While Santa’s elves are slaving away constructing train sets and tricycles for a measly extra €50 euro a week under the new North Pole Jobbridge deal, the Session Pixies are kicking back and cracking open a bottle of your aul one’s brandy as they gear up for this year’s festive frolics.
Dear Session Pixies, I bought my elderly grandfather a bottle of 12 year old Jameson for Christmas this year, as he is quite fond of a wee nip. Problem is, I had a bit of a shindig on the weekend and ended up knocking the whole thing back with a gang of fucking weirdos I invited back to mine on Saturday night. I’ve no idea who the fuck they were and I’m flat broke, what should I do?! Maggie, Lucan Dear John, Seems to us you’ve two options. One, you could go rob a bottle from Dunnes in Stephen’s Green. It’s handy enough and on the off chance you do get caught you can probably get away with bawling your eyes out. Two (or if you’ve any previous convictions), fill the empty bottle up with water and a drop of soy sauce. The senile old fucker wont notice a thing.
Dear Session Pixies, I was at a party last week and it was shit. How do I avoid this? Ciara, Sutton
Dear Ciara, The party got pretty good after you left. Sincerely, The Session Pixies
Dear Session Pixies, I was recently out with a pal of long standing, I assure you. As it happened, we chanced into one of the city’s most renowned, up-and-coming eatery slash drinkerys. Whilst dining, we were harassed enthusiastically by some plain Jane, with a friend who, I might add,was quite larger than life (if you follow my meaning). I tried to resist, honestly, but it was ultimately quite futile. She insisted I take her digits, and thereby forthwith instructing I contact her immediately I was home, which I did, most reluctantly, rest assured.
This unfortunately led to a weekly piss-up in said tavern, I’m afraid, which only led to stranger and stranger encounters with those of increasingly opposite sexes, until I found myself, quite frankly, on… sigh… sale, to windy-necked, bap-allergic, rambunctious, all night party boys in Belfast at tuppence a go. Thankfully that’s all behind me now, and I can proudly insist that I am a man of quite high regard. My problem, dear pixies, is this: Sometimes I pine for those nights of wild abandon. As I watch, moist eyed and full of sentimental yearning, as my fellows witter on endlessly on the plight of the modern economic pioneer and such, I long for those long nights of hard liquor, jenkem, glue, poppers and whizz. Am I a bad man? Eamon, The Dáil
Dear Eamon, Yes.