In the end, glorification of splendid underdogs is nothing other than glorification of the splendid system that makes them so.

Ah the Irish! With their lovable exhalation of the joys of alcoholism and glorious failure! We had a lot of Irish convicts sent down here in Tasmania, by and large they were a amiable bunch of rapscallions with cheeky grins, a love of gin and a desire for little more than good craic, a sing song and a pratie for tea. They also fuelled the explosion in public drinking houses. Especially ones run by fellows named "Murphy", "O'Reilly" and "Fitzgerald".

Here are some pubs in the Salamanca district. I know that erstwhile commentator Miles speaks ever so highly of their security staff. I am not the best person to comment however, as the last time I was in a pub, Saddam Hussain was still alive, Britney was sane, John Howard was smiling and I could sleep in on weekends.