The Guinness Blog
There is an urban myth that we can get all the vitamins and
nutrients necessary to survive from Guinness. I have made the pilgrimage to
My good friend Colin Devlin (who introduced me to Fiachna)
is in
Dear Bob,
This suit is your end of the bargain. Fiachna will be happy
to show you a fantastic time in
Cheers,
Colin
PS Please water the plants
Day 1
(Monday)
Today Fiachna and I mucked about, had a couple of warm-up
pints, then headed down to The Purdy, one of Dublin’s many gastropubs, for a
fabulous last supper. Like a man on death row sitting down to his last meal, I
ordered oysters (accompanied by Chablis), tagliatelle carbonara (accompanied by
a Borolo), sea bass on roasted vegetables, garlic fried potatoes and stir-fried
veggies (with a full bottle of white Mercury from Burgundy) and a multitude of
desserts—followed by Irish coffee, a shot of Bailey’s and a Blackbush Irish
whiskey (on the house).
In a spontaneous show of solidarity (or drunken moment—you
choose), Fiachna surprised me by announcing that he was going to join me on the
diet. At the stroke of
We headed to Searson’s, “the local”, for a couple of pints
before calling it a night.
Day 2
(Tuesday)
At about
After our breakfast of champions, I visited a local doctor
for a brief assessment. He was a bit shocked by my report on last night’s
alcohol consumption (note to self: remember the 50% rule when responding to
doctor’s questions about alcohol consumption), but after taking my vital stats,
he pronounced me to be in fighting form.
Fiachna and i headed to an illustrious local pub to
celebrate the positive prognosis. We had a pint while the camera crew ate a
HUGE pub lunch in front of us. Afterwards, Fiachna headed to the studio to mix
a track for an album he is recording with the drummer of the Flowers and the
original bass player of the Pogues (and Elvis Costello’s former wife). And I
headed to another pub for a prearranged meeting with Father Brean,
I was seeking council in the art of avoiding temptation, and
the good Father chose to dispense it while feasting on a delicious-looking
plate of shepherd’s pie. Actually he was quite a hoot and gave me the best tip
so far. His advice: to plug my nose when I was around aromatic food. I
responded by sticking a napkin up each nostril, then sending our production
assistant out for swimming nose plugs.
After bidding adieu to the man of the cloth, it was on to
Fiachna’s studio to hear a few tracks. His band mates were both there—munching
on a freshly delivered pizza.
As if that wasn’t enough temptation for one day, Fiachna
insisted that we go to a party thrown by The Dubliner magazine to celebrate
their “Top 100 Restaurants” issue. Naturally, the place was lousy with food,
wine and chefs. We made a few friends, then headed off
for one last pint.
The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 7 (or 8 depending who was counting)
Water: at least a gallon
Pees: About 15.
Day 3
(Wednesday)
Another day of temptation and torture.
A beautifully presented plate of eggs benedict greeted me as
I opened my bedroom door this morning, but naturally it was no match for a cool
pint of the brown stuff which I quaffed while reading the morning paper.
After a bit of e-mailing and general housekeeping, Fiachna
took me to meet a chef friend of his at L’Ecrivian, one of
After the demo, I headed out for a pint on my own. When I
came back to meet Fiachna at the restaurant, I discovered him chowing down on
plate of quail and sipping an Italian red from a fish bowl-size wine glass. THE
FUCKER had caved! Frankly I was impressed that the rocker had lasted this long.
And after a brief brow beating, I commended him on pacing me for the first 42
hours. After Fiachna’s betrayal, I had to endure the crew moaning in delight
over a stunning lunch that Chef Derry prepared.
From there we toured a few other pubs where I learned to
“pull a pint”, and met a few nice—albeit plastered—locals. Then after the crew
stopped for a quick fry-up at the local chippy stand, Fiachna took me to a pub
where he sat in on the penny flute with some traditional Irish musicians.
Needless to say, a couple of pints were added to the mix.
In case you are wondering about my state of well-being, it
has been a bit of a roller coaster ride. At the end of day two, I had developed
a raging head ache. But it later dawned on me that it was probably due to what
I wasn’t drinking—caffeine—then the all-day drinking or lack of food. I am
finding myself vacillating from moments of euphoria to periods of grumpiness
(yes, really!). And as I type this I am feeling quite light-headed. So far, I
have never felt drunk—just slightly buzzed for brief periods. And one other
thing of note, I can’t turn around without seeing food, or references to food everywhere I look.
The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 8
Water: tons, but probably still not enough
Pees: I lost count after 20.
Day 4
(Thursday)
This morning’s offering in front of my bedroom door was a
dessert plate sent over by Chef Derry. Needless to say, the double chocolate
brownie, fig shooter and vanilla custard were no match for my “pint of plain”
which I enjoyed at the local at
After breakfast, Fiachna sent me to his
hairdresser-to-the-stars for a Guinness shampoo. Wow, the man who touched
Bono’s mane touched mine. Come to think of it, Bono doesn’t have much left
these days.
The rest of the day was consumed (or not as the case was) with
a visit to the grave of Arthur Guinness, the founder of Guinness. Arthur died
in 1802, but his great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson, Patrick
Guinness is still dining off the family name. Patrick, to be fair, was very
cordial (in that upper crust, self-aggrandizing kind of way) and was happy to
spin truths and a half-truths about the family history
until Will mercifully called “cut”.
