Apparently making an entrance at the Pav solo is a habit of mine because I managed to wander into the hub of student socialization again last night like a desperado steps out into the middle of dusty road.

(Cue tumbleweed.)

This time I imagine my "cool as a cucumber" facade was a little less believable because I was expecting to meet someone there. If you can't picture it I will tell you: looking expectant and then confused, followed by disappointed and then lost is never a cool look.

Being in doubt, I hung a sharp left towards the bar where I was rescued again--I'm telling you, there is something to that advice--by two locals wanting to know where I was from. Apparently I haven't mastered asking for orange juice with any sort of believable accent.

So I ended up at a table of eight English university students. The British are proving themselves time and again for friendliness and a good time. It is the same experience as sitting at any pub with eight Canadians, minus the "ehs" and any conversation about hockey.

Actually, everyone elaborated on how I could most likely body check any of them with more effectiveness than they would care to find out. Elaborating further, they discussed how Canadians are actually born as hockey players on hockey skates...on the ice. Apprently we "literally, just slide out." It was graphic, but their ability to paint Canadians so ridiculously but with undeniable accuracy was entertaining.

Back to why hanging out with a bunch of Brits isn't so strange: accusations of where one was actually from, name-calling, a skapegoat, lewd comments, pop-culture discussions, dirty jokes, little to no politics, lewd comments, girls rolling eyes at guys and a few lewd comments.

They had never heard of Canadian beer--"Yes, Canadian...no, that's the name. Canadian is the name. Just Canadian"--or Kokanee or anything else. Fair enough though, I haven't heard of their Newcastle Brown Ale or anything else they were drinking. Beer in England is a part of the culture in a way it isn't in Canada, in a way that is older than tv commercials. It is incredibly cheap too (one or two pounds in some places).

Later into the evening I find to my right a girl from Scotland and a guy from Ireland to my left. The Irish and the Scots, from what I can tell, are to the English what Newfies are to the rest of Canada: mock their accents and use them as skapegoats. All in good fun, of course. These accents are both intense, although with basic differences: if you're Scottish, apparently, yell loudly and drag out vowels; if you're Irish, speak quickly and don't finish any of the words you start.

The Irish guy was from Northern Ireland, the part that belongs to the UK. But according to him, all of Ireland is really split as to who wants to be separate from the UK and who doesn't want to. It was reminiscent of French Canada. The difference being that the country is literally split into a half that belongs to the UK and then the Independent Republic of Ireland. He actually has family in Quebec (Cue-beck), but he says they are as Canadian as Canadian can be. Apparently talking like an American makes you Canadian.

His name was Cahul, I think. I've never had to ask someone to say or spell their name so many times in my life--and I still sound like I'm spitting up a hairball when I say it. (kah-ewl). But Cahul Mahullund from Ireland was the most Irish person you will ever imagine: his hair was reddish and shaved and his complexion was pale. His eyes were bright blue and they sort of danced about in time to his voice. I've never heard anyone speak so quickly in my life. If I wasn't listening as intently as I was, I probably wouldn't have understood a word he said. But as it was, I caught about half.

Cahul insisted that all the Irish do is drink; it wasn't a complaint or an accusation but simply a statement, like an identifying mark. "Eef ye doh dreenk din ye eent Eerish." Upon parting he threw his arms around me and then gave me his house number, in case I ever wanted to stop in for a beer.

With all due respect and in all seriousnous: imagine a leprechaun with a bit of Brad Pitt's character in Snatch. And yes, I asked about gypsies. In reply, they roared in unision, "those damn gyps!" and then explained in perfect mock political correctness that we don't refer to them as gypsies anymore, but travellers.

"But those damn gyps did try and steal my fridge for scrap metal once!"

They were surprised to hear that there weren't gypsies in Canada. I explained that there were homeless people, but to the best of my knowledge they weren't caravanning anywhere.

It was entertaining to state the obvious. And I am pretty sure the night was tame by their standards.