I know this is gonna shock you guys, but - I'm Irish.
As in, my Dad came to the States when he was 26-Irish.
(Don't adjust your computer monitor. Our skin is supposed to be that pale.)
We Americans think we take our partying seriously. We are strictly JV, people. The travel team is over there on the Emerald Isle.
One Sunday when my Dad and his friends were stuck in traffic, they asked the cop who was in charge of directing the traffic where a certain pub was.
After a few frustrating minutes of trying to explain, the cop said, "Ah hell- move over- I'll just go with ya." and left the traffic snarl to fend for itself.
Seriously. That is some prioritizing right there.
(Pubs were closed on Sundays, BTW...everyone knows you just go around and ring the side door bell.)
But my favorite is the "bona fide pubs".
Back in the day, when the pubs closed for the night, you could still get a drink at a "bona fide" pub. But there was a catch.
The bona fides were supposed to be only for 'The Weary Traveler". The rules were, only those who were "in the course of a journey"were allowed. And you had to have traveled 5 miles from where you slept.
So, my Dad and his buddies would close down one pub, hop in a car, drive 5 miles to a bona fide pub where the bouncer would come out:
Bouncer: "Bona fide?"
Dad & crew: "Bona fide."
Bouncer: "Come on in."
It's the thought that counts.