The Dark Stuff

Waiting for one pint of Guinness to settle is bad enough. They pour it. They stop. They leave it under the tap four fifths full. Then, they serve someone else. Which is fine. You expect that. It’s just most of the time they completely forgot about your pint sitting there, waiting to be topped off. “Are you being served?” comes the question. Without even answering, which a sly glance over to the tap it causes the trigger. “Ah, I’m sorry, I forgot about that”. The advert says “Good things comes to those that’s wait”. I have to disagree. Is by bus any better just because it is ten minutes late? Do I get more money from the cash point just because there is a queue? Does my Guinness Extra cold get any nicer having to wait? No. It gets warmer. Like my patience.

So, like on Saturday, if you are going to have eight pints of Guinness, that’s a long wait. Arthur Guinness said in 1759 “I will prevail. I will have my dark water” when he was waiting for the first Guinness factory to be finished. So I was patient. “It takes about 119.5 seconds to pour the perfect pint. But don’t fret. It’s worth the wait” so they say. Fuck me. They obviously haven’t been down the Littentree on a Satuarday.

Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on my favourite drink. Some pregnant women drink it, it’s meant to be good for you. Apparently. Then again they say it improves your dart throwing. Believe me, after eight pints and the only thing I’m throwing is sick. Which brings me onto the next point. I’ve yet to work out the coefficient, but there is a direct relationship between how much you drink and how much of a shock you get the next morning. It’s not who you may or may not wake up to the next morning, it’s whether you have turned into a miner overnight and suddenly obtained the ability to produce coal out of your arse. That’s right. Probably drink more than five pints of the black stuff and you will be shitting black coal. The one advantage of that is at least you know how much you drank the night before.

So, eight pints of Guinness, five whiskey and cokes, two pints of larger, two live games of football, fifty five blurry photos, a chicken kebab, sweet and sour chicken balls to take away, a drunken taxi conversation, sixty pounds and twelve hours later, all in all, a good Saturday.