A pint of plain talking

MILKING IT Contrary to much marketing spin, it’s possible to be Irish and not drink Guinness.  Pic: N Chadwick/geograph.ie/cc-by-sa 2.0


The Cast Stone
Michael Gallagher

I’ve never tasted Guinness and milk hasn’t passed my lips since I was six. That’s normal for me, but when it came up in conversation on Monday last, others in my vicinity looked at me with disbelief. The only saving grace was that I do have the odd spud – otherwise I would have been banished immediately.
What’s wrong with you? What type of Irishman are you? Those were the questions posed by the three guys sitting with me. I wasn’t sure how to answer them. Would I embark on a tale about the headache I had earlier that day or explain the feeling of tightness in my knee when I climb too many stairs? Maybe I should tell them about my addiction to oranges or my love of late-night reading?
No – all they wanted to know was why I had let Ireland down by not guzzling down vast quantities of porter and milk.
The answer is simple (in my view). When I was little I drank so much milk it nearly drowned me and I developed a dislike of the white nectar. I was so in love with bainne when I was a toddler that I would drink half my bottle at night and then hide it among the blankets so I would have extra the following day, when another bottle was filled for me.
However, the warmth of the blankets turned the milk sour and I would resort to sucking the air out of the bottle, just to get my extra milk-fix. That’s how addicted I was. But reality eventually came calling and I developed an utter lifelong dislike of the stuff.
Then, as I grew from boy to man I heard someone describe Guinness as ‘Mother’s Milk’, and I swore it would never pass my lips.
Recently, I heard Charlie Bird on radio. The famous broadcaster was speaking about the growing restrictions impacting on his life because of Motor Neuron Disease and one thing caught my ear.
Charlie said he missed many things in life, but one of the main regrets he had was the inability to slip off to the pub on a winter’s afternoon, settle himself in the corner with a pint of stout and the paper and while away a couple of hours.
It put me thinking. I had a few days off last week and was tempted to follow Charlie’s footsteps and head for a quiet corner of a downtown hostelry, but I never got around to it. Maybe, I’ll find the courage one of these days to park myself in a corner and lose myself in nothingness – but I guarantee I won’t be quaffing a pint of stout.
It riles me how Diageo try to equate Irishness with drinking Guinness. They even introduced Arthur’s Day some years ago to try to get us to consume more of their product. They carry the emblem of our nation (backwards) as their logo and many millions around the world subconsciously associate Ireland with Guinness and vice-versa.
I’m almost certain I’m not a drink bigot. I don’t care whether people drink water, wine or white vinegar. I’ve imbibed numerous branded beers over the years and have finally fixed on a favourite. However, my Irishness is not fully certified by some because I haven’t swallowed a quantity of ‘Mother’s Milk’.
Throw in my aversion to real milk, and my buddies almost swallowed their tongues with wonder. “I never realised you were like that,” one of them said. “All these years, and I never copped on. You hid it well,” his brother added. The third guy at the table couldn’t bring himself to comment.
I wasn’t surprised by their reactions. Although their comments look harsh in print, there was no malicious intent. It never fails to amaze me how people are conditioned to live in what they consider ‘the norm’. They shocked by anyone not conforming.
I’m not sure what the message of this column is, but it possibly revolves around differences and how we may not all fit into what’s termed ‘normal’. Embrace the simple things of life, embrace the slightly ‘odd’ people, and find your quiet corner where you can, sit down, read the paper, drink whatever you choose and lose yourself in the wonder – and variety – of life.