United Nations of Beer

Pogue Fado

by Jill Lutes
(Beer Delegate, NS, Canada)

Pogue Fado pub
Halifax, NS, Canada

There is something inherently disconcerting about waking up early on a Sunday. Sundays are meant for sleeping in. Resting. Relaxing. Isn't the seventh day when God took a break? Why am I up before 9am? Why does it feel like my teeth are wearing sweaters? And why am I still wearing a toque? (that’s 'hat' to all you non-Canucks).

Glimpsing the upside-down black stamped letters spelling "Pogue Fado" on my right hand, it all comes back to me. The wine... the beer... the Crown and Cokes... the intense sugar high... the begging for money... oh dear. I yank my hat off, roll over and shove my head under the pillow, and try to remember how this all started...

"One million euros," Griff repeats. I catch my jaw before it hits the floor.
"Well, of course. Because two million would just be greedy."
"Do you not think I'll do it?" he asks with a grin. I shake my head.
"No, no, you’ll totally do it. I just... wow. Think of how many cheeseburgers you could buy with that."

Griff gives me a 100-watt grin. "Excellent. We’re going out St. Paddy's Day, to sell suckers at the bars. I'll be the chauffer, picking up the money from time to time."
"Griff..." I start, and then stop.
"Yes?"
"You’re Irish. Aren't you meant to be drinking on St. Paddy's Day? Surely there’s a law that prohibits you from staying sober."
"I think the Irish Drinking Police will let me off the hook just this once."

And that is how, two weeks later, I came to be standing outside the doors of the Pogue Fado. "Is there anyone inside with these shirts on?" I ask the bouncer again, pulling at my bright green Tony Griffin Foundation tee shirt.

"Honey, everybody's wearing green tonight. It's St. Patrick's Day." He rolls his eyes like I came to Pogue Fado on the short bus.

I stand on tiptoes and attempt to look him in the eye.
"These shirts," I repeat, trying to ignore the yells at my back that I've skipped the line. "They would have been carrying buckets. And suckers," I add, shaking the box of candy I'm holding.
He finally smiles and holds the door open. "Oh yeah, the cancer guys. They're in there. Go ahead. Hey! Get a stamp!"

I trade a sucker for a stamp, forgoing the cover charge of $5.00, which is standard for the Pogue Fado any night of the week. They are also in the habit of handing out passes, so we rarely find ourselves having to pay, even when we're not representing a charity. The girls behind the desk wave, holding their suckers. The rest of Team TGF can't be that far away.

Shoving past countless drunken students and the occasional senior (the Pogue Fado always has a mixed crowd), I weave in between two guys to stand at the bar and order two pints of Kilkenny. Almost immediately I double over in a coughing fit. The bar's been pepper sprayed. Nice.

I chug the first pint, trying to chase away the dry, itchy feeling in my throat and watch the bouncers fly past me, trying to find the culprit. My first Kilkenny and I barely taste it. I think it was delicious, though.

An hour later, I've caught up to Shan and we're camped outside the Pogue Fado men's room, trying to charge for entrance. "No, no, you can pee," I assure the very drunk guy swaying gently in front of me. "Not here!" I add quickly when he starts to unzip. "In there. But first you need to buy a sucker. Or five."
"H'mucharethey," he slurs, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket.
"Twenty bucks," Shan says firmly, and he acquiesces, tucking the twenty into her hand.
"Yer beautiful," he states, looking between us. "C'n I pee now?"
"Yes. In there!" She reminds him, pushing him towards the men's room.
"You girls still selling those fuckers?" an older man shakes his head when he pushes past us.
"Suckers, sir. They're called suckers. With an 'S'."

What seems like an eternity later, but is really only 8pm, I find myself leaning against the bar of the Frigate, the downstairs bar of the Pogue Fado. Thanks to the delightful company of Navy Dave and his buddies, I have a double Crown and Coke in one hand, a Kilkenny in the other and three young men guarding the bucket of cash. The suckers are also safe. (Except from me. I’m now on my tenth.)

The combination of alcohol and pure sugar has led me to speak in a very high-pitched, fast-paced manner, so that when I finish my spiel of, "...and he's biking across Canada AND Ireland and raising money for cancer research but this is also to fund his trip but he's gonna raise a million euros and that's like a bajillion Canadian dollars, because the exchange rate is really crap right now but it's okay cause he'll totally do it 'cause once this guy puts his mind to something, holy smokes, he'll get it done, and if you go to his website, you can follow his progress on the trip and see what it's all about cause it's for cancer research which is really important cause you know one in three people will get cancer sometime in their lifetime and there are six of us standing here so that's two people in our little group here and I really hope one of them isn't me."
"I take a breath and the guy at the Pogue Fado bar hands me a ten dollar bill. "Will you stop talking now?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. Tell your friend I said good luck."