Monday, November 12, 2012

Thank You

February 1987.
There I was, cold with a freshly shaved noggin ready to be broken down and rebuilt into a soldier. A red headed Scot in the service of Uncle Sam. What was I thinking?

Back in that day our biggest problem was the fear of the hammer and sickle and the bearded one down south, today the men and women of the armed forces face a more sinister enemy and sometimes ones that have been trained by themselves.

A moment of silence at a football match is the least we can offer for your service, as we play you fight. You fight in our name away from the ones you should be defending and you fight without being asked to do so.

We all owe every one of you a debt of gratitude no matter what our beliefs or political leanings it is comforting knowing that tonight I will lay my head on my pillow while you are in my defense.

All I can do is say "Thank you."

Friday, November 9, 2012

Drinking with an Irishman

A Scotsman and an Irishman walk into a bar..stop me if you've heard this one

The White Lion, a dark shit hole replica of a British pub here in the sunshine state. A place where London expats sit and sip and talk shite of glory days and all things about their beloved Chelsea. I do not like Chelsea nor does my drinking partner Mr. McCourt, who like me was born on the other side of the pond as the yanks like to remind us. Mr. McCourt born in Ireland moved to New York then back to Ireland then finally settled in Florida, again like me a full blooded Celtic man now living under the warm tender bosom of lady liberty and enjoying all of her frivolous benefits.  Over the years our accents and our tempers have watered down a bit just like the drinks they serve in suburban theme restaurants with deer heads and other stupid shite blatantly staring at you while you polish off your watery bud. Now back to the pub.

McCourt likes a pint, he also likes a dram, a shot, a nip, a chaser...whatever you call it Mr. McCourt will ram it down his gaping hole with fervor and joy. Yours truly is the same, my Dundonian family all liked a bevy and my father had a fully stocked working pub down in the basement where by the tender age of 11 I was lowering his inventory of Kestrel lager and Tennents heavy, and let's not forget the youthful joy of  Merrydown cider.
Mr. McCourt and I talk openly and loudly sans care about how shite Chelsea are (even though they are not) we are trying to provoke the batch of  third generation three lions that are sitting about us. They do not bite.
We are now on our third round, McCourt and his Guinness
and me and my Belhaven Wee Heavy
Round 4 - Same
Round 5 - Same
Round 6 - Same with a Jameson and a Glenlivet

We repeated this three more times, each time we ordered "Same again" The Englishman behind the bar smiled, knowing his take for the evening was growing while our wallets were shrinking. I wonder how many times throughout history this scene has taken place?

If anything originality is not one of our strongest assets based on the above choice of drink, Belhaven was all they had for Scottish beer which McCourt remarked "Because Scotland can't make Guinness!" To which I rebut  "We don't waste our Highland water on beer, we need it to offer the world the glorious golden liquid of life."  McCourt burps out "Jameson?"  My only response available is "I could murder a curry!"

McCourt can obviously handle his liquid and this could have gone on all night, since neither of us has the benefit of  lottery winnings and we both have to work for a living we decided to call it a night. We both pulled out cell phones and made the call, me struggling as usual with the little keys being molested by the hands of an ape. We paid the smiling Englishman and stumbled to the door. McCourt says something in gibberish, I am still thinking about where to get that curry.
A drunk Scotsman and a drunk Irishman walking the street singing songs and national anthems, happy and glorious, impervious to race, politics or bigotry. Just two happy drunk men waiting for their American wives to pick them up and drive them back to their wee houses in the middle of Florida.  PEACE...
McCourt can handle his liquid and so can I.

McCourt and I talked about opening our own wee pub, something like this.