It began, as so many ideas do, over drinks. Lots of them. The year was 1994, and a handful of Irish lads were gathered at a hotel in Northern Ireland to celebrate Colin Cather’s pending nuptials. They ate. They drank. They hugged. The “I love you, mans” flowed as freely as the Guinness.
The following morning at breakfast, rumply and nursing killer headaches, they rehashed the previous evening’s shenanigans.
Washington Post