Your father likes a drink. For the occasion of his eldest's birthday he sees fit to start drinking at three in the afternoon. When, in the wee hours of the morning he fetches up in an establishment entirely too young for his years where you and your dissolute friends have decided to remain until someone throws you all out, he lingers unnervingly at the edge of the dancefloor with a sleepy looking grin on his face. Urged by the mischievous young Annie Mullen to have a whirl on the dancefloor with her, he will clutch protectively at his Guinness and weaving unsteadily, slur the following: 'Do yoouuuu know where Lucy was conceived?'
Answer: Carlow. It's hardly Paris, is it, Mum?