The Lung Brothers

Hanging out at the extreme end of the long tail ...

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Idea to Make Millions - Nº. 462(b)

Not again.

This week while waiting on the platform of my local metro station, I saw yet another poster ad for a new beverage that claimed to be ‘Original Irish’. The label seemed to have been designed to look very, very like one of the major British brands of cider, so the ‘Original’ part was a bit of fucking cheek if you ask me.

I must confess to having never heard of this brand of booze and considering that my student years were mostly spent in the city centre’s public houses licking the puddles off of bar counters at closing time, there are not many brands of local hooch that I haven’t ended up pissing against a urinal wall at some time or other.

So, I suspect that this ‘traditional’ cider was in reality a concept that a marketing manager of one of the major breweries pulled out of his arse about a year or two ago. He then probably pitched it successfully to the greasy board of directors and upon receiving their blessing, went about promoting the venture. Now this is where things start to get right up my nasal passage.

Why is it that every bottle of Irish liquor, every film made on Irish soil, every one of the Irish pubs that have spread themselves over this continent like a rash of acne have to promote themselves as ‘Old Oirish’? Ninety percent of Irish films that I have seen over here portray us as twee, quaint, eccentric village folk in knitted sweaters who, although a little strange to deal with at first, eventually win your heart over with their common decency. Few are the movies about track suited skangers who like nothing better than to steal rented cars off tourists or partake in binge-drinking fights on O’ Connell Street of a Saturday night. Because you see, these would not be Irish films, they would be Irish documentaries.

Ireland is basically a country that has gone from being a religiously oppressed, corrupt, second-world nation to becoming the yuppie capital of Europe in less than a generation. Whereas before, we were begrudging hypocrites, we are now nouveau riche materialists. Most people hadn’t even heard of ‘gazumping’ before 1985 and now it’s our national sport. At no point in time do I ever remember us being Ye Olde Traditional Mystic Islandfolke. That is an image that our foreign pub owners, our local conmen and our tourist board have been promoting ever since the The Quiet Man scored well at the box-office.

But you know what pisses me off even more? That marketing gobshite at the brewery is probably getting paid a six-figure salary to come up with this dross. Now a lesser man might end up bitter at this thought - but not I. As the handful of readers of this blog well know, I pride myself in being forward thinking and idealistic. So instead of begrudging these silly novelties, I decided to come up with an even sleazier one of my own. I would like to proudly present: (drum roll)

A Mystic Taste of the Country where Tradition was Born.

Traditional Irish Basmati rice, harvested by dray horses from the ancient paddy fields of the Bog of Allen, fermented in sealed currachs, distilled in copper cairns in the age-old ways of our forefathers, matured in caskets of stag hide in secret caves under the Hill of Tara, gently warmed on a glowing turf fire and served in a shaman’s ceramic chalice, we give you the mellow flavour of the original Celtic Sake.

It is said that on the eve of the Battle of Clontarf, Brian Ború called for a cup of warm rice wine from his fairy godmother, Grainne Òg who was also the Good Witch of Ulster (in the north of Ireland). Not wanting to deny her favourite godson his wish, she brandished her shelaliegh thrice to the East and summoned five swans to go on a quest in search of the beverage. The only surviving swan returned just before the fight was to begin carrying a vial of the tepid liquid on its back which it had retrieved from a strange land far away called Tir ni Pon. The moment the small bottle was taken from the swan, it fell dead and turned into a rock or a tree trunk or some other inanimate landmark that can be visited by tourists today. It is believed that on that fateful day, it was the fortitude bestowed by the magical mystery drink that helped Brian Ború defeat the Vikings in battle and go on to become King of all Ireland.

You too can now travel back into the mists of time when you sip upon the smooth, rich elixir that has been brewed by the O’ Hanlon family for generations.

O’Hanlon’s Original Irish Sake is best imbibed at a temperature of 40º C while wearing a thick Arran sweater. (which can be purchased at quality clothing outlets around the country and in all Irish Duty Free Shops)

Gout de Terrior? Gout de Terrior? Sure why do ye tink they called them feckin’ paddy fields in the first place?

So what do you reckon folks? Could this be my ticket to Easy Street or what?

Friday, March 09, 2007

Rogue Thought No. 314

If Lung the Younger and myself are of one mind, does that make us a couple of half-wits?

Thursday, March 01, 2007

‘Vice President Left Unharmed from a Suicide Bombing at a US Airbase in Afghanistan which Killed 9 Other People’

Did anyone else out there read this headline and immediately think of the OMEN trilogy?