“Many people die of thirst but the Irish are born with one.” -Spike Mulligan

There’s a scene in Family Guy where Peter and Brian are in a plane flying into Ireland. Peter casually tells Brian “Ireland has more drunks per capita than people.” Brian is outraged and says “I don’t think the Irish drink as much as people say they do.” The scene ends with the plane landing on a runway covered in whiskey bottles.

The Irish have a bad reputation about being loud, crass, drunken brawlers. The other obvious national stereotype I can think of are Russian men drunk on Vodka. As a former alcohol connoisseur and current military historian I’ve often said most countries have a war culture and a drinking culture. As a bartender I found most people, whatever their nationality, are the same and those who never get drunk are often very wise or very lame.

While I have plenty of stories serving or drinking with the Irish, I know my favourite.

***

I was drinking and writing at my favourite pub when three large Irishmen sat down and flanked me at the bar. They were loud, bumped me often, and slightly annoying. It’s fair to point out I was sitting at a bartop, which aren’t always conducive for writing great literary works. I also could have moved or told them to mind my personal space. The first point is valid but I’m stubborn, and the second is fair but their combined weight was 5 times my own (and I’m not stupid).

But above all I was experiencing a writer’s high and wouldn’t have left if Skylar Snow asked me to go home with her. A writer’s high is that uncommon but blissful state of perfection that makes even the most bitter, cynical, and drunken author happy.It’s better than sex, weed, or sleeping in after a terrible week of bartending. My best writings, whether for school, work, and especially personal projects, have been produced by alcohol-induced writer’s highs.

I’m unsure how I broke the ice with the Irishmen, not least because they were likely aware of my displeasure with their loud presence. But I probably took a break from my writing, waited for an opening, and made a quick joke or astute observation. That’s always been my fallback as a reserved bartender. Whatever they thought of the tall, skinny, nerd writing at the bar between them, the dynamic changed instantly and we chatted amicably for the rest of the night.

I can’t remember much of the conversation, due to the passage of time and the many brain cells destroyed by whiskey shots, but I recall the themes.

There was a lot of fun back and forth about the former Queen of England (god rest her soul). Being Irish, the victims of English imperialism and the potato famine, there was a lot of “fuck the Queen” from them, and a lot of “c’mon, she had nothing to do with that” and me listing off charity work by the royal family. That’s right, I’m a monarchist and Canadians who think we should abolish it should ask if they’d prefer the political instability of the French political system, or the toxic polarization of the American one.

There were also friendly back slaps and jabs about other things the English did to annoy the Irish, and I rolled more with these because they were more valid and delivered by them hilariously. As I’ve aged I made it a point of admitting my own flaws (and my nations’) before lecturing others about theirs. Maybe it’s the historian in me, or the harsh realization that all individuals and nations have committed things we aren’t proud, of and wish we could atone for.

Either way, they bought me so many Jameson shots I was grateful my mom’s place was just down the street so I could pass out in the spare bedroom. I never did see the big and generous Irishmen again, and while my liver is grateful my heart weeps as it was one of the better nights at my favourite pub.

***

Fast-forward a few years later and my mom had just got back from her trip to Ireland. She was born on St. Patrick’s Day and went to the Emerald Island to get away from managing her idiot tenants.

My mom is always easygoing, polite, and being an old woman, never seen as a threat to anyone. Everyone was friendly and accommodated her, not least because she didn’t mention our family is 95% English! It was among her best trips, and she’s been to most places in Europe. However, there were a few… troubling “incidents” that bothered her.

Somehow we began talking about Family Guy and since she just got back from Dublin I turned to Irish skits. In the past my mom was too politically correct, to the point even mild jokes would provoke that lecturing voice all sons pretend to listen to, but ultimately ignore. However, she had lightened up in recent years so I listed off some of the MANY Irish jokes Family Guy has produced.

I realize we live in an era where sometimes it seems everyone is offended by everything. But my view is comedy is subjective, know your audience, and reasonable people know the difference between hate speech and an obvious joke. Either way, this is a bar memoir, not a manual on DEI for the poor HR people at self-righteous organizations. To be clear, I actually am progressive and think blatant racism and bullying should be stomped out immediately. I just don’t like when the far left rams things down peoples’ throat and calls you Hitler when you disagree with any of their golden tenets.

Despite all of that, I quickly realized my eight year old nephew had stopped playing and was watching us intently. While mature adults have critical thinking his mind was still developing and I knew racism, like most prejudices, is learnt at home. I’m not the best uncle but I quickly pivoted to a message of tolerance and acceptance worthy of a 1980s Transformers or G.I. Joe PSA.

I remember saying, like Brian on Family Guy, that the Irish don’t drink that much, it’s just a stereotype, and we were joking around. Being a bartender I did this with questionable authority and my delivery was clumsy. However, I’m convinced I got through to my nephew because he knew when I was being earnest.

That was until my mom, who 99% of the time is a paragon of maternal instinct, dropped an atomic bomb on my efforts to push a narrative of tolerance and understanding.

She said “I don’t know, I was there for 5 days and saw 3 drunken brawls in the streets.” Doing my best to stifle instant laughter I recovered with “mom, you’re not helping.” Not realizing I was trying to be the adult in the room for once she continued: “Two of the times it wasn’t even near a bar, they were fighting outside a grocery store.” 

By then I gave up, fell on the couch, and howled. After all, back then I was the drunk uncle and it wasn’t my job to teach my nephew political correctness. Either way, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Irish because I drank too much, suffered too much, and I’m often misunderstood. Stereotypes aside, too many Irish people throughout history can relate to that.