Room 57: Pat – Part One: Best Of Irish

He chuckled – he loved fucking with Catholic priests; they were such miserable bastards sometimes, which he could understand given the amount of stuff they denied themselves. People had suspicions about him – they always had. At least those suspicions didn’t primarily stem from him being Irish anymore and they couldn’t land him in a cell. Terrorist didn’t mean someone from Ireland anymore – it meant someone with dark skin. That was a relief.

The Guinness he had just swallowed was nowhere as good as the stuff that he drank in Dublin – he supposed all that shit about the Liffey waters were true, and wasn’t there something about the pasteurisation process that did something to it to? He didn’t care too much – it got him pissed and it wasn’t unpleasant.

He had been practising reciting passages from James Joyce’s Ulysses and Finnegan’s Wake for some unknown reason. He supposed it kind of fed into the act he had going where he would play up to people with the whole quintessential Irishman shtick and then act all offended if they mentioned it. He was a big fan of the comedy of awkward situations as put out by Larry David and Ricky Gervais and he thought it was a noble enterprise to bring that kind of thinking to the real world. Perhaps he was something of a performance artist.

He attracted the barman’s attention and ordered himself another pint.