The last night I got rip-roarin’ slobbering drunk was the night of the most recent presidential election in a little-known country called America. Without elaborating on the details, somebody said something (apolitical) to me during the subsequent hangover that initiated a complete re-evaluation of my relationship with the sauce, in ways that years of addiction counselling could not. I shan’t repeat that message here, for there were a lot of razor blades and venom in those words that I can’t see being beneficial to your garden-variety drunkard (and besides, it wasn’t so much what was said but who said it). But it was just what I needed. Like the verbal equivalent of Buckley’s Original. Tastes awful, and it works.
Despite the fact that I don’t drink nearly as heavily as I used to, there’s still much to love about St. Patrick’s Day. All the festivity and jolliness of Christmas, minus the sanctimonious commentary about your personal life choices from hyperconservative relatives. In keeping with the spirit of the holiday, particularly its association with The Cause of (and Solution to) All of Life’s Problems, I give you a picture of my old bong that was made from a beer bottle. Her Majesty’s immediate predecessor. Destroyed accidentally one night. By an overzealous gamer. In a garage. In London. Which was unfortunately named after that English city. ☘🇮🇪
Six Strings and a Funky Pickup 