Day Drinking (and How to be a Wanker)

Like most things, this started in a bar in the empty stomach dizziness a half dozen hours from your last meal, lunch.

Your comrade is gingerly tearing the edges of a laser cut craft beer bar mat and talking about the difficulties encountered that day in the bullpen of his office. He works in marketing. Sales….no, it’s like P.R. or something like that. He wears a casual suit and talks of metrics, impact and scalable solutions, but you didn’t pay attention the first time he ran through that what his work is and now 6 months down the line it just seems embarrassing to ask. You take a drink from your glass and while his back his turned- one from his, too. He continues.

“The lack of professionalism is absolutely disgusting” he spits, “Taking a client on a LVM while the directors out running the commissioner’s reorganization. Smacks of synergetic self-interest and knowledge silo-ing and I’ll be damned if I’m allowing it under the new umbrella branching system coming in next quarter” he quaffs the last half of his pint fluidly, and I follow suit. He slams his empty glass down for emphasis. “fuckin right, man” I belch, and do a feeble arm wave to the barman for 2 more. Happy hour is a mere 120 minutes so we must move swiftly. We have gotten this down to fluid mechanical precision over these last few months. The record is 8 beers.

“How about you, still ridin’ that one from the Golf Shop?” he muses, never looking up from his face sized smartphone, “you were mad about her, no?”. My mind briefly flashes back a month, or six weeks….no was after the concert — so 2 months ago- wherein I gushed at length about a Tinder encounter with the coolest woman to my fairly inebriated albeit, attentive buddy here. Things were on the up and up. “That cunt?” I swallowed a fresh sip, “Ah, she had some serious notions on her. Affecting that accent. I know you’re from Coolock hun, a golf shop in Portobello will hardly modify yer DNA, get the fuck over yourself”. He chuckles, and I leave out the part where I got way too drunk at the pub after the gig her mates played at, and I made a show of myself at the house party attacking some ideological bag of shite with hoops in his ears, and summoned my own expulsion from the after party by vomiting Sambuca over the settee.

“She was just a fucking thick”. He nods smoothly, his furrowed brow suggesting knowledge. “ah c’mere man they all are. The air is filled with sagely nodding, and the crinkle of cellophane pouches. The rustling of rolling papers. Across the bar, a girl in an oversized plaid shirt and pigtails drops her pint of stout, punctuating the silence. We roar and cheer derisively as is tradition, but no one else joins in. Civilization is fucked, I thought. “These fuckin kids are absolute spastics”, he roars, “if you’re not going to be a bit of craic stay at home in your safe space and drink, leave the pubs to the men!”

There’s no reaction to that either, we stash our bags and take the pints outside for a smoke

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