Two More Pints

  — An’ Lou.

  — You’re positive about this now?

  — Yeah. He’s definitely dead. It was in the news.

  — Fuck.

  — He was good.

  —He was fuckin’ brilliant. Remember tha’ one, ‘Vicious’?

  — I do, yeah.

  — I smashed me ankle cos o’ tha’ song.

  — How come?

  — Dancin’. Fell off me fuckin’ platforms.

  — Yeh wore platforms?

  — Once. Bought the fuckin’ things tha’ day. Executin’ one o’ me dance moves on the kitchen floor – an’ gone. Jesus, m’n, the fuckin’ pain. It still gives me grief when the weather’s damp.

  — Great song, but.

  — No argument. Tha’ whole album, Transformer – one o’ the best.

  — ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ – he shaved his legs an’ became a she.’

  — When yeh hear words like tha’, when you’re a teenager. In the early 70s, like.

  — Did yeh ever shave your legs?

  — No. Decided against.

  — Same here. How’s the ankle?

  — Fuckin’ killin’ me.

  3-11-13

  — See the chap with no arms was convicted for arms possession.

  — Wha’ the fuck are you on about now?

  — It was in the news. The body parts they found in Meath. An arm found in the woods an’ the torso in the river an’ tha’.

  — What exactly is a fuckin’ torso, an’annyway?

  — I know what yeh mean – where does it start an’ end. Annyway, they named the fella that owned the various bits – the Guards did. They knew him, an’ he had a prior conviction for arms possession. It’d make yeh laugh.

  — No.

  — No. You’re probably righ’. It’s ironic, but.

  — Everythin’s fuckin’ ironic. Isn’t it? These days. Do we even know what it fuckin’ means?

  — Only kind of.

  — I forgot me keys – oooooh, that’s fuckin’ ironic.

  — Calm down, for fuck sake. Yeh goin’ home early to watch Love/Hate?

  — Fuckin’ sure. Have to watch it live.

  — Best thing ever on Irish telly.

  — No argument. Come here, they’ll probably find an arm that used to be owned by a fella tha’ did time for arms possession.

  — That’d be a bit far-fetched.

  — True. But the lads diggin’ up your man’s dead ma last week was brilliant, wasn’t it?

  — Class.

  6-11-13

  — See Yasser Arafat was poisoned.

  — Was he? Hang on but – is he not dead?

  — I just told yeh. He was poisoned.

  — A good while – did he not die ages ago?

  — 2004.

  — So, why – just to be clear. He was the Palestinian fella, yeah?

  — Yeah.

  — With the scarf.

  — That’s Yasser.

  — So, why did it take so long to find this ou’? Was it the HSE did the tests?

  — They had to dig him up – exhume him, like – to prove it.

  — Wha’ was it – Chinese?

  — Why would the fuckin’ Chinese poison Yasser Arafat? No, the smart money’s on the Israelis.

  — No – the food, I meant.

  — Chinese food?

  — Yeah.

  — For fuck sake.

  — Are yeh seriously tellin’ me there isn’t a Chinese takeaway in Bethlehem?

  — Listen—

  — Kung Po Camel.

  — It was radioactive polonium.

  — Then it was the Russians. That’s their department. Or—

  — Wha’?

  — The Shinners.

  — Sinn Féin killed Yasser Arafat?

  — Maybe.

  — Come on – fuckin’ how?

  — Shergar.

  — The horse?

  — They sold him to the Chinese.

  — The Palestinian Chinese?

  — An’ the Russians injected the stuff into Shergar. The Kung Po camel was really Kung Po poisoned racehorse.

  — What abou’ the Israelis?

  — They hadn’t a clue.

  7-11-13

  — Was Gerry Adams in the IRA?

  — Is he dead?

  — No. Was he in the RA?

  — ’Course he was.

  — He keeps sayin’ he wasn’t.

  — He’s lyin’.

  — How d’yeh know?

  — It’s obvious.

  — But how can yeh know? For certain, like. Were you in the IRA?

