One of the slaves of a pagan god screams out loud in the battle field:
- Sons of Ireland, lay down your pints!
Then, our king replies, after have throwed an empty pint:
- Come and get them!!!
Suddenly, facing our 300 drunken army, he says:
- This is the way we hold them! This is the way we drink!!
One moment after, our General order us:
- To the pints boys!
And we could listen to the prayers of the gods offering us a pleasant slainte in one more cold bloody battle in the pub at night.