shiny blogging nonsense

Growing up in my house there were two kinds of football. Football and soccer. No, before anyone starts, we’re not American. We’re Irish. My Mum’s from the hurling side of a Gaelic county and my Dad grew up in Dublin, in a cul de sac full of second generation Dubs like himself, influenced by their culchie parents’ love of the GAA. That said, my mother somewhere along the lines, whether through a love of Kevin Moran, Denis Irwin or the colour red, became an avid Manchester United fan. I’ve often said she would watch the Paraguayan tiddly winks championship, if there was such a thing, so I suppose she had to pick someone to shout for.  My Dad, however, only really watches sport when he’s working at it, and only vaguely supports Sunderland because Niall Quinn’s a nice bloke.  Still though, to save confusion football meant Gaelic football and when talking about the other football, at least until after September, we generally said soccer. Then I went and met a fella who

It was a great way to end what was, without a doubt, the best two weeks’ annual leave I’ve ever taken.    On Monday, the Bank Holiday I almost forgot, I met three of my longest serving friends for lunch. At 1pm we met and ordered various combinations of breakfast, lunch and brunch, depending on how long it was since we’d left the bed. Though oddly, the one who was up most recently ordered a burger. I decided on brunch as you’re allowed, if not obliged, to have a drink with it. Some confusion over the drinks order resulted in a very welcome glass of prosecco followed by a bottle of red wine. The bottle was swallowed in no time and dessert and coffees quickly stepped in to fill the void. We decided to go back to my place for another bottle of wine, stopping in Superquinn to buy some crisps, cheese and goodies for later on, just in case.  We arrived and the crisps and jellies were immediately opened as was a bottle of wine, which was poured out into three glasses. Pellegrin