  — Don’t be fuckin’ thick. Yeh might as well ask me did I play for Tranmere Rovers.

  — Now you’re the one bein’ fuckin’ thick. Tranmere Rovers never shot an’ ‘disappeared’ innocent people. Did they?

  — Not as far as we know. But, look it, John Aldridge managed them for a while an’ Aldo would never do annythin’ like tha’. Or anny of the Italia 90 squad.

  — What about Roy?

  — Roy wasn’t in Italy.

  — But Adams.

  — He’s lyin’.

  — Yeah. Why, but?

  — He’s been sayin’ it for fuckin’ years. It’s part of the story – the fuckin’ narrative.

  — So he can’t back down?

  — He can. But he won’t. But I’ll tell yeh wha’ he can do.

  — Wha’?

  — He can fuck off to his cottage in Donegal an’ live with his memories.

  — Retire?

  — Yep. Get off the stage an’ let Mary Lou an’ the other young fella take over. It must kill all those relatives every time tha’ lyin’ prick opens his mouth.

  5-12-13

  — See Ireland is the best country in the world for business.

  — Fuck that drivel.

  — It’s official – it was in a magazine.

  — Shoot?

  — Forbes.

  — Yeh know wha’ that fuckin’ means then? Just change ‘best country’ to ‘country where you can do what yeh want and no one’ll give much of a fuck’, then you’ll know why we’re top o’ the list.

  — Ah now, that’s a bit cynical.

  — ‘Young, educated workforce’ means ‘no tax’.

  — Okay, okay – sit down. Where are we on Nigella?

  — We’re not on Nigella. That’s the problem. She’s a great young one.

  — She’s fifty-three.

  — Exactly.

  — She took cocaine.

  — Even better. I love her. Anyway, she only took the cocaine when her first husband was dyin’.

  — So she says.

  — Yeh doubt her? Yeh cunt. When my first wife died—

  — Hang on, hang on – fuck. Wha’ first wife? Were you married before?

  — No.

  — Then what the fuck are yeh on abou’?

  — Empathy.

  — Wha’?!

  — I imagined I had a first wife, dyin’, like – just to see if I’d snort cocaine as well.

  — And did yeh?

  — Ah, yeah.

  — Wha’ was she like?

  — The first wife?

  — Yeah.

  — Lovely.

  — A bit like Nigella – was she?

  — A bit, yeah.

  — Just like mine, so.

  6-12-13

  — See Mandela’s after pushin’ Nigella off the front pages.

  — Anyone else, I’d’ve been furious.

  — Great man.

  — That’s puttin’ it fuckin’ mildly. Just walkin’ out of tha’ jail – d’yeh remember?

  — I never thought somethin’ as ordinary as watchin’ someone goin’ for a walk could be so incredible.

  — D’you remember the Dunne Stores women?

  — The strikers? I do, yeah. The wife’s cousin was one o’ them.

  — Amazin’, really. There we were, eatin’ South African oranges an’
tha’—

  — Outspan.

  — That’s right – Jesus. And your woman on the checkout—

  — Was it Mary Manning?

  — Think so. She refuses to handle them. An’ she’s suspended an’ there’s the strike an’ we all stop buyin’ the oranges an’ then the government bans them.

  — Tha’ would’ve been before Mandela got out o’ jail.

  — Yeah. Great fuckin’ women.

  — Nigella would’ve joined them.

  — Probably, yeah. And d’you remember the day he came to Dublin?

  — Same day the Irish team came home from Italy.

  — That’s righ’ – Italia 90.

  — Best tribute to him really, isn’t it? The best Irish footballer ever an’ the best politician in the world, side by side in the one chant.

  — OOH AHH PAUL McGRATH’S DA – SAY OOH AAH PAUL McGRATH’S DA.

  18-12-13

  — We’re out of the Bailout an’anyway. A nation once again, wha’.

  — Fuck the fuckin’ Bailout.

  — What’s wrong with yeh? Are yeh not happy tha’ you can have your pint without worryin’ tha’ Merkel will whip it away from yeh?

