Cheers mate. You can’t beat a pint of black when on tour in the home country of every fucking American president since the world began. We ordered two pints of Guinness, then asked for a wine for the lady, Sorry, said the barman. ‘Cider?’ Sorry. ‘Lemonade?’ Sorry. ‘Another pint of Guinness, then.’ Certainly, sir. There might be only one drink available in the arsehole of Ireland, but at least it’s a bloody good one, well worth waiting for.