It's hard to believe I'd just bought this book again, having forgotten I'd read it. What I did remember is that McCarthy died quite young, of pancreatic cancer, like the finance minister during Ireland's financial meltdown, who claimed Ireland was just waking up after partying too hard.
80% of the time I've tried Guinness I've felt a bit wrong in the plumbing. McCarthy says in the book that he can't avoid going out every night because he feels he's missing something. Nonetheless, as with many people of modern Ireland, a Brit says of him, "You seem lonely. Be careful of that." Writing a book visiting an island full of pubs seems to be pushing it.