There once were two tall Irish brothers, each so tall that he was taller than the other. Sean, the older, taller brother, said one day, “We’ve a fine crop wool this year and lambs to sell as well. We’ll get a better price for them if we go to London and find a buyer ourselves.”
“Aye,” said Seamus, the younger, taller brother. “Besides, it’s a very good excuse.”
They’d neither of them been to London before so they visited with their old Da to get his advice before venturing into the big foreign city.
“Ye’ll do fine in London,” said their Da, who was looking up, not being tall himself. In fact, he were a short man, shorter than two other short men put together. “But there’s one thing to remember if you’re going to the City. If you want a good beer, find yourselves a Bass house.”
“We’ll do, Da,” promised the boys and they set out.
On reaching London, they had soon concluded their business and got a very good price for their wool and lambs as it had been a warm, mild winter in Scotland and the sheep there had not obliged by growing thick wooly coats at all. In fact, many a Scottish farmer had been forced to shear his pigs to get what wool he could, which is why, to this day, there are so many bald pigs in Scotland.
Feeling good about the price they had gotten for their fine Irish wool and lambs, the boys decided to celebrate with a beer and remembering their Da’s advice they set out to find a Bass house.
The first pub they ducked into denied them. “‘Tis Newcastle, boys,” said the publican.
And in the second inn they found, the innkeeper told them, “We’re pulling Watney’s here.”
But in the third tavern when Seamus asked politely, “Is this a Bass house?” the tapster merely nodded.
“Grand,” said Sean as the two tall brothers seated themselves. “Two Guinness, please.”