“You know, you sound like you’re becoming a bit of a lush” says N. to me, “…what with the vodka cocktails and all”. By “and all” he probably meant my flirtations with cognac, porter and the occasional curious wine.
Oh dear. Was I really starting to sound like a pickled spud?
What springs to mind when you hear the word culture?
Does it conjure up images of the arts and theatre, dahling?
Or does your mind turn to those things that help to define a shared national identity?
Or do you think, instead, of buttermilk? (in which case your view of culture would appear to be rather more bacterial than regional)
I think that Guinness drinkers the world over would agree that 1759, the year in which Arthur Guinness signed the hugely optimistic 9,000 year lease on the St. James’s Gate Brewery, was, by their reckoning, a very good year. Apparently 1969 wasn’t a bad year either, at least as far as one particular Guinness drinker was concerned. As this photograph will attest, my Dad got a large bottle of Guinness for his birthday that year from his clearly very clued-in children (whose ranks, at that stage, I was yet to join).
Guinness, the best birthday present a Dad could get