We wrapped early and I took in the Borat movie at a packed
cinema. Despite the wafting popcorn aromas, it was a welcome distraction—and
wickedly funny in a juvenile kind of way.
The hunger pains have subsided, as has (most of) the grumpiness, and I am shocked at how much energy I have
considered my limited caloric intake. That said, and despite the conventional
wisdom that says the stomach shrinks, I do feel as though if I let my guard
down for a second, I could do some serious damage to an all-you-can-eat buffet.
I am cautiously optimistic that I will make it to the finish
line. However my bravado is tempered by my fear that the entire crew is still
determined to take me down—after all, they’ve had every culinary resource in
The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 5 (today was the Guinness diet diet!)
Water: who cares any more
Pees: let’s just say the soles of my shoes are wearing thin
Day 5
(Friday)
Nothing could have prepared me for the challenges that would
face me today.
There was a note outside my door in the spot I had come to
expect my daily breakfast offering. It read “
After we finished our respective breakfasts, Fiachna took me
to the coast to see the James Joyce museum. It was cold, overcast and rainy. As
we approached I noticed several swimmers braving the icy waters. I looked at
the swimmers, then at Fiachna. Suddenly my mind scrolled back to a moment as we
left the early house when the soundman took my microphone pack from me “to fix
a loose connection”. The penny dropped just seconds before Fiachna dropped his
trousers, revealing a pair of plaid swimming trunks. Coincidentally, he just
happened to have an extra pair of shorts with him, and insisted that I join
him. Before I could decline, he cannon-balled into the drink and I had no
choice but to follow. The 40°F ocean waters would have been a shock to any
system at the best of circumstances, but they were even more jarring to my
weakened body. At the same time I must admit that the experience was quite
invigorating. We scampered out onto the rocks shivering. There were no towels
in sight, but Fiachna produced a steaming thermos of chicken soup and held the
cup up to my nose. Weakened, but not yet broken, I took the soup and poured the
whole lot over my head. Chicken soup never felt so good.
With the ruse up, we toweled off and headed to a pub for a
quick warm-up pint. I can’t say that it warmed my body, but it certainly took
the edge off the shock. From there, Fiachna brought me to one of
At this point it should be noted that Will and I have been
traveling on the magical mystery tour we call Glutton for Punishment for the
past six months. By now he is well acquainted with my many weaknesses. Will is
as competitive and tenacious as I am (but in a much more Zen-like way). Usually
he is my staunchest supporter, but in this particular episode he took it as his
personal mission to take me down. He also happens to LOVE wine and wanted to
taste the Petrus as much as I did.
“Drink it now and I’ll pay for it” he said.
He was dead serious.
It is not often in one’s life that they have the opportunity
to drink an ’85 Petrus. With less than two hours left, Will taunted me by
saying that I could have my wine and drink it too,
then only have to endure two (humiliating) hours in the chicken suit. It was
painfully tempting, but I knew the finish of the wine would fade long before
the stories of my demise.
Next up was a visit to the doctor who had examined me
earlier in the week. Despite his pronouncement that I was “slightly pale and
tired looking”, I was feeling surprisingly spry. He quizzed me about the week
and shook his head in disbelief at how much I had consumed. According to his
scale, I lost more than 5 pounds. The mild-mannered doctor was quite shocked
(and dismayed) to find that all my vital signs were exactly the same as my
first visit. (note to Morgan Sperlock: choose your
poison wisely). Moving in for the kill, I challenged him to an arm wrestle. I
am sure I detected a flicker of fear in his eyes as he politely declined.
With a renewed spring in my step, we moved on to the market
bar where my victory dinner was set to take place. Even though there was less
than an hour remaining until the
Fiachna was waiting at the bar to greet me with a victory
pint. He announced that the table was almost ready. We were to be joined by
chef Darry, orange juice girl, his band mates, the Guinness barber, and a few
other sorted and assorted characters that we had encountered in our travels.
Fiachna excused himself for a wiz and I nursed my last pint, thinking about how
long it would be before I would order another one on my own volition. Much to
my pleasure, one of the most stunning woman I had seen
all week sat down on the stool Fiachna had just vacated. Needless to say I had
no intention of saying it was taken. Moments later, a curvaceous
full-lipped-dark-haired beauty sat down on the vacant stool to my left.
Apparently the two were friends and we immediately struck up a conversation. I
could tell that the fair skinned girl was Irish and the dark haired girl seemed
Spanish. The Irish maiden was plucking ripe strawberries from a bowl and
dipping them in freshly whipped cream. Seeing the hunger in my eyes, she
generously offered me a strawberry. In my slightly buzzed state, I tried to
explain my predicament. This amused her, but she would have none of it. The two
of them took it as some form of challenge complete the mission that the rest of
Would anyone really know…after all Fiachna was in the
bathroom and…hey…just a minute…
Having survived the last temptation of
a very, very long week. I was shepherded to the table where I
joined the waiting group (and the two girls from the bar) for the final
countdown. For the record, in real time it was
5-4-3-2-1!!!
After the big hurrah everyone was curious about how I
intended to break my fast.
“What I would REALLY like is nice glass of red wine”, I
replied, “but there’s something I want first,” then I grabbed a long slow kiss
from the two girls—who it should be noted were a bit shocked by the unscripted
moment.
Moral of the whole experience: With a little will power and
perseverance, you can have your cake
and eat it two.
The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 8
Everything else is a blur
Saturday
As I type this, I am 36,000 feet in the air, en route home
to