NOTHING ARTIFICAL ABOUT COW’S INTELLIGENCE.

The weather was brutal. It was December in angry mood. Even the small walk from the cars to the barstools at Donleavy’s bar counter had resulted in rainwater dripping from the foreheads of our three heroes. They shook themselves off as they took to their usual locations with JP in the middle and flanked by Mono and Rasher. Donleavy mopped the counter and was even more welcoming than normal to subconsciously try to counteract the dreariness of the weather.

              “Get yerselves comfortable there, lads. I’ve already put on the pints for ye. That’s shockin’ out there, ain’t it.”

              “Ya can whistle that, Donleavy. I’ll even give ya a tune. Not fit for man nor beast. Ya wouldn’t fire a cat out in it.”

              “Too bleedin’ true – if ya did, it would only be addin’ to the cats and dogs that its rainin’ now.”

              “Hey. Very sharp. Very droll. Someone hasn’t had their brain dampened under all that rainwater.”

They did a fair degree of buttock moving until each found their equilibrium on their respective barstools. By this time Donleavy had appeared with three magical settled pints. With a high degree of ceremony Donleavy placed three beermats equidistant from each other and placed the pint glasses down. It was not coincidental that the logo on each glass faced its future imbiber and with a final reverential flourish he backed away and intoned:

              “Gentleman. For now – I entreat you to enjoy. For later – I await your every wish”

He finished with a multi-stage bow.

              “Jayzus Donleavy, you’re a character.”

              “Yeah, ya should be on the stage.”

              “Or in the flicks.”

JP, Rasher and Mono considered their pints for a while before the subliminal signal indicated that it was time to reach out for that first aliquot. The first sup is always the most sublime. Three hands and arms in perfect harmony delivered the glasses to their grateful recipients and with unerring precision the glasses arrived back on beermats at exactly the same time and with exactly the same volume removed. Perfection personified at a bar counter. There were choruses of ooohs and aaahs and the three amigos settled into the evening with a calm and a grace that only masters of their art could possibly achieve.

JP decided that it was time to launch the topic of the evening.

              “What do ya reckon with this AI thing, lads?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Ya mean not needin’ the bull. Just shovin’ the stuff up the cow’s whatsit?”

              “Yeah. Imagine havin’ to tell someone that was yer job. Or worse. That yer involved at the source – masturbatin’ bulls, Jayzus. That’d be some turn off if yer were tryin’ to chat someone up. What do ya do? I provide relief to bulls.”

JP shot them both a disdainful look.

              “Artificial Intelligence ya pair of messers. Not bleedin’ artificial insemination. Yer just tryin’ to take the piss.”

              “Eh no, JP.”

              “Not piss.”

JP flicked disdain into contempt.

              “Don’t even think of sayin’ it.”

The two lads sniggered like schoolboys under the desk at the back of the classroom. JP considered just cutting his losses and going back to the weather conversation topic. But at the last moment he decided not to give them the satisfaction of feeling they had got one over on him.

              “This is a serious bleedin’ topic, lads. We are goin’ through one of the big step changes in civilisation here. I’m trying to think like Einstein here and you pair are thinking like Dennis The Menace.”

              “Epstein?”

              “Did ya say Epstein?”

There were back of the classroom laughs again. JP was close to blowing a gasket, but he still didn’t want to give them any further pleasure or fodder to trivialise the conversation, He decided to ignore them. He called out loudly down the bar counter.

`            “DONLEAVY….”

The barman glided up the bar with the elegance of a man half his generous weight.

              “Jayzus, JP. What is it? Is the pint not right or summit? What’s goin’ on?”

JP opened up his arms like a priest on the alter and rushed to calm his favourite barman.

              “Nah. Nah. The pint is perfect as always. I was trying to have a conversation about AI with these two ludramans here, but they seem to have the intellect of a cabbage here tonight. What do ya think of AI, yerself? Do ya think it’ll replace ya as a barman? Will pints get pulled and delivered by robots soon?”

Donleavy gave it some earnest consideration before finding his best response.

              “Ya know JP, I’ve been thinkin’ the exact same question. And I reckon – for sure. It’d be an easy enough technology to introduce. Ya wouldn’t even need robot loungeboys. Just run a series of overhead tracks and pully things to the bar counter and tables. Ya order on yer phone and it appears. Ya wouldn’t even need to see the taps. They could be anywhere.”

All three of our heroes were engrossed by the reply. They each had their own individual mental picture of their pub in the future. From the look on their individual faces, they were not relishing the day when a track and pulley delivered their pints. The notion took a while to settle in, longer than it typically took for their pints to settle. All this while Donleavy was leaning against the barcounter almost looking like he was using the counter to practise his pushups.

