The bar at the Craic is busy most Friday evenings, but when Waitangi Day falls on the weekend it borders on insane, twenty-four hours of partying. We haul cases of the extra glassware out from the cellar and triple the liquor order. I’d been working straight up since seven AM and was desperate to have a piss. Ciaran, the head barman, was standing at the urinal when I went in.
“Just be a second, mate,” he said.
He stepped away, zipping up as he headed for the door.
“Not going to wash your hands?” I asked.
He gave me a look. “Listen, mate. I’m spending my hours picking up strangers’ dirty glassware. God only knows what these people got in their mouths. But this,” he said, pointing to his crotch, “this has been right here since I took a shower this morning. I should wash my hands before touching it!”