The Four Drunks

a little tongue in cheek tale for you…

They had been celebrating Padraig’s name day since early morning, and by now, they were all well into their cups. Padraig had insisted that they watch the GAA Club Finals, though none of them understood the rules.

Still, it could be worse.

Last year on Drew’s name day, Drew had insisted on playing a game of Shinty.

Georgey-boy had ended up with concussion after a very dodgy clip around the back of the head, while he wasn’t looking. No one had admitted to the deed afterward, but they all knew the culprit.

“… I still don’t get it,” complained George. “You’re not even Irish.”

“Ach! He’s at it again!” chimed in Drew. “That’s just typical of a wee Sassenach!”

George ignored the big Scot and continued his tirade. “It doesn’t seem fair, that’s all. All you did was evict a few snakes, and they gave you a bloody sainthood!”

“It’s a metaphor, Georgey-boy. I broke the stranglehold of druidism and brought Christ’s name to the heathens …”

“Yes, but that was a piece of cake. I had to kill a bleedin’ dragon to get my sainthood, and he was a mean bugger too! Then, they decide that killing an evil dragon isn’t saintly enough! What do they bleedin’ want?”

“While we’re on the subject of dragon slaying … we’re still not happy about that,” chimed in David, who they thought had passed out in the corner. “It’s not right, so it isn’t!”

“Listen, Taffy. It wasn’t your villages that the brute was burning to the ground …” growled George with his usual belligerence. “Or you’re maidens he was gobbling up by the dozen. No dragon in his right mind would eat welsh peasants.”

“He was the last of our noble Welsh Dragons! Their majestic race is now extinct, and all because you thought it would be fun to go dragon hunting.”

Padraig drained his pint and decided to change the subject. “It’s your round, Drew. Get them in before the second half starts, will ya?”

“What! It can’t be my round already!” protested Drew.

“It is!” assured Padraic, with a smirk. “Georgey-boy bought the last round. Don’t you remember?”

In truth, they’d long lost count of whose round it was, but by an unwritten law, whenever they were in doubt, it was Drew’s round. Naturally, they never revealed this philosophy to the inebriated Scot. That would ruin the joke.

With a heavy sigh, Drew stood up and adjusted his sporran, before barging through the busy pub to the bar.

“He falls for it every time,” Davey commented with a soft grin.

“It’s still not fair,” exclaimed George, who hadn’t given up on the argument, even though no one was interested.

“Build a bridge, Georgey-boy! Build a feckin’ bridge!” advised Padraig, knowing that the Englishman was still seething over last weekend’s Six Nations loss.

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