting to twitter: drink", "post about posting elsewhere: buy Evan a drink", etc.
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Found on MetaFilter, the correct answer to "how do I draw a shamrock on a head of Guinness?" is "Don't. It's a drink, not a canvas. " or words to that effect. Although props to the barman at Mr. Pickwick in Biel who, when told I didn't care for a shamrock on my pint, drew a pair of breasts instead.
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Having partied for three days, he rested. Then he went out and ran a 23:04:00 5k. C'mon, bow before me and stuff.
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All beer and no food makes [livejournal.com profile] waider very stupid. D'oh.


Oct. 2nd, 2006 05:02 pm
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I guess it's a good night out if the owner of the bar is buying you drinks.
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So we're standing around outside Pravda after they've done kicking us out (because it's closing, as opposed to anything else) and Zoe, whose birthday it is, decides she wants her photo taken sitting on the bench with the statues of the two shoppers. While we're there taking snaps, some completely random girl stands up on the bench behind the statues and lifts her top to flash us - just as two cops walk around the corner. We wander off giggling as the cops proceed (I assume) to discuss the Irish legislature with the girl, paying particular attention to the areas of public drunkenness and indecent exposure.

No, I didn't. I'd just taken my photo right before the, er, reveal.
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It's a sad enough to realise that the stories I usually end up telling in a bar are the same ones as I've told everyone else before (the time I couldn't play Lou's guitar, the time we stole the giant pint, the time the cat ate a sock, and so forth) but what's worse is realising these stories are several years old and, well, there's nothing to replace them.


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