waider

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.

I joke occasionally about how my "secret superpower" is learning the names of barstaff in ridiculously short periods of time. This isn't wholly accurate, but it's a useful shorthand. The truer version is that I seem to have the knack of very quickly establishing a rapport with serving staff of any sort. My less frequently mentioned and less useful superpower is making acquaintances (and sometimes friends) with people who are due to leave the country, usually with no intention of returning, and this more often than not combines with the rapport thing. So, for example, there's Colin, who on my first night in the local followed our motely crew to another bar to return a forgotten jumper, and at one point considered moving into a house with me, only to opt instead to leave town to join the Army; there's Jamie - the best barman ever - who went home to China a few years back; Graeme who decided that Oz was his thing; an assortment of eastern European barstaff who, ultimately, figured they'd stay in Ireland just long enough to get enough cash to settle comfortably back home; and most recently, coffee house guy - who, proving the truth of the name-vs-rapport comment above, I do not in fact know the name of - telling me shortly after I'd established myself as a regular that he's scoping out places outside Ireland to set up the rest of his life in.

This evening I figured I'd have a quiet Sunday beer or two, and noticed a new barmaid in the local (they've had a Staff Wanted sign out for most of the week). Before I left the bar she'd introduced herself, I'd noted an American accent (to myself), and so in keeping with past experience I fully expect her to have relocated back to the US in short order.

"See you later"
"If you do, send me home."

It may be a good night when the bar owner is buying you drinks, but it's equally a good night when the barman is offering you drinks an hour after closing last orders. Yay knowing barstaff! (with props to Ruadhrí on account of being the knowledgeable person)

and I already 0wn3d one of the Irish bars. Go me.

(note that I usually avoid Irish bars like the plague they are, with very few exceptions, but I was stumped for somewhere I actually wanted to spend time drinking)

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.

I'm not much of a soccer fan: I'll watch Ireland play more often than not, and I like a game that displays skill rather than a hack-and-chop game. But last night, I don't think there was a single person in the bar ignoring the last twenty minutes of the Brazil - France match. It was an astounding display of skill, marred only slightly by a few theatrical dives.

so tonight we had the surprise party for Jamie, best.barman.evar. He's headed back to China and we'll probably not see him again for a long time, if at all. Cheers, Jamie, yer the best.

Also, for reasons I can not possibly understand, 11:30pm closing did not take effect until about 1am, explaining the lateness of this post.

We came second in the pub quiz. This is my share of the winnings. That's Paul in the purple shirt in the background, and the Gato Negro box apparently housed some of the wine.

Apparently we're, like, totally the best karaoke singers ever. Yeesh. Almost as embarrassing as winning the Eurovision several years in a row.