Tag Archives: Programmes

Drink Talk: Conversations with a Bartender.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Bartender: How are you doing? What can I get you?

Clueless Customer: Hey, you haven’t got Kopparberg Berry?

YFNB: Yes.

CC: Great. Can I have two please?

YFNB: We don’t have any, sorry.

CC: But you just told me you did?

We don't have it.

YFNB: No I didn’t.

CC: Yes, you did.

YFNB: You asked me if I didn’t sell it. I said yes, we don’t sell it.

CC: I don’t get you.

YFNB: Ever hear of the song “Yes, We Have No Bananas”?

CC: Years ago.

YFNB: Well then, it’s a case of “Yes, We Have No Kopparberg.”

CC: *ponders* Two Corona, then.

YFNB: Right you be. *serves CC two Corona*

CC: I still don’t get you.

YFNB: *sigh* And sadly you never will.

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Lindsay Lohan – Who Gives A S**T!

Lindsay back in Porridge (Image: theglobeandmail.com)

So Lindsay Lohan finds herself back behind bars again this evening. Am I surprised? Not a jot.

I’ve just watched an interview with her father outside the courthouse, care of Sky News, and I’m as appalled as he is; though not for the same reasons. Without giving Ms. Lohan more publicity than she deserves, I want to make a few things clear.

First, Ms. Lohan is privileged and talented. With time and space, she can make something good come out of all this. Her father is not helping. He blames her friends, the media and the bad choices his daughter continues to make. But he does not blame Ms. Lohan.

Second, whether you agree with me or not, addicts have a choice: to use or not to use. This is not a Shakespearean tragedy unfolding here. Ms. Lohan chooses to use drugs for whatever reason she deems fit, even at the expense of her own freedom. You read that correctly: Ms. Lohan chooses to abuse drugs. Where her father blames those choices, he fails to accuse the person who made them.

Third, people get tired of the same old shit. Most folk want others to recover from whatever addiction inflicts them. I know this because I’m a recovering addict. I couldn’t have got to where I am without the support of others. But that support only goes so far. If an addict keeps falling off the wagon and continues to use or drink, they will be left behind by those that once cared.

Ms. Lohan, like George Michael and other “celebrity” addicts, are in the Last Chance Saloon. Clean up – or use. Your choice. It has always been your choice.

I’ll say no more.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Social Commentator.

Skangers love their Burberry

I’m on the bus, right? The 123 heading to Dawson Street. The usual muppets are on board. The blue-rince brigade with their shopping trollies, getting full value from their bleedin’ bus-passes. Free travel for the over 65s. Who’s poxy idea was that? Oh yeah, Charlie Haughey. Tax cheat he was, and he led our country. Told us to tighten our belts while he wore Van Heuson. Wanker. He’s dead now, thanks be to God. Got a state funeral, too. And these old biddies adore the bastard because he gave them a bus-pass. Bought their votes, if you ask me.

Anyway, the oul ones give you such a look when they want your seat. They’re not having mine. I work for a living and pay my taxes so they can get to travel for bleedin’ nothing. They want a seat? Get a bleedin’ taxi. Sorry, I forgot. You have to pay for a taxi. No discounts for OAPs, thank Jaysus.

I’ll only give my seat up for a pregnant woman, but only if they’re over 18. Anyone under that can stand. It’s not my fault they didn’t use a johnny and find themselves up the spout. You’ve got to take responsibity for your actions in this world, if you ask me. Spongers, that’s what they are. Taking their ‘mickey-money’ first Tuesday of every month and blowing it in the boozer on vodkas and coke and 20 John Player Blue. Slappers!

There’s this bloke behind, giving it loads to his missus on his mobile. He’s calling her every toe-rag name he can think of. He’s not much better himself. He’s drinking from a can of cider, and the smell off him is something fierce. Hey bud, take a bleedin’ shower once in a while. Can’t do you any harm. He’s off the phone to his “beloved’ and is now talking to his supplier, giving out about the last lump he got. Pure shite, he says. Couldn’t make a decent roll-up from it. His mates were banging on about getting a new supplier, he says. Doesn’t matter that there’s not a lot of it around. Where there’s a will, there’s a bleedin’ way. Hash is hash, at the end of the day. I leave him to it, difficult to do when his voice is louder than his football shirt.

I look out the window and see ‘pyjama city’. Young ones and oul ones walking around in broad daylight wearing poxy pyjamas. I dream I’m a sniper, perched on the roof of the GPO, taking every one of these lazy fuckers out. They’re a blot on society. At least the homeless have the good sense to dress for the outdoors. Scumbags.

Right, here’s my stop. I’m off. This is Dublin. My Dublin. Like it or not, I live here. Like it or not, I love it.

(c) James McShane