How about some CRAIC?
I was in a pub last night and asked the 'tender about the cozy table over there in the corner. "Ah well, that there is for the lasses." he warned. "Yea, but I want to sit there, ya see." I reply anxiously. He topped off my perfect pint of Guinness and lay it on the bar. "Lad, he squinted, ya don wanna sit with the lasses." "Oh yea, why not?" Sipping my frothy pint, he insists that I'm fine there at the bar . Yet that empty table in the corner beckoned.
Halfway through my pint, I decided I'd sidle over to that table despite the warning. Okay, seems like any other table to rest my pint. So I sat. Took a look at notches along the edge of the table. Thought to myself that that table has been there hundreds of years. Many pints have crossed its path. Why worry?
In comes a lass, chilled by the rain, nudges me over. I asked if she was cold and I'd get her a coffee. " Ah yes, that would be nice. Yes, an Irish coffee." She said sheepishly. Cool, I thought, an Irish girl. Soon she was two-handing that coffee to quell the cold.
A minute later, a few more girls, wearing sashes, dove into the booth from the cold. They all ordered Irish coffees, with a Jameson's. Dang, I've never been surrounded by so many redheads in one place, ever. This was cool!
Next thing I knew,one, then two more girls squeezed in tightly. Each one gave me a wink and ordered an Irish coffee through the tiny window through to the back of the bar. Soon a few more coffees passed through that little cubbyhole.
Finally, one last girl wearing a red sash holding a phallic shaped object, a whiskey, winked, and wedged herself into the last bit of space. I felt that if I tried to sip my beer, I'd spill it into my lap, so I just looked around and smiled nervously.
The gal with the red sash began chanting in her sing-song Gaelic and the rest followed in unison. Whipping around that phallic object like a maestro and his orchestra, they all began singing. I pretended I knew the words, swaying my head back and forth, still smiling.
Just as they finished, they filed out of that tiny cubby just as they entered-with a wink. I smiled.
Boy, was that grand!
Asked the bartender for the tab. Smiling, he said, " Lad, I tried ta warn ya bout the lasses. It'll be forty-eight euro." I didn't smile. Then he added, " That's grand! You've just been hen-pecked in that thar snug." That guy, Dick Mac, pulled out a small knife and put another notch in that table.
I smiled, and paid up.