By lex, on March 17th, 2009
So, I was in the pub enjoying the pint o’ Guinness over lunch in respect of hizzoner, when I heard a trio of gentlemen hard by having a bit of a conversation.
“It’s all weel and gude,” said the first man in a broad Scottish burr, “these American pubs, but it’s nothing like back hame.”
“Quite true, my dear man,” responded his first companion in a refined English accent, “they hardly measure up to our British standards.”
“Nor even our pubs in Ireland,” replied the third in the lilting cadences of the Old Sod.
“At MacTavishes they ken hae to sarve a mon,” the Scot added, saying, “upon ardering yer fourth roond, the barkeep stands the fifth for you, frae of charge.”
“Things are bit more civilized in the south,” the Londoner rejoined, “on your third purchase of spirits, the barkeep provides the fourth. And there are snacks provided at the bar to keep the patrons well cared for.”
“Aye, that’s lovely, I’m sartain. But when it comes to yor true pub, the real measure of service is in Ireland,” replied the third man. “‘Tis!” he cried at the shaking heads of his companions. “There’s a lovely spot down Dublin way, so there is, where the barman buys yor forst round for yez. And all d’other patrons buy the next one, and the next after that, and on and on until you’ve had yor full. And then, when yez can scarcely stand on yor own, they take y’up to de bedrooms, so they do, and see to it that you get yer ashes hauled.”
“Rubbish,” replied the Englishman.
“Perposterous,” replied the Scot.
“No, it’s de truth!” the Irishman insisted.
“Has such a thing ever happened to you personally,” the Englishman inquired.
“Not yet,” the Irish lad had to ruefully admit, before brightening and concluding, “but it has happened to me sister!”