I know my love affair with alcohol is probably as poorly concealed to the public as the romantic relationship between George W. Bush and Tony Blair, and the truth is, it was getting a bit out of hand (the drinking that is, although I heard Tony is leaving his post shortly).
And being the responsible and mature person I have come to be known for,
I figured I´d better take some time off, really sober up and then return a new man, completely in charge of my life (nice excuse for a little vacation, huh?).
Now the only and hard question was, where would my days in rehabilitation be spent?
I first thought of staying at home, but with four cupboards (counting only the supplies in my room) filled to the maximum with Absolut Vodka and Swedish Punsch (all "legally" imported from Poland, I would never afford the prices here, despite the CEO salary I earn as a mailman), I realized that the temptation would probably, even for a strong-willed individual as myself, become overwhelming.
Or, to quote Oscar Wilde - "I can resist anything but temptation"
So I figured the Republic of Ireland, famous for its stunning nature, friendly people... and eh, manic Guiness consumption would prove an ideal fit for my recovery (this was BEFORE I heard about the Temple Bar Area.
Luckily for me, I knew some people over there, so I simply packed my bags and grabbed the first flight, convinced they would be more than delighted to have me show up at their door, giving me their best room and breakfast in the bed every morning (and some lovin').
However, a rather unpleasant surprise awaited me... instead of being welcomed as a king coming to claim his throne, instead I was chained in the basement (apparently my patriotism was too bloody annoying... no idea why), and after they found out about my drinking problem (through torture) I was forced to inhale copious amounts of alcohol. It was completely against my will that Berenburg bottle after Berenburg bottle was pressed to my mouth and the 40%, dutch content processed by my liver (the Żubrówka sessions are too traumatic to talk about).
I was actually let out of the basement and apartment at rare occasions though, but only when the sky father emptied his dirty bladder like there was no tomorrow, fully covered by a massive array of black clouds and Thor roaring the heavens with all his Viking aggressions unleashed (the clear blue, shiny-sun weather that Ireland is so well-known for I was never allowed to experience).
And the procedure for going out was always the same; on of them in front, one behind, two on the sides and some really scary semi-automatic pirate gun pressed to my back (I´ll never forget the noise it made when they used it to rob the swedish food store).
I could go on but... tears are so close now (garlic anyone?)Just kidding, ich liebe Dublin!