Life is always travelling to a sorrow. - J. P. Donleavy

Four o'clock on this oblong Tuesday, Sebastian pushing through the door of a secret public house, moved cautiously to an empty space at the bar. Bartender suspiciously approaching him.
"I want a triple Irish, Gold Label. Quickly please."
"Sir, I'm afraid I can't serve you."
"You what?"
"Can't serve you, sir, rules of the house, you've had enough to drink."
"I've had enough to drink? What on earth do you mean?"
"I think, sir, you've had sufficient unto your needs now. I think you've had enough now."
"This is contemptible."
"Peacefully sir, now. Keep the peace. When you're sober, sir, now, be very glad to serve you. Little sleep. You'll be fine."
"Frightful outrage. Are you sure you're not drunk yourself?"
"Now sir, a place and time for everything."
"Well for Jesus sake."
Sebastian turned from the bar pushed out through the door and along the street. In dazed condition.

"Turn to gangsterism."
"Sebastian, I couldn't."
"Tone, pride has you at its mercy."
"Has me by the very ballocks."
"Tony, I think a pint would see us right."
"I think you're right for the first time since you last said that."

Bash on regardless. That is the cry dear chap. Through the funerals of friends. Trampling the rose gardens of enemies. Bash on regardless.