More to come, don't you worry

Are you sick?

Is the standard response to the phrase "I'm off the beer'. "A man who doesn't drink isn't to be trusted" I have uttered those words myself, whilst slyly observing a stranger ordering a soft drink for himself at the bar. "He must be a recovering alcoholic, or on antibiotics" I have murmured to myself.

I believed all that was true until the morning of the 10th of Feb when I spoke the forbidden words myself "I think I will give up the drink till the 15th of March" I said, not thinking twice about 1) How bloody long it is from Feb 10th to March 15th and 2) the pure willpower required to go a week without a jar, let alone 35 days or 1 month, 6 days or indeed:

3,024,000 seconds
50,400 minutes
840 hours
5 weeks

But who's counting?

Immediately the self righteousness set in "Ahh, I'll do that standing on my head" that's all well and good, from Monday 0700 to Friday 4pm, when the buzz begins to infect the office, when talk of pints are all there is to speak of for the final hour of the work week. I began to sweat, all eyes were on me, the new guy in the office, the fabled Irishman who can drink a thousand pints and STILL have room for more, eager eyes, smiling faces all looked towards me, willing me to agree to go for pints, it was torture. I mumbled something about "not tonight, I can't, I eh, I eh have plans" but they saw through me like a cheap pair of boxers. I blurted out that I was "Off the drink"; the look of bewilderment and confusion on their faces was priceless. I made my excuses and left, PHEW! One Friday down, 5 more to go.

Well, 18 games of bowling, 3 trips to the cinema, 6 early bird meals and countless trips to the gym later, I am still off it. All I can say is that I am glad I am in Canada and off the jar, cause God help the poor feckers who do it at home, the pressure must be awful. Nuclear arms crisis' can't compare to the pressure a man must feel walking into a bar in Ireland and ordering a pint of coke or water, the stigma, the shame, the feeling that you are less of a man.

Well, with only 12 more sleeps to go till I have a beer, do I have any advice for a bloke thinking of giving up the beer? Yes.....

Move to Canada!

What maketh a local?

What makes a pub 'a local'? And indeed, what makes you 'a local'?

For me, a local pub is a resting place, a fortress of solitude, a celebration place, a meeting place, a happy place and a sad place all rolled into one. Indeed like 'Cheers' it's a place where everybody knows your name.

I like the fact you can walk into a local, nod at the barman (who you are on a first name basis with) and be served your usual drink with minimum fuss. I enjoy how there is no dress code, no pretence and very few limits imposed on you that may be forced upon a new comer. For instance, I have enjoyed the luxury of bringing a sandwich or a kebab into the bar from the shop or fast food joint on the corner, a highly taboo subject for even the most relaxed of bars and it wouldn't be unheard of me to doze quietly in the corner after a marathon drinking session. In fact, I have witnessed behaviour that would get the Pope thrown out of the pub that is tolerated by staff and locals in a local pub. But why? I suppose the economists would say that a local patron over their lifetime will put many thousands of Euros over the counter and the odd behavioural blemish now and then is acceptable in order to keep a steady income, but I think it is more deep rooted than that.

The locals in a pub are a family, and like all families they have their ups and downs and their falling outs, but ultimately, Guinness is thicker than water and it sorts itself out. People mourn the loss of a regular and delight in each others success's; at the births of children, communions, confirmations and weddings or a winning bet. It is a self contained community with a subtle yet clearly defined hierarchy, usually dictated by seniority but sometimes by sporting knowledge or musical ability.

The local is somewhere to turn in times of need, whether it be financial or you are simply looking for some lads to help you weed your garden, you can be sure someone in your local will give you a dig out (excuse the pun)! It is a home away from home, somewhere to escape to when the world outside gets too much, somewhere to hide from the pressures of life.

Somewhere to enjoy.

If there is a heaven, and God truely loves us, then I know my heaven will be sitting at the end of the bar in my local, a pint in my hand, a smile on my face, surrounded by family and friends with nothing but laughter and song and of course; eternal craic.

