Go to Mass and Don’t Drink Wine

I have just been refused wine!!!

And not due to my non-youthful good looks.  Because of…grrrr….the ”system”.  Yes, in good Catholic Holy Ireland where no crime is ever committed, nobody ever does anything wrong and where drinking and fornication is a sin, you cannot buy wine in a public supermarket before 12.30pm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   I kid you not.  I have just been in the aforementioned public supermarket, and on behalf of Lilsister, stuck two bottles of a very lovely South African chenin blanc that we have been drinking throughout the Christmas period, on top of my tissues and a box of condoms, which I decided to buy in a vain effort to make it appear that this year, as per Middlebro’s request, I shall have sex.  Looking at my basket, I hoped that I would not need any assistance at the till, as I look like a total and utter slut with these contents (I HAD done my food shopping yesterday but returned as I needed to buy blueberries for my breakfast tomorrow.  I am studying for exams with the ever-pointless Institute of Bankers and blueberries are a good brain food.  I’ve also received a text from the Institute of Idiots during the week ”reminding” me that oh joy, it’s time to pay up again for a year’s worth of membership.  Yes, I have to sit exams for a job that I have 12 years experience in doing, pay for the exams, study around a full time job which will NOT give me study leave as I am ”only” a temporary staff member, and then pay for the privilege of sitting said exams with a (scam central) membership fee of forty euro per annum!!!  Bankers doesn’t rhyme with wankers for no reason, my little flowerpots).

Well I suppose the addition of blueberries takes away from the complete slut goodies I had with me so small mercies, as I must be allowed to say because it’s Sunday and this is Holy Catholic Ireland, where we all live in such fear of god’s smite that we never do anything wrong.  How can we – we’re all drunk or high 24-7.

Checking my basket contents again, I felt that the self service till would be my best option and I headed over to one, and began scanning the tissues, then the condoms (which took three attempts at scanning – something wasn’t working and I was THIS close to throwing them back over to the discounted bleach and other bathroom cleaning products stand behind me when they finally went through – and accounted for HALF of my eventual spend – since when did condoms become so expensive? ).  I got to the wine which immediately FLASHED  a warning message about a time delay.  ”I am not trying to open a safe,” I growled at the screen, and began flailing my first bottle at the screen in a desperate attempt to have it swipe and register the ”bing!” to tell me I could move on.  It would not, and I had to call the 12 year old male assistant to my aid, telling him there were ”issues buying the wine” to which he replied ”there are never issues buying wine” and I didn’t feel so bad about my unbagged condoms and tissues.  He looked as shocked as I did at the time delay message and went manager-hunting, returning with a frowned face to tell me that, amazingly, in 2013, you cannot buy alcohol in a supermarket in the Republic of Ireland (a Republic gained after 800 years of English oppression,  and after blasting Dublin to bits, executing the rebellious leaders and after we tore each other apart in a bloody civil war – all in the name of FREEDOM).  This is only on Sundays, because this is Holy Catholic Ireland.

”Is my sister to remain SOBER on this day?” I wailed but to no avail, there was Nothing He Could Do.  I rang Lilsister with the disappointing news, and I was glad to hear that she had already taken to the bed, because perhaps she can sleep through the afternoon, rather than face it alert and undulled by hints of peach and lemon.

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