The Easter Weekend is almost upon us and once more the pubs will be open on Good Friday.
However, the novelty is beginning to wear off and publicans are having to admit that trade has not increased significantly as a result of the new licensing laws.
There is more pleasure in enjoying one illegal pint after hours than there is in drinking a whole gallon of the stuff in normal time.
It is the rebellious spirit in us. We are a contrary bunch.
One particular bar was raided on Good Friday and names taken. However, as soon as the guards had departed, the culprits returned and resumed their illicit drinking on the grounds that you could not be tried for the same crime twice!
In the matter of drink, where there is a will, it seems that there is always a way.
And well done to Tiger Woods on winning the Masters and his 15th major at the age of 43.
There is hope for all of us. I might even consider making a comeback myself although I donated my golf clubs to the rubbish skip a few months ago.
There was history in those clubs. Together, we hacked our way through some of the best golf courses in Munster.
I remember playing the 18th hole in Killarney. A couple of years earlier Nick Faldo had carded a 5 at this hole on his way to winning the Irish Open.
I managed to reach the green in 4. My ball lay on the fringe about fifty feet from the flag and facing a downhill run towards the water. Every golfer’s nightmare.
To make matters worse, there was a balcony overhanging the clubhouse on which a few spectators had gathered to admire the scenery. There was a polite spatter of applause as I strode on to the green. (They probably thought that I was there in 3)
Anyway, I examined the putt but it didn’t get any shorter. I lined it up as best I could, closed my eyes and gave the ball a tap, leaving the rest to gravity and to God.
Away the ball rolled, spinning down the hill towards the hole. At one stage it looked to be heading for the lake and a watery grave before hitting a pitch mark and suddenly changing direction. It slowed down dramatically and inched towards the flag before coming to a halt right on the edge. There was a slight pause and then it dropped down in to the hole.
A huge cheer erupted from the gallery and I had to resist the urge to dance a jig of joy around the green. (The Killarney Golf and Fishing Club frowned on such ungentlemanly behaviour). Instead I touched my forelock to the crowd as all the pros do before retrieving the ball and shaking hands with my opponent.
I walked off the green with the cheers still ringing in my ears. It was as good as winning the Masters – almost.