Ah, let me tell ya, lads, about the Quins—a grand bunch o’ fellas known far and wide as "the boys that make no noise," though I’d wager the barmen of Honolulu might disagree. One fine day, their social mastermind—an an t-ólachán of the highest order—got a glint in his eye and a thirst in his throat. He decided it was high time for a proper session with the lads, but sure, he needed a noble excuse.

And so, he hatched a plan more cunning than a fox in a chicken coop.

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“Boys,” says he, “we need to celebrate Christmas in true rugby style! As mates! And sure, we’ll clock a few thousand steps while we’re at it.” Now, you might think it’s a stretch callin’ it fitness when half the stops involve lifting a pint instead of weights, but sure, what’s life without a little poetic license? And that, my friends, is how the Quins Christmas Wander came to be.

Now, don’t be thinkin’ this is a mere stumble from one pub to the next. Oh no, this is a mission. There’s a sacred code to it—twelve rules, just like the twelve days of Christmas, except with a lot more craic and a lot less partridges. And heaven help the poor gobshite who breaks a rule, for penalties are swift and merciless—though truth be told, they usually involve drinkin' more, so who's really complainin'?