Justice for the Irish! And Donations for the Canadian Cancer Society!

Where to? THE PUB OF COURSE!

Pubbing time!

‘Tis well known around these parts that we (this is the Royal We, you understand, unlike the Royal Wee, which is quite another thing entirely) enjoy a good pub. Occasionally, we even enjoy a terrible pub. The Pub as a social institution is near and dear to our hearts (yes, we has one…or several, if you count the ones buried in the basement). The Pub as a dispensary of alcohol is near and dear to our liver, and indeed, responsible for most our extra padding and a large number of our bad decisions over the years.

But enough about US!

Let us all, all of us, bow down to the true Queen of the Pubs. Contemporary Ireland may or may not be so hot on Queens as a group, but this specific one they must adore. And there can be no question that she will lead the country some day officially, as she leads and speaks for it now in an unofficial, volunteer capacity.

Behold the six-year-old Queen of All Pubs.

The six-year-old [unnamed, but surely it’s a grand Gaelic name] daughter of Jamie Moynihan would like to go to the pub, please. She cannot. BUT WHYYYYYY?

She has her makeup done and everything. Minnie got to go to the pub (for her dad’s birthday). Why can’t she go to the pub? The big kids go to the pub, and she’s SIX! SIX, Mummy!

“It’s my weekend off.”

If her mom lets her go to the pub, “I won’t go to the bingo anymore.”

This kid gets out a LOT more than I do.

Somebody crown her already, please. Can we drink to that?

Cheers to the Queen of Pubs

Cheers to the Queen of Pubs!

Editor’s Note:

There, wasn’t that a fun little blog post? Delightful, delightful, if I do say so myself (and who else is gonna, I axe yez?). Now that I have your attention, I would like to draw same attention to some very important raincoasterish business, and that is

DRY JANUARY and DRY FEBRUARY and OH MY GOD I AM DOING THEM BOTH THIS YEAR GOD SAVE ME.

The Queen of Pubs can have my spot at the bar for the next 60 days at least, because this little cancer survivor is going to be doing what I’m doing now, which is sitting in an armchair drinking icewater with ginger bitters in it. Eating healthy things like vegan cabbage rolls. Taking vitamins and supplements. Working out. And, most importantly, raising money for the Canadian Cancer Society, which I will be doing by pointing you directly at the link to donate, a link of which you will avail yourselves, I am sure.

Dry Feb Header

Please Support my Dry February Fundraiser for the Canadian Cancer Society

As always, sharing is caring, so whether or not you donate, sharing the link to one or more of your social networks would be greatly appreciated. My goal this year is to raise $500, and looks like I’ve already got my first donation. Start off the New Year doing something good for the world. Look, I have to suffer (have you ever tasted flat ice water with ginger bitters side-by-side with a good Scotch? Lemme tell you, I’m suffering) but you don’t. Not even with a guilty conscience.

Put out for me, Internet! Put out for the cancer patients! Put out for the Queen Of Pubs!

You know you want to.

Nick and Nora

The Thin Man Drinking Game

Nick and Nora

Nick and Nora

Apparently TCM is running The Thin Man, one of the truly great movies of the Thirties, featuring two of the truly greatest performances, those of William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles. And also, since it was released just after Prohibition was lifted, featuring an awful lot of every possible kind of booze, making it perfect for a drinking game.

So, without further ado, here is the drinking game I came up with. Basically, every time the characters toss back a Rock and Rye or a Martini or a raw slug straight out of the bottle, you take a drink, one relating to what they’re drinking at the time.

You will need a bottle of Scotch, white wine, Champagne, a cocktail spirit of your choice (we don’t recommend sticking with Scotch all the way through), one shot of Jaegermeister per person, a lot of the mixer of your choice, appropriate garnishes that should be pre-prepared because you’ll be too drunk later, cocktail glasses, highball glasses, wine glasses, champagne glasses, a cocktail shaker or pitcher depending on your preferred cocktail, cocktail ingredients of your choice.

For survivability’s sake, make all your cocktails and highballs singles, no more than 1 1/2 ounces of alcohol, and about 4-6 ounces of mixer. If you watch the movie, you’ll see that’s the standard size back then. The secret to the Six Martini Evening, as Nick knew and Nora discovered, is to keep to singles (which I was quite horrified to discover, bars still make unless you ask for a double. Huh. Imagine that. Ottawa; so very different from Vancouver).

It’s probably best to pre-mix a generous pitcher or shaker of cocktails before the movie starts. Keep lots of ice on hand as well, in case you get dehydrated or you bought the cheap Scotch. You will be drinking wine, taking shots, consuming cocktails, tossing back highballs, and quaffing Champagne. Should be quite a party.

Good luck getting to the end of the movie!

Seeing Nick and Nora have six martinis in the bar, DRINK A COCKTAIL

Looks like scotch and soda in the meeting with Macauley, DRINK A HIGHBALL

Nick handing out cocktails at the party, a dozen or so on a tray, so everyone have a COCKTAIL or HIGHBALL your choice

Nora handing out COCKTAILS at the party, have a COCKTAIL

Nick drinks a HIGHBALL although he appears to have had a few.