The Perfect day

Picture this...It's a Saturday morning. You're sitting at home. Nothing on the TV. You're bored. A text message arrives noisily on your phone. You read it: 'Pints?'is all it says, you reply 'where, when?' and back you receive 'The local,NOW'..

An excitement starts to build in your stomach, butterflies start to flutter their wings. You jump up, quickly shower, get dressed and out the door.You're walking to the pub. It's cold but you don't mind. It's the thought of the pint that's getting you going. You're walking quickly, purposely. You stop at an ATM, you fumble in your wallet for your card. You try and insert it the wrong way, finally with cold numb fingers you shove it in and greedily finger your PIN. There's a shot of panic after you choose your required sum 'Do I have enough in there' you think.... before you finish your thought, the familiar and relieving rumble of clean, crisp money emulates from the machine. It jumps out of the slot and you cram it into your battered wallet.

You're on your way again. Down the street you go, ever faster, the excitement is starting to make its way to your mouth and a small but noticeable grin appears on your cold, rosy face. The pub looms in the distance. Almost there, you pick up the speed.Not quite jogging, but not quite walking either. You dread meeting someone you know on the street as you don't want to stop for idle chit-chat.

You arrive.You open the door. The warmth and atmosphere of the bar envelopes you. You breath a sigh of relieve. You're home. You look around the bar, there's the usual faces, happy and engrossed in their own conversations.

You're the first of your mates to arrive. The barman nods to you. 'A pint' you say.'I'll drop it over' his reply. You take a seat. Jacket off. He selects a dry, clean glass and pauses before he places it under the tap. You hold your breath, just for a moment. But you do. He pours. The brown liquid flows into the glass, he caresses the glass gently before placing it down to settle. You can see the brown swirls settling into black.

You take out some coins and jingle them nervously in your hand. It's almost ready.He tops it up and passes it to the lounge girl to take to your table. She stops to talk to another punter on the way to your seat. She's laughing with him. You're edgy, almost mentally willing her on her way to you. She arrives. The pint is placed in front of you. You thrust the coins into her hand, not even acknowledging her thanks for allowing her to pocket the small change.

It's now just you and the pint. Nothing else. Time stands still until you wait for the perfect moment to raise the glass.You marvel at it's colour and weight and at the head sitting proudly on top.You put it to your lips. They are dry and eager... and swallow. The black magic rolls down your throat, you can feel all your senses become alive,your face flushes and your heart sings. The laughter from the two men in the corner seems like some strange far away song. Your senses soar. You replace the pint to its place on the table. Condensation runs down the glass and you trace your finger along a cool drop.

The doors open, the lads have arrived, there's hugs and handshakes, laughter and shouts and talk of many more pints to come. You sit back, relax and smile to yourself. Today is going to be a perfect day.

Smokeless Joes - Toronto

125 John Street Toronto, Ontario Canada (416) 591-2221

What a spot! Last night, whilst wandering the streets of Toronto, I stumbled upon this gem of a pub. No fancy signs, no lights. Squirrelled away in the basement of a building, just around the corner from cinemas, restaurants & trendy cafes and bars. This is not the easiest place to find, but when and if you do find it, you won't be sorry.

Upon entering the bar, I found it to be wall to wall with people, the barman came straight from behind the bar and over to me to say hello and to inform me that they were at capacity, but my second stroke of luck of the evening happened, as just then; a gaggle of afterwork girls put their jackets on and left, leaving me with a prime seat at the bar.

The bar itself was a mix-match of signs and knick knacks, chalk boards fill the walls with lists of their latest available bottles and beers on tap. A worn but impressive beer menu is also available to peruse. Smaller chalk boards advertise the type of oysters available and the prices.

Proper glassware for the beers is certainly adhered to in Smokeless Joe's and the barman was happy to shoot the breeze with me despite the place heaving with customers. A quick trip to the bathroom confirmed that they were spotless, a very welcome bonus as I have found many Toronto bars toilets to be substandard.

This bar oozes character and history, it was warm and inviting, buzzing but not 'shout over the crowd' noisy, I enjoyed a very enjoyable hour here and am looking forward to darkening their doorstep for a long time to come.