Purple Nasties served by leprechauns

We went out last night to check out the town. We intended it to be a joyous exploration of our new home, but we managed to get as far as the local Irish bar and sort of stayed there for the rest of the evening. It boasts a bit of a dodgy entrance (a large expance of concrete that leads up to some more doors, as though the pub was built first and then the rest of the street inched forward around it) and we had to push past a group of intimidating cigarette smoking Belgian teenagers to go in, which served to lower our expectations, but once in it was pretty good. It's still legal to smoke inside here, and we stared at the ashtrays in wide eyed increduality. The novelty wore off after a while - I'd say when we got home and my clothes smelt - but it was, at the time, another wondrous example of how very different this town is to back home. The pub itself has a smoky, dimly lit ambience, and the barman are all Irish, which made ordering drinks a lot simpler, and probably explains the slight headache and nausea that I've been dealing with this morning, as it turns out they sell snakebite and black - the drink that anyone from Loughborough will insist is a 'Purple Nasty'. After trying a 'Méchant Pourpre' (yeah, you go look it up on Babelfish) I have discovered that they aren't as good as the proper Loughborough Nasties (which is not saying an awful lot) or as good as the local cherry beer, Kriek. So it was a good night of cherry beer and the Cranberries. We invented a new game of 'spot the nationality', and I correctly identified some Americans who then marched up to the bar and introduced themselves to the barman, who goes by the doubtful moniker of 'Wilson'. But any embarrassment he might have in introducing himself as such was probably dispelled by the fact that the American female shaking his hand told him her name was 'MacKenzie'. I mean, honestly. Then Ben got cross with me for doing a bad Irish accent and talking about Leprechauns.
On the note of the headache and nausea, when Ben cooked (reheated) our crepes for lunch he said, sympathetically "No Nutella on yours then?" to which I just gave him a look, and he sighed and loaded my crepe up with the wonderful chocolatey goop that everyone here seems obsessed with. "I like jam on pancakes" he then told me conversationally. Fortunately we have finally found out where to go for milk - Delhaize, up the road, which also sells sac poubelles, and is the word that I couldn't understand when all the Frenchies kept insistantly repeating it to me over and over again during the sac poubella saga.
"Delhaize! ... Non?"
"Du.... du lait?" I would ask in confusion. They would shake their heads.
"Delhaize! Er.... Delhaize!"
Then I would smile and say,
"Dulait! Merci beaucoup!" and wander off.
Now I look back, perhaps they were saying 'Du lait', as in, 'You must have discovered the only place here that sells milk that doesn't taste like cottage cheese, you Englishy! With your bizarre fresh milk liking ways! The place that sells milk also sells sac poubelles!" Maybe that's why Delhaize is so named. But probably not.