Nora hands the remaining cocktails to reporters. If you’re a reporter, bonus COCKTAIL!

Nick drinks Nora’s Rye COCKTAIL.

Nora has a HIGHBALL she gives Dorothy

Nick mixes himself another HIGHBALL

“maybe it’d help you to sleep” Nick pours himself a HIGHBALL and shotguns it.

Nora requests a drink, Nick makes her a straight SCOTCH which she doesn’t drink

Nick drinks her scotch, drink the drink of the person on your left.

Nick gives her some straight SCOTCH to bring her around after he slugs her.

Nick slugs a lot of SCOTCH

Nora gives him a glass of HIGHBALL but drinks SCOTCH from the bottle. Twice.

Then he drinks the HIGHBALL in the tumbler.

Christmas morning, Nick drinks a HIGHBALL

Nunhiem pours a SLUG for the Lt., Nick drinks it, and it’s nasty. TAKE A SHOT OF JAEGERMEISTER.

“It’s putting me way behind in my drinking” Nick has a HIGHBALL

Waiter/cop at dinner offers a COCKTAIL

Morelli drinks a glass of WHITE WINE

Nick drinks some WHITE WINE

Glasses of CHAMPAGNE on the train

Eat! Drink! Click!

Tea for one

Tea for one

You should all go over and read my new blog: drinkscoaster.com. A new home for food, drink, and travel posts.

Someone’s going to be MADD at these guys

Now, is that a social media fail, or a marketing fail, or a just plain tragic any-way-you-look-at-it fail? Whatever it is, you just stay classy, Zimbabwe, you stay classy!

Did I tell you the one about my Gramma, John Kerry, and Jack Daniels?

John Kerry only WISHES he had my Gramma's swag

John Kerry only WISHES he had my Gramma’s swag

That is not, contrary to appearances, a picture of my grandmother (known to all as “Gramma” and god help you if you didn’t call her that but tried something more formal, ooooh she wouldn’t be having any of that, now. But it certainly does appear to be a picture of Gramma, for verily it looks very much like her down to the too-short haircut, and I’m pretty sure she had that shirt as well. But that’s actually a picture of ‘Murrican mucky-muck John Kerry trying and failing to blend in at a dance ceremony in Bali.

That is most definitely NOT what my Gramma would have done.

At her eightieth birthday my Gramma got up on the table and danced to Patricia the Stripper, and if she’d been at this shindig with Kerry she’d have gotten those temple dancers to do the Dougie before you can say “Gramma, you’ll break a hip!”

Speaking of hips, my Gramma was pretty. Hip. Follow along!

I was over on Facebook the other day, having taken too many flu meds to do any decent work, and my friend Cassandra was in need of distraction (what is it with the #DramaSec these days? People deleting accounts left and right. Assange taking a family quarrel to Twitter in front of two million followers. Takedown notices, bogus and not, flying all over the digisphere. Enough already, the new moon is over!) so I told her the following story, for distraction purposes only. Do not operate heavy machinery under the influence of this story. Do not read if pregnant (because you have better things to do with your few remaining hours of freedom) or breastfeeding (because it’s really, really hard to handle a baby and a laptop at the same time and what if puke gets in the keyboard, eh? You’ll wish you’d listened to me then!).

Where was I?

Oh yes, on Facebook, telling Cassandra a story about Tennessee. You see, it’s considered quite exotic in Ottawa, where my Gramma lived. And here is the story about my Gramma‘s travels to exotic Tennessee just as I told it to Cassandra, for lo, I am very lazy and I just copy-pasted it.

Now, Gramma did not drink. In my family, this alone makes her somewhat legendary. But Gramma was not above knowing the value of an alcoholic comestible, or of taking advantage of that knowledge by running what amounted to an arbitrage on the celebratory beverage in question, by the simple means of purchasing it in one physical location and transporting it to another, where its selling price was higher. The ungenerous would call this “bootlegging,” and it has been the start of more than one great Canadian fortune.

Gramma would take bus tours of what she called “my old people”, ie they were like five years older than her, but not as lively, down to Tennessee and Missouri to do whatever it is old people do there. Tours. Watch the Osmonds. That sort of thing. And coming back she would get them all to smuggle bottles of Jack Daniels anywhere she could find a space. Under lumbago cushions. In big granny purses. In wig cases. Everywhere. Once, she struck gold because a guy had been in a cast from his waist down to his toes for a couple of months and his leg wasted away and she could fit four bottles in the space between his leg and the cast. When they got to the border, she would just yell at the border guard, “THESE ARE SENIORS, YOUNG LAD! THEY NEED TO GO HOME AND REST!” and never once were they searched. She gave the bottles as wedding and Christmas presents, and would supplement the punch at family parties with it, among other things.

I find, upon leafing through the ol’ raincoaster archives, that there is indeed an actual picture of my Gramma. At my cousin’s house. Legally blind. Shooting at a turkey from the deck, beside a stack of beer cases, with a tank of propane between the muzzle of the gun and the target.

You go, Gramma!

Bang Bang, my Gramma shot you down!

Bang Bang, my Gramma shot you down!