In the dim and distant mid-1980’s, I was a part-time lounge boy. From 5 pm to closing time every Thursday to Sunday, I served drinks, cleared glasses, emptied ashtrays, and mopped floors. Amid the odd Jameson & Red, Pernod & Black, bottle of Stag or pint of Harp, the vast majority of patrons downed pints of Guinness.  For many, next to politics and sport, the price of the pint was the major topic. While anger at its rising sparked regular vows of abstinence, the Augustinian capacity to keep consuming rarely wavered for long. Psychologically, the breach of a punt was…

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