Happily the paracetamol I took this morning had a dual purpose: back pain and hangover, not the oinkment (groan) required for meejah overkill. I only had four pints last night and that was more than enough for me, lightweight that I am! A good night and we helped Emma celebrate reaching 29 again. It was only marred by the landlady of what used to be our local who sadly reminded us all why none of us drink there anymore. The local boring pretentious bastards acoustic music group had a musical evening. The landlady objected to our noisy enjoyment: Friday night, birthday celebration, recession and thirty people happily spending money on drink and celebrating. For fucks sake, any publican would gladly welcome the opportunity for that custom. Minimum of £20.00 each = six hundred quid. Kerching!
But the numpty whose pub was rapidly emptied following this dialogue has ensured we will take our custom elsewhere.
The second part of my rant is directed at the acoustic group. Playing Irish folk music, especially the jigs and celebratory music, is a joyful music. You turn it into a fucking funeral dirge you pretentious wankers. If you fuckers turned up at a wake you'd soon be buried 'neath the sod for boring the funeral party. We suffered for your fucking art. We moved onto the County where a covers band played loud, happy, dance your tits off and drink yerself stupid music. Wonderful. A celebration of life and a chance to forget briefly how daily life is going down the toilet.
I must away and calm down.
TTFN.