Edinburgh on a Six Nations weekend: men in kilts and Home Counties accents, queues twenty deep outside fake Irish pubs on the Grassmarket, hostels full of slim-boned, beer-bellied rugby fans wearing nothing but boxer shorts and shamrock hats. Happy drunks blew around the streets like discarded litter, crowding everywhere. I ate vinegar and chips and haggis and chips, felt the grease flood my stomach, and chased it down with pint after pint of absurdly overpriced beer.
It was great.
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