No good story ever starts with “I was eating a salad”. Neither does this. I got to meet Marty, one of the volunteers running the museum of Belfast Celtic Football Club, a few years ago at one of my many trips to the North of Ireland. We bonded by exchanging the state of the art of our respective drinking cultures: Marty brought along a lemonade bottle with no lemonade in it but Poitín, my coke bottle contained Mexikaner, straight from Jolly Roger. Continue reading