Continuing my series of vaguely racist rants I'm now going to complain about the Irish. Or, at least, their pubs. You see, as soon as an Irishman has been out of his country for about 5 minutes, he starts to feel a gnawing feeling inside his belly, he get the tremors, turns pale and begins to hallucinate. Why? Withdrawal symptoms, of course! He's missing his good ol' Oirish Pub!

Isish pubs are the most bloody ubiquitous thing in the world. Whether you're in an Alpine ski resort, an Australian city, the Sarah desert or even Atlantis you're probably never more than 5 minutes from one of these holes. I hate them, I really do. I hate the way that they're all dingy and smoke filled. I hate the way that the Guinness (brewed locally, and tasting of piss) is the most overpriced thing in the universe. I hate the way that the decor only ever consists of adverts from the 1920's and old farming equipment. But most of all, I hate the guy who plays acoustic covers of dreck like The Proclaimers every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. The thing I want to know is, if I hate them so much, how come I always accidentally seem to find my way into one?