Abdul wasn’t the slightest bit Irish. His father was a Lebanese air pilot, and after a brief fling with an Egyptian flight attendant, Abdul was born in Oslo.
It was Saint Patrick’s Day. Abdul went to the pub wearing green. After a few green beers he hopped around on one leg and said he was doing a jig. He swore loudly in an Irish accent that possibly placed him firmly in South Africa. He went on a little long about leprechauns and kissing the Blarney Stone. As the night wore on he sat in a chair at a table in the pub utterly pooped and had a final beer.
His mates carried him home.