As usual it was JP who broke the respective reveries.

              “What the actual feck, Donleavy. That can’t happen.”

Donleavy was sanguine.

              “Can’t hold back change JP. Its written in the stars.”

Rasher pitched in.

              “But you’re our star, Donleavy. What would be the point of coming to the pub without the atmosphere that you create?”

              “Very nice of you to say so, Rasher. Remind me to give you a chaser on the house later. I’m always open to people blowin’ smoke up me arse. But its not all bad. While the tracks and pulleys will be deliverin’ the pints and electronically transferrin’ yer hard earned cash to my account, I’ll be free to mingle on the table like a front of house man. I’ll be even twice my slim figure because I won’t be runnin’ around anymore. I’ll just be chillin’ out talkin’ to the punters like yerselves and doin’ feck all but watching me bank account swell. How bad?”

The three lads absorbed this for a while.

              “Well Donleavy, at least yer battery still has a positive pole. Fair fecks to ya. In the meantime, while yer still the pint puller – throw on another round there. And don’t forget the chaser. We’ll go one more and then head to the chipper.”

              “Yeah. Maybe ya should think of yer tracks and pulleys servin’ battered cod and chips in the pub too. Integrate the supply chain. Put the chipper out of business.”

              “Well, that’s a thought.”

              “Might as well offer sleepin’ pods as well. For nights like tonight – save us goin’ out into them sheets of shaggin’ rain.”

              “Now that’s another thought. Warm bed sheets in the pub rather than wet rain sheets in the cold wind. Ya could be on to somethin’ there Mono.”

Donleavy rubbed his chin.

              “Ya know lads. Yez are shaggin’ wasted. Yer a mine of ideas. We should have a round table thinktank sometime. We can plot a world domination strategy.”

They raised their glasses, had a good guffaw and clinked.

              “To world domination.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL.

JP, Mono and Rasher were nicely relaxed in front of their pints on an uncharacteristically warm and dry evening. Mind you – once they were ensconced at the bar counter in Donleavy’s – it didn’t matter what the weather was doing outside. It could be rain or hail or snow or sunshine, and it would not penetrate into the consciousness once they had equilibrated themselves on their respective barstools in the hallowed drinking emporium. Only one weather event was of any consequence and that was if a meteorological event was so severe as to prohibit their exit from the bar and catalyse a lock-in. Every imbiber’s dream.

There had been the usual sharing of banter and good-natured sledging, poking, mocking, teasing and taunting that constituted friendly engagement. A foreigner had once enquired from our illustrious trio as to what ‘banter’ meant. It had taken then by surprise at first that anyone could ask such a question about such a fundamental social interaction. They each felt it was a bit like asking ‘what is a carrot’. I mean it’s absolutely answerable, but it takes a bit of thinking as to describe something so basic in an accurate fashion. JP, as always, pulled them out of the quandary. His dissertation went like this: Imagine the following – I say something mildly insulting to you. You do not take offence but say something slightly more insulting to me. I do not take offence and counter in the offence rally. We keep on going like this until we give and accept the signal to mutually agree to call it a draw. All of this needing to be done with a tone of voice that clearly indicates that the insults are not meant. The foreigner was perplexed. He was also warned not to try it – unless you have been born into this environment it can go horribly wrong and risk being physically harmed. JP wondered at the time whether there was a police statistic for assaults on foreign nationals under the heading ‘Banter Failure’. Hmmm!

After they had given the signal to Donleavy to deliver another round of pints and felt confident that the glasses could be filled without the keg running out and causing an interruption to the supply chain – they felt a level of confidence in draining their pint glasses. Typically it was an absolute no-no to sit in front of an empty glass unless it was at the night’s end but with the knowledge that they could see their next wave of incoming pints filled at the tap then there was only marginal risk that the order would not be fulfilled. Indeed within a very short time Donleavy arrived with his experienced hands cradling the triangle of fresh pints.

“Well lads, what’s the craic?”, Donleavy enquired as he laid out the pints and tidied away the empty glasses.

“Divil a bit.”

“Nothin’ new.”

“Same ol’, same ol’.”

They all nodded sagely for a moment.

“Funny ol’ world.”

Donleavy left this as his parting statement. It was rhetorical. It was understood. He glided smoothly back up behind the counter with the effortless movement of someone half his size.

But Donleavy had unknowingly left a seed to germinate. JP gave the subliminal signal that the synchronous visit to the fresh pints was to commence. Three arms reached out and with three exact arc trajectories that even NASA would not be able to detect differences – equi-aliquots were consumed, and exact return trajectories were executed. Poetry in motion. JP wiped his lips with the back of his hand and decided to engage his compatriots in conversation that was a little more highbrow in nature.

“Jayzus lads. I’ve been readin’ ‘Animal Farm’. Nearly finished.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher spoke first.

“Surprised a person of your great intellect has never read it, JP. I’ll tell ya somethin’ for nothin’. That Napoleon is a right ol’ bollix.”

Mono wasn’t to be left behind in showing that he also had read it.

“Yeah. He wasn’t long in givin’ Snowball the heave-ho. And anyone else who stood in his way. A real shite artist.”

They all clinked glasses to toast their communal knowledge of the subject.

“All pint drinkers are equal.”

They paused for dramatic effect.

“….but some pint drinkers are more equal than others.”

They had a guffaw on this one and clinked glasses again.

It was time to go back to the pint glasses to celebrate this shared memory. After a few utterings of satisfaction, it was time to address the heady topics again.

“Donleavy is right though. There are too many shitehawks in power today.”

They nodded.

“And not just politicians. Now we’ve got businessmen shitehawks that can feck us all over as well.”

They nodded and tutted.

“And some shitehawk politicians are shitehawk businessmen as well.”

They nodded and tut-tutted.

JP reached out and started to turn his pint glass around slowly on it’s beermat. This seemed to be a signal to the other two and within moments there was synchronous glass turning going on. When the exercise was finished it was interesting to note that all three glasses had finished up with the logo on the glass perfectly positioned towards its drinking companion. Precision personified. Perfect rotation completed. Beermats equidistant from each other to the nearest millimetre. There were various levels of mastery that were being subconsciously demonstrated in Donleavy’s pub.

“Isn’t it funny thou’? Ya bang on about drainin’ the swamp and the masses think yer a shaggin’ Messiah come to lead ‘em, and then ya end up in just a different swamp.”

“Yer feckin’ right, JP. It’s ‘Animal Farm’ over and over again.”

“Too right. There was a shaggin’ time that if ya mentioned Napoleon then people would automatically think Bonaparte. I think we’ve nearly got to a stage where you’ll say Napoleon and people will ask why Boxer had to die.”

They went back to their pints and with another synchronous cycle of imbibing, the volume in each glass dropped another level. Each in their own mind was thinking that after another visit to the glass that it would be prudent to engage Donleavy’s attention for a further round of drinks. No point in taking the risk of potentially sitting in front of an empty glass. That type of anxiety can have a serious detrimental effect and negate the value of a relaxed environment with one’s fellow barroom philosophers. Rasher broke the silence of the individual reveries.

“I don’t shaggin’ get it. Why are people so shaggin’ thick? And I include us in that. Why do so many people vote for these shitehawks?”

As usual JP felt he needed to provide some sort of explanation to his two colleagues.

“I think maybe at heart we all think that a change will be better.”

The explanation was left there for a while. Rasher wasn’t having it, though.

“Jayzus JP, it’s a bit like sayin’ that ya have a pain in your finger but by amputatin’ yer hand it’ll make the pain go away.”

They all had a guffaw over that one.

“Ya could be right.”

“Jayzus, Rasher, maybe you should write yer own ‘Animal Farm’.”

“Feck. Maybe I will.”

“What’ll ya call it.”

Quick as a flash came the answer.

“’Donleavy’s Pub’ of course.”

They all had another guffaw and celebrated with another visit to their pints.

“Hey. Give Napoleon behind the bar there a shout and tell him we need another round of pints here.”

Rasher put a finger in the air.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

A WINTER’S WAIL.

The three lads – JP, Rasher and Mono – were comfortably into pint two as they sat at the bar counter in Donleavy’s. Outside the sun had dropped and the darkness was beginning to assert itself in the evening ascendancy. The Summer season had given way to Autumn and there was a slight chill beginning to creep towards the end of the day. JP unconsciously gave that subliminal signal that resulted in each of our three heroes reaching out to embrace their pint glasses at exactly the same time, follow an arc trajectory to their lips that created new benchmarks in synchronicity, then return the glasses following exactly the same arc, and meeting beermats within nanosecond differences and with equi-volume removed from the drink. Mastery in synchronous pint drinking would be way too small a term. JP let out a satisfied aaah. There may have been some slight anal leakage as well, but no one passed any heed or notice to this. He looked around at his two lieutenants who flanked him on the barstools.

              “Nights are fairly drawin’ on in.”

              “Yep. ‘Member when it used to be bright ‘til half ten?”

              “Yep. Doesn’t seem to be too long ago.”

They went back to their individual thoughts.

JP broke the silence once more. This time with vehemence.