SMELLS, SOUNDS

[Insert Punnily Clever Irish-Themed Title Here] #StPatricksDay

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. ☘🇮🇪

It’d be more Irish than this if stout glasses could be made into bongs. While it’s possible to fashion a Guinness can into a smoking implement, no respectable person over the age of fourteen would attempt such a thing.

The Zen of SILVER BROWN

They’re Never After Me Lucky Charms

Once upon a time, I travelled to a land far, far away in a mystical chariot with a built-in USB port. A land steeped in centuries-old tradition inhabited by benevolent bear-spirits who walk like men. They helped me slay that faceless snow monster who came after me for eating that Finnish hoagie sandwich. Don’t regret eating that sandwich one bit, though. It was magically delicious.

This is the foyer to the local hospital. How bitchin’ is that?

The Soundtrack of SILVER BROWN

The Rock of the Irish

St. Patrick’s Day has always been one of my favourite holidays, even though these days I’m more inclined to smoke the green than drink it or wear it (I love stout, though – that shit’s the nectar of the gods). In a perfect world, the vast treasury of Irish drinking tunes would be as thoroughly burned into the public conscience as the holiday standards that Mariah Carey tortures us with every Christmas. This blog post probably won’t bring about that perfect world. But I guess it can’t hurt to try.