Lie #1: 'I'm only having 1 or 2'
Ah, the age old saying. The opening line of some of the greatest nights of your life. Everybody knows you're lying but they will play along with you until you've crossed the threshold of the bar. You shtumble home at 5 in the morning with one McDonald's Double Cheeseburger in your right hand (that isn't doing shite for your hunger), your phone in your left, checking the Bebo account of the girl you met at the bar because she doesn't have Facebook, and a second Double Cheese in your back pocket that you will find a week later, still perfectly edible because of all the preservatives.
Lie #2: 'I'm getting the last bus home'
The last bus is at 11.30pm, it's now 11.20 and you've just ordered another pint. It turns 11.45 and you pretend like you've just lost track of the time 'Jaysis, is that the time'. It's OK, though, because haven't you brought out the auld debit card and, sher, can't you just get a taxi home later. 'I'll just eat beans on toast for the next 4 days', says you.
Lie #3: 'I'm not going to text her/him'
The only way you're not going to text 'the person that you shouldn't text' is if you throw your phone in the river on the way to the pub.
Lie #4: 'I'm not doing shots'
Yes, yes you are.
Lie #5: 'I'm not getting a Taco Fries'
Mmmm, the glorious Taco Fries. The holy grail of after-pub food. You find yourself gravitating towards the nearest Abrakebabra, blissfully unaware of the forces tracking you there. You will not remember it the next day, it is but a distant, tasty blur that is only confirmed the next afternoon by the discovery of the dried-on puddle of minced taco, 3 inches in diameter, located just left of centre on your pants crotch.
Lie #6: 'I'm not going to Coppers'
'I swear to God, lads, I'm not going ever again. I spent 347 euro on shots in there the last day, and I didn't even get one for myself.'
You know full well you're going to Coppers for two reasons:
1. You haven't got the shift, yet.
2. You would like to get the shift.
Lie after lie, you will break each principle in succession, and, at the end of it all, you couldn't give a rat's arse.
And, the next day, if anyone claims that you made a fool of yourself by taking off all your clothes on Harcourt St. before chasing down a rickshaw for a lift home, you'll just be like: