7 July 2012

S & M Irish Bar

Sawmills, come summer, can get hotter than the steamy welcome to the world of S & M novels woman are all over this year. Makes a man thirsty.

When Sonja got home from her air conditioned office she wanted to go to the Wet Spot to eat. "Fuck the Wet Spot," I told her. For a restaurant whose owner owns an East End hockey club, their beer sure is shitty. "We're going to the pub."

There are only a handful of pubs here in my eerily in love with Jesus city. Have not added to their number since Sonja and I joined them in their ignorance of the modern world many years ago. We chose the Irish one.

Every city has a fucking Irish pub. They are as inevitable  as naked Mounties parading around in their police issue bondage boots on internet S & M sites. Ours is better than most. Live music half the week, good food, decent beer selection, comely waitresses, lots of parking.

We chose ourselves a comfortable table and were promptly brought our drinks. Draught cider for me, a bottle of red for my air conditioned love. Pretty soon the horror of the sawmill was replaced by the horror of Irish music.

Van Morrison, first and most importantly, can fuck off and die. Who died and made him King of Ireland? Him and all the rest of the Irish cunts you have to listen to in Irish bars, you know who I mean, ought to be buried side by side in a cold Irish mass grave.

No Undertones, no Stiff little Fingers, no Horslips, no Rory Gallagher, no Thin Lizzy: just the same crap you hear in every bar from Dublin to Delhi.

Fuck them.

Makes me wonder who you would have to listen to in a Canadian themed bar. Don Messer and Celine Dion?

As we ate and drank I looked over tomorrow's Racing Form as Sonja read her latest S & M novel. When our waitress brought our bill over she casually struck up a conversation about bondage with us. Happens every where we go now. It took thirty-five years but the world has finally caught up with the world of kinky punk rock shit old punk rockers like Sonja and I have enjoyed all these years.

Tonight I think I am going to have Sonja tie me up, make me listen to Van Morrison and spank me with Pogues albums until I beg for mercy.


Nazz Nomad said...

Fuck Van Moorison. And fuck the Clancy Brothers. I spent a lot of my youthful drinkin' years throwing down dollars and ducking punches (mostly) in Queens, New York in Irish bars (as Irish Bars would let you drink when you were 15. ). I've spent too many fucking nites watching old Irish drunks crying whilst belching out Danny Boy.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Fuck every motherfucking Clancy on the planet.

RossK said...

Them Clancy's, they already be part of the dirtiets of the dirty bits of the planet.

'Cause they all be dead.