The nights are getting longer, the days are getting warmer and the Session Pixies are awakening from their hibernatorial slumber to come and fuck you up at four o’clock in the morning.
Dear Session Pixies,
Does anyone seriously still drink the cheap and nasty cans of ‘lager’ you two seem to be perched on in your graphic above, don’t you fucks realise there’s a whole new world of nasty and disgusting craft beers with peculiar sounding names available in every off licence? Why don’t you guys go and imbibe some of these peculiarly boutique beers with completely agonised over contrived names like Sailors Wank, Thirsty Lumberjack or Carlow Rua?
– Pietro Dish
Dear Pietro,
If a lame ass booze slinging corporation wants to come along and underwrite our column by supplying us with a case of their finest piss then who are we to turn it down? Only a dumbass would assume we drink it however. Instead we loiter around the Ag science block in UCD and sell it on in the case load to culchie farmers looking to boost their confidence before heading out for a night of gob lobbing in those sleazy pulling parlours run by ex-pigs on Harcourt St.
Later in the night, some of our extended pixie clan snort up lines of invisibility powder and follow these spud savages home to their digs after their garlic mayonnaise orgies in Abrakebabra. Once sure they’re finally passed out on the couch, a full bladder extraction is performed under cover of darkness. The juice of their night’s binge is sucked away and then stored in vast vats in pixie land.
This lush by-product of Ray D’Arcy loving scum will be coming to a craft beer tap near you soon under the moniker Midweek Nights – expect a full bodied farmer’s flavour, infused with a childhood worth of country air with the slightly stale smokey after taste of a five year long Marlboro lights habit. We’ll send you a batch.
Dear Session Pixies,
Pixies me arse. Look here you pair of gallivanting little gobshites, I know what you lot are up to. Haven’t I seen with my own eyes. There ye are, in fine fettle masquerading as a pair of hooligans on the session with your lower shelf sports wear. Haven’t I seen! Haven’t I seen! With my own eyes and the eyes don’t lie! Recall I do that time I came across the pair of ye sucking on a balloon of Noz down in the rave in the woods at Electric Picnic. It was then I realised it. Them wide eyes in your heads are not from ramming too much party powders up your nose – it’s your natural state. Space aliens that you are! Bastard ancient aliens!
– Seamus ‘Eyeball’ Templetontonton
Ah, Jim Corr,
Tis yourself. Sure wouldn’t we spot your frenetic paranoid dribblings a mile away. The cheek of ye accusing us of deception with your shly attempt to conceal thyself behind a pathetic pen name. You’re not wrong about our encounter at aforementioned boreal bashment, however James m’dear, we seem to remember a slightly different version of events. Here’s three key phrases to help point you down the merry way of memory: shamanic clover priest, ketamine, uncontrollable bowel movement. Hope the rash clears up by the way.
Dear Session Pixies,
I’ve been having a problem with my neighbour, they keep saying hello to me and I really don’t know what to say, it’s … awkward to say the least. If I say hello back, isn’t that like inviting a complete stranger into your home to destroy your privacy and suck the blood out of your neck?
Yours,
– Molly Polygon
Molly,
Sometimes hello is the hardest word. Before we recommend opening your door to these known unknowns can you describe these neighbours? Palid complexion? Shifty eyes? No reflections? They live amongst us Molly.
Young Fine Gaelers. Be very, very careful. Keep one hand on your wallet, one hand on your crotch, keep smiling but keep moving. Don’t let them over the threshold, they’ll have you paying for air before you can say Phil Hogan.