Fergal O'Flaherty, a rough hewn beast of a man, and a native of Cork City, pealed of his shirt, exposing a vest, and with a flick of his head tossed his mane of strawberry blonde hair down his back. A day of honest toil on the site and rewarded him with a wad of Euros in his back pocket, and a longing desire for several pints of the Black Stuff.
The doors of The King's Arms were wide open on this warm evening, lasciviously welcoming this Son of Gael like a spiritual home.
'A pint of Guinness for me; and whatever you're having my darling!' he added with impeccably accurate use of the semi-colon, demonstrating the relative strength of Irish Literary tradition to that of their former oppressor.
'I'll have an Archers with a dash of Aftershock, thanks!' Aiymiei the barmaid replied, with all the class that her Sarf-East Landan accent afforded.
Fergal slid lasciviously onto the barstool with all the subtlety of a snake, which of course there were none of in Ireland, as St Patrick had driven then out, so his terms of reference were sketchy at best. This mattered little to Aiymiei, whose GSCE in Beauty Therapy had not contained an element of Celtic History that particular year.
Several rounds later, Fergal stood as firm as the Rock of Cashel, but Aiymiei was a little worse for wear, having vomited profusely into the half empty crisp boxes behind the bar.
Touchingly removing the last specks of puke from the corners of her mouth, Fergal leant over the bar, and whispered suggestively into her ear 'Have you got any Irish in you!'
'Me babe! Naaaaahhhh!!'
'Would you like some?'
'Oh you smooth talking bastard! Bring it on!' she announced, before passing out.