  — I’ll tell yeh what’s wrong with me.

  — Go on.

  — Fuckin’ Lawrence of Arabia.

  — Wha’?

  — I go home a few nights ago an’ she’s cryin’ – in the kitchen.

  — Merkel?

  — Fuck off. The wife.

  — Why?

  — I told yeh – Lawrence of Arabia.

  — Was he in the kitchen as well?

  — Fuck off. She’s not cryin’ like when Whitney died. She’s really bawlin’. Fuckin’ inconsolable.

  — Cos o’ Lawrence?

  — Peter O’Toole, yeah. Turns out, all these years, she’s fuckin’ loved him – adored him. From fuckin’ afar.

  — Ah, that’s just—

  — He was tall, yeah?

  — Yeah.

  — Am I?

  — Yeh would be, if you were up on a camel.

  — He had beautiful blue eyes.

  — Fuckin’ beautiful?

  — Wha’ colour are mine?

  — Kind o’ grey an’ red.

  — Not blue.

  — Not really. Maybe she just thought he was a good actor. Hang on but—. Is this a Fernando Torres thing? Did you fancy him too?

  - - -

  — An’ now you have to share him with the missis? Is that it?

  - - -

  28-12-13

  — How was the Christmas?

  — Code fuckin’ Red.

  — Wha’ happened?

  — The mother-in-law.

  — I thought she died.

  — The new one.

  — Oh fuck.

  — Annyway. They all come to the house – the whole gang, like. An’ she reacts badly to the stuffin’. A Nigella recipe, as it happens. Sausage meat an’ Red Bull.

  — Sounds lovely.

  — Yeah, but she started expandin’.

  — Well, it was the Christmas dinner. We all fuckin’ expand.

  — Really quickly. Like a thing in a fillum.

  — Fuck.

  — Exactly wha’ I said. Anyway, then there’s the lotto – who’ll bring her to A an’ E. An’ they’re all lookin’ at me. Cos, like – A. I’m the fuckin’ host, an’ B. I have the van an’ your woman’s gettin’ even bigger, so we’ll be just about able to get her in the side door. But—

  — Wha’?

  — Well, it’s Christmas. I want to stay at home with me family.

  — But—

  — Anyway. I say – listen to this. I say – as a matter of principle, like – I’m not willin’ to bring anyone to hospital until I’m assured tha’ the car-parkin’ charge isn’t goin’ to top up some chief executive’s salary.

  — Jesus.

  — Well, it seemed clever when I was sayin’ it.

  31-12-13

  — How was your year?

  — Ah, fuck off.

  — Same here.

  — Same shite.

  — Death an’ fuckin’ disaster.

  — I was shavin’ this mornin’, righ’, an’ there was this huge fuckin’ hair growin’ out of me ear. Two inches long, it was.

  — An’ tha’ was your year’s work, was it?

  — Overnight. It wasn’t there when I was brushin’ the teeth last nigh’.

  — Jesus, are your teeth in your ear as well?

  — Fuck off. It’s growin’ old. Every fuckin’ day – a bit less. I can hardly remember the names of me kids. The grandkids are fuckin’ impostors.

  — But yeh know, the worst thing about this year is findin’ out the Yanks are watchin’ us.

  — Not me an’ you, like.

  — Yeah.

  — Why the fuck would they be watchin’ us? Now, like – here?

  — Maybe.

  — I thought it was only emails an’ twitters an’ tha’. So, if we change the order from two pints, say, to two pink gins, they’ll tell Obama?

  — They might.

  — We’d better stick to the pints, so. To be on the safe side.

  — Yeah. Fuckin’ worryin’, though, isn’t it? Happy New Year, by the way.

  — Fuck sake – I’m not fuckin’ deaf !

  — I wasn’t talkin’ to you. I was talkin’ to Obama.

  5-1-14

  — See the Everly Brother died.

  — Saw tha’. Sad.

  — The lungs.

  — Fuckin’ cruel, isn’t it? He gave so much pleasure to people usin’ them lungs, for decades, like – more than fifty years. An’ then they go an’ fuckin’ kill him.

  — That’s life.

  — You said it, bud.

  — ‘Cathy’s Clown’.

  — Great song.

  — Before our time, but, weren’t they – a bit?

  — No. No, I know what yeh mean. I don’t remember seein’ them on Tops o’ the Pops or annythin’. But when you heard them on the radio—

  — You always knew it was the Everlys.

  — Exactly.

  — An’ it was always brilliant.

  — Exactly – yeah.

  —‘Bye Bye Love’.

  — There now – here’s somethin’. My mother sang that every mornin’ when me da was goin’ to work. Goin’ out the back door, like.

  — Ah, that’s nice. Isn’t it?

  — Yeah.

  — That’s a great memory to have. Cos o’ Phil Everly.

  — She sang it at the funeral as well.

  — In the church?

  — At the grave.

  — God. Tha’ must’ve been somethin’.

  — It was. We all joined in at the end. ‘Bye bye, my love, goodbye.’

  — They loved each other.

  — They did.

  — So, how come you’re such a miserable cunt?

  — Well, I can’t blame Phil.

  13-1-14

  — Yeh know the way we’re goin’ to be payin’ for the water?

  — Well, fair enough. It hasn’t rained since this mornin’.

  — And yeh know the way this new company, Irish Water—

  — Good name.

  — At least it’s in English.

  — They prob’ly paid a gang o’ fuckin’ consultants to find the best way to get across the point that they’re Irish an’ they’ll be sellin’ the water.

  — That’s the thing, but. They’ve paid fifty million to consultants. But, like, what is a consultant?

  — A cunt.

  — That all?

  — With a jockey’s bollix.

  — A cunt with a jockey’s bollix?

  — Basically. A fuckin’ chancer who’s happy enough to take money from a useless bunch o’ pricks who haven’t the guts or the brains to make their own decisions, an’ call it expertise.

  — But, say—

  — An’ they all went to the
same schools. The pricks an’ the cunts. It’s business as usual in Ireland fuckin’ Inc.

  — But—

  — An’ it’s our money.

  — Will we have another pint?

  — I’ve the money for the round but I don’t have the consultancy fee.

  — Wha’ fuckin’ consultancy fee?

  — D’yeh expect me to answer tha’ question on me own? ‘Will we have another pint?’ It could take fuckin’ years.

  31-1-14

  — See all the Uggs tha’ got stolen?

  — Wha’ – the whole family? The kids as well?

  — What are you on abou’?

  — The Uggs, tha’ live over the bookie’s.

  — That’s only their nickname.

  — Fuck – is it?

  — I meant the boots. That all the young ones wear.

  — And one or two o’ the oul’ ones.

  — Anyway, there was a million quids’ worth stolen.

  — Where?

  — Cork.

  — Ah well.

  — The lads were caught but, like, some o’ the Uggs got away – you with me?

  — Grand.

  — An’, Cork bein’ Cork, they’ve ended up in Dublin.

  — That’s not a pair yeh have on yeh there, is it?

  — No – fuck off. These are desert boots.

  — They’re nice.

  — I’ve had them a few years. Anyway. I know a chap might be able to find some – Uggs, like. Especially suitable for girls with different-sized feet.

  — Ah, for fuck—

  — No – it’s a scientifically proven fact. We all have different-sized feet but it’s usually not tha’ big of a difference. But anyway, these Uggs would be a fuckin’ godsend for a young one with, say, one size-four foot an’ the other one size seven.

  — Which is which?

  — Left, four. Right, seven.

  — I’ll get workin’ on it.

  11-2-14

  — See Shirley Temple died.

  — There’s a thing.

  — Wha’?

  — Shirley Temple. There was a fella in my class – in primary school. He’d curly hair – loads of it, like. An’ a baby face. Mind you, we all had baby faces. We were only fuckin’ six or somethin’. But the teacher – a righ’ fuckin’ monster – I can’t remember her name. But anyway, she called him Shirley Temple. An’ it stuck.