At the York Arms bar I warned my brother, visiting from Cardiff, about the draught Pils, dubbed ‘loony juice.’
“Dorn’t sup more than two parnts o’that stoof,” chipped in a local.
“No probs,” my brother said, “I’m a Special Brew man.”
“Oh, aye,” said the local, thinking ‘stupid bloody southerner.’
Nine pints later we bundled my brother into the taxi, unable to walk, ranting unintelligibly.
Waking at noon on my student flat’s floor, he was greeted by his daylong pounding headache with nausea.
He had no recall of anything after the third pint, but remembers that hangover to this day.
“Dorn’t sup more than two parnts o’that stoof,” chipped in a local.
“No probs,” my brother said, “I’m a Special Brew man.”
“Oh, aye,” said the local, thinking ‘stupid bloody southerner.’
Nine pints later we bundled my brother into the taxi, unable to walk, ranting unintelligibly.
Waking at noon on my student flat’s floor, he was greeted by his daylong pounding headache with nausea.
He had no recall of anything after the third pint, but remembers that hangover to this day.
