At Furst I was afraid..

You know you’ve about as much chance of selling your property as you do of landing on the moon, when, all of a sudden, this stuff rears it’s evil head again.

Once the only alternative to Harp, and indeed punishment beatings, Irelands favourite import since Oliver Cromwell, Furstenberg, is back like an estranged father. It once gave a tantalising glimpse of the outside world to a country that was busy deciding which cousin it wanted to marry, picking between London or Boston and winning Eurovision. This German beer, that remains strangely unknown is Germany, is responsible for many a lost weekend in my blossoming youth. We all remember the ad, chopped up cut scenes featuring different leather jacket wearing sorts continuing conversations from stranger to stranger. What didn’t make the final cut however is the time Fakey woke up in Bushy park with his trousers on back to front, or the time Disgrace confidently strutted through an occupied hotel room in the Fairways hotel in Dundalk, on his way (via a drainpipe I’ll have you know!) back to the nightclub after being justifiably removed for a sort of sexual act during Pearl Jams ‘Jeremy’. That’s the sort of carry on that this beverage can lead to, and courtesy of Tesco Rathmines, it’s back..

I don’t know an awful lot about this brew, but the fact that it disappeared when people began to have taste and money and suddenly remerges when taste and money have been left raped and bleeding on a laneway off Pearse street is worrying..

I’d better brush up on my climbing skills again. And fakey had better start wearing pants too….


*and yes, they are my underpants in the background, for those that wondered where they’d seen them before..