A Poem for Patrick’s Day

by Kieran Healy on March 17, 2006

As always, the choices are limited to maudlin, drunk, and maudlin drunk. I choose drunk.

Carol Ann Duffy

Eight pints
of lager, please,
and, of draught Guinness, nine;
two glasses of pale ale — a squeeze
of lemon in that port — a dry white wine,
four rums, three G-and-T’s, a vodka — that’s the lot.
On second thoughts, you’d better give me one more double scotch.

A half
of scrumpy here,
and over there a stout.
I think we’re ready for more beer;
ten brandies, three martinis — no, my shout!
A triple advocaat with lemonade and lime
and six Bacardis — make that twelve, I’ve just noticed the time.

Six calves
of Harlsberg –fast–

pine bitter shandies –tents–

and make the landies barge; a vast
treasure of mipple X, ten meme de crenthes,
nine muddy blaries and, of winger gine, a wealth.
Got that? And then the rame again all sound and one yourself.

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The Blue Parrot » For St Paddy’s
03.17.06 at 2:28 pm



Jason Kuznicki 03.17.06 at 11:23 am

“A triple advocaat with lemonade and lime”

Thanks, that’s where I about lost my lunch.

And I was right with you up till that line, too…


Mr. Bill 03.17.06 at 11:59 am

Demon Alcohol by Ray Davies

Here is a story about a sinner,
He used to be a winner who enjoyed a life of prominence and position,
But the pressures at the office and his socialite engagements,
And his selfish wife’s fanatical ambition,
It turned him to the booze,
And he got mixed up with a floosie
And she led him to a life of indecision.
The floosie made him spend his dole
She left him lying on skid row
A drunken lag in some salvation army mission.
It’s such a shame.

Oh demon alcohol,
Sad memories I cannot recall,
Who thought I would say,
Damn it all and blow it all,
Oh demon alcohol,
Memories I cannot recall,
Who thought I would fall a slave to demon alcohol.

Barley wine pink gin,
He’ll drink anything,
Port, pernod or tequila,
Rum, scotch, vodka on the rocks,
As long as all his troubles disappeared.
But he messed up his life and he beat up his wife,
And the floosie’s gone and found another sucker
She’s gonna turn him on to drink
She’s gonna lead him to the brink
And when his money’s gone,
She’ll leave him in the gutter,
It’s such a shame.

Oh demon alcohol,
Sad memories I cannot recall,
Who thought I would fall,
A slave to demon alcohol.


Jimmy Doyle 03.17.06 at 1:42 pm

Twenty Major has some excellent liveblogging going on from a pub in Dublin.

“Story, Twenty?”

“Not much, Jimmy. Sinking a few given the day that’s in it. You know yourself.”

“And the laptop?”

“I’m live blogging Paddy’s day from Ron’s.”

Imagine the face someone might make if you gave them a poo sandwich.

“Live blogging? So not only do we have to read your shite now we have to watch you write the shite before we read it. Deadly. Ron – two pints, please.”

“You’re a gent, Jimmy.”

“Fuck off nerd, they’re both for me.”

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