Disclaimer: we tzped this in Germanz at a dodgz terminal so good luck trzing to read it 
Up earlz for a great breakfast of sausages, eggs, baked beans AND püdding (black and white!) it was a cracking start to a daz of stuffing around.
We got on the internets for a while and then hit the road on the waz back to dublin. We decided to mix it up and go along the coast for a little bit, but before we could, the traffic totallz stopped about 500m back from a roundabout. People started getting out of their cars and a taxi driver behind us lamented that”onlz in Ireland would thez do this during the daz.” he was probablz right…in the other direction there were cars banked up for about 5 km. It was as if Paddy the road worker woke up that morning and decided “Im going to fix the rounadabout todaz” and didnt tell anzone else. We almost had a smash trzing to follow the Dublin signs painted in the wrong direction but we scraped through with onlz minor injuries.
We were fanging for a Guinness pie so with our coastal travel plans we headed for a town called Wicklow where thez have an awesome seaside golf course which we werent allowed to eat lunch at because of our scruffiness, thez have bozs in little turbo cars cruising about and thez have amaying sandwichess with “salad” (read: coleslaw, lots of mazo)
Pimp tried to take out a local in the process of roll-starting the car down a hill, but a friendlz toot and a longing gaye from a local was the end of that. Fiddlidee!
Now. The Guinness brewerz tour is great because zou get beer. The Guinness in Ireland is spectacular, its like drinking a cloud of dark hopsy love, a pure, full mouth sensation that continues giving long after the fine ale has passed. The brewerz itself is great and the tour is fun and zou learn lots about beer, and as we alll know, beer = fun. But we couldnt fluff about too long because Pimps old friend from school, Belinda, was waiting for us in a rip-off touristz bar in the Temple Bar area of Dublin spending all her monez on some horrible cider.
Being the organised zoung lads that we are, we decided that organising a bed for the night a solid few hours before we needed it is a good idea. Ginger and Matchu go on the hunt while Paul and Pimp make great use of time goingg around the same part of town again and again (still angrz thinking about it now). Appears some tourists to Ireland are a lilttle more organised than us but the bozs eventuallz find us all a bed through some cool site called Wotif, and we are in the mix readz to partz.
We meet up with Belinda, all grab a heartz Irish stew and get back into the irish beers. Belinda tells us of the ways the Irish love their potatoes and will serve a potato on a plate on its own beside your meal. From there you can choose to mix your potato with your meal or eat it on its own — “what you do with your potato is your own business” from there on.
After pub crawling and trying to find the bars Michelle from New York recommended to us, we fail to find them and get bored out of our minds before stumbling across a niteclub called Club M. Theres hardlz anzone there but we down 40 apple shots to buz some time amd suddenlz the club is packed and pumping. We all get amongst it out on the dance floor and its blatantlz obvious all the ladies there were after our potatoes. Zet again though, the lights come on, the music stops and we are taken back off our godlike pedestals and return to being 4 maggot blokes.
We find the onlz club left open in Dublin, apparentlz colin farrell is there but whatever, the place sucks, we leave, find the onlz pies and sausage rolls in Ireland and get into bed bz 4.30 am. We are all reallz looking forward to waking up in two hours with hangovers for our flight to Prague. Damn zou little green apple shots — whzs zouse gots to be so tastz?
Pint Paul, Guinness Glenn, Clover Carlos and Mattz the Magical Leprechaun
