will not be televised

a bit of a lark

I mentioned a while back that I am likable. No, really.

Oh, I know what the whisper stream has been saying since I wrote that post last year about having to (possibly) kill some of you: “Deranged, stay away – you never know what a person is really like on the Internetz; he could be a stalker or…worse: a rabid lol cat!”

And, that’s true, don’t get me wrong: many blog authors ARE lol catz and should be humanely put down as soon as possible.

It’s just not true in my case. I mean, I was bemoaning the fact, after all, that some of you might have to die. Yes, I was only sad because my site numbers would fall, but still…

In any event, I was busy this morning writing about a random act of kindness that I had performed earlier in the week (see? really likable!) when I received an email telling me of my adopted son’s betrayal.

Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth…

For those of you who don’t know I adopted a wee Irish lad last year, much to his everlasting joy. And up to now he had been a delight; he promptly got lost and I had not heard from him, certainly not begging for money or place to stay or any of that bothersome nonsense. No, he took care of himself – I have been very, very proud.

Until this morning.

It seems that he has deliberately led me on. Okay, all of America as well, but I’m especially put out.

He wrote a post just over a year ago about how to drink Guinness in Ireland that at the time seemed a subtle and sober article of good advice.

Oh, would that it were so.

Following the directions in this morning’s e-mail I made my way to my home course, Swope Memorial. Once there I headed for the Pro Shop and booked a tee time for an hour hence (I mean, it IS going to be 70 degrees, right?) That done, I headed for the kitchen and asked for a pint of Guinness.

“Hey! You heard, right?” said the young, fetchingly dim blond behind the counter.

Yes, I assured her, I had indeed heard.

The lass retrieved a clean pint glass and set it on the counter. She then dribbled a little water onto what looked like a mini-hot plate. Next, she took a can of chilled Guinness out of the refrigerator, opened it and poured it into the pint glass. This she stood upon the mini-hot plate. She pressed a switch on the MHP and within 11 seconds (I timed this with the sweep hand on my wristwatch) I had before me the perfectly poured pint.

I tasted it.

Fantastic. I was sipping a really, really nice pint of Guinness.

Well, then, I thought, perhaps it was just blind luck, and asked the maid to produce another. She did and it also tasted…perfect. As perfect, as best I can recall, as any drawn pint I ever had to stand await (abashed and slightly ridiculous, perhaps my hand burning red where the barkeep had whacked it in response to my reaching for the stout too soon) for up to 5 or 7 minutes.

11 seconds

What’s that they say: only fools and horses?

My wee Grandad has a lot to answer for. I think I’ll pop over and have a little discussion with him about pulling the leg of a whole country. He should be distracted enough with his new book of lies to not see me coming.

Which is a good thing: wherein I’m just really likable, Grandad is notably sociable.

And has buried more than a dozen American tourists to prove it.

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