Pouring Bushmills on your Porridge

Wilde has just enough humility to make you believe he's just like you, that what he's just said is what you would have said had you been talking to someone intelligent enough to appreciate the brilliance of what you were saying.

He's the kind of man who has at least one glass eye and isn't afraid to take it out, under the table when you're not looking, to make sure it sparkles when he's speaking. After all, a man who can't amuse himself is unlikely to
amuse anyone else.

Irish, Wilde's suspicious of anything resembling a good intention, a pitiful tendency in himself and especially in others. Once he has your attention, juggling the glass eye in one hand and holding his scroll of witticisms in the other, he rejects you with the same intelligence that engaged your interest in the first place.

'Mind if I take your picture" you might ask, seeing in him a type representative of all the best in Ireland. "Buzz off" he might answer, giving you the words you might say to a tourist asking to take your picture while you're taking your morning coffee in a cafe close to home.