Everything you’re about to read in this post needs to be qualified by the fact that my day yesterday started by pounding back more liquor than I could keep track of with Postcards of the Hanging blogger Skippy Stalin.
We get into some public arguments, but in real life Skippy is a hilarious writer, a great guy, and one of the most astute political observers around. But don’t tell him I said that, or it’ll go to his head and encourage him to pick more fights with me.
We boozed away for about four solid hours beginning in the early afternoon at an Irish pub in the Annex neighborhood. Never having been to Ireland, I can’t say this for certain, but I strongly suspect that their pubs, unlike every Irish pub I’ve ever been inside in Toronto, are not staffed exclusively by women wearing tartan miniskirts and knee socks. It’s not that I mind that, but it has a slightly pervy connotation to it, and the weird sense that you’re being served alcohol by a teenage Catholic school girl.