This weekend in the normally peaceful and just village of Tramore, a vile and despicable tirade against humanity was waged. The town was gearing up for the annual Trafest, an event so widely anticipated in the South East it introduces many a quiver into the young music-loving breast. This years lined up featured such show-stoppers as ambisexual belter Jack L, strange, mystic trad act Kila and loads of other people Lucy has never heard of. As vibrant young maiden Lucy took her place near the bar of Connollys, Main St, on Friday evening to witness the musical stylings of her good mate Dave Clark, she glanced around her in obvious distress. 'Dude' she hissed to her friend, 'I know I look smoking hot tonight and all, but why is everyone in the whole bar staring at me? Have I loo paper on my heel? Are my girls showing? What?'
Her pal, the lovely Marie, opened both her eyes wide and pursing her lips, glanced up at the wall. Where Lucy spied the Germany v Argentina match playing itself out on a plasma screen above her head. 'I knew that. Fuck you, man,' Lucy grumbled and made her way to the bar for another drink.
Upon arrival she was thrown into a quandary. She really wanted a vodka tonic (for a change) but here she was at a festival (kinda) watching football (kinda). Shouldn't she be wearing wellies and drinking warm larger from a beaker? It just felt wrong, hearing the clink of ice-cubes. Dirty, even. So she plumped for a nice pint of Heineken. 'It's Dutch, and that is closer to Germany than I am right now. Also you get more of it', she reasoned in her imminently sane and balanced manner. But nay! Nary a Heineken to be had! 'Pumps out', snarled the teenaged barman. 'I think'.
The night continued on without obvious concern for the Heineken situation. Lucy, however was concerned when she and her good bud Laura rushed in to see Kila in O'Sheas on Strand St and went up to order tequilas ('Tequila at Kila! So inspired!') and beers. 'No Heineken' they were told and the ladies had to settle for the lowly Budweiser. 'Something's rotten in the state of Tramore, Laurs' muttered Lucy. Laura noticed not her friend's downright amazing use of literary references and instead eyed up the crumblies on the stage. 'Fear draoicht!' she whispered, starstruck. 'Quite.' Lucy said quietly.
Back up the street to the Vic and Lucy falls in the door of the crowded bar with a thirsty 'Heineken, please'.
'Hell no!' said the chirpy barmaid. 'But you can have a longneck of it!'
By now our heroine was positively growling. 'A longneck' she ground out 'is the same damned price and is volumetrically less'.
'Volumetrically? Is that a word?'
'Silence, bar wench! I have an English degree. I know this shit. Look the other way as I drain your drip-trays for...em, analysis.'
The next afternoon saw our sleuth hot on the case in Murphs, pointedly not watching England V Portugal. She spied a member of Murph's inner sanctum, Tracy, separated from the herd. 'Trace, me auld mucker, come 'ere and tell me stuff. Mainly, has Tramore's Heineken delivery been stopped at the border by the cops?'
'Oh, Lucy,' she said with a sigh, 'you dummy. Look at your Trafest listings.'
Lucy dutifully took the folded-up flyer from her pocket and frowned at it. Pausing only to smile at where she had taken a pen and written in 'Lucy Aughney & friends' over the listing in the Main Stage box she glanced dumbly back at Tracy. 'What? I don't get it.'
'There.' Tracy stabbed the top corner. 'What does that say?'
'Which means...what, exactly?'
'They sponsor it, Luce. Which means only Guinness and Guinness owned largers on draft in Tramore for the weekend.'
'That is a travesty!'
'Dem's the breaks, my friend.'
And there you have it, one woman's quest for truth in an unjust, warped world. Because of commerce and big business, the people of Tramore were chained like oxen to the wheel of...Guinness. I hope, friends, when you read this, you will join me in raising a glass of Heineken to that devoted servant of honesty, integrity and grit, Miss Lucy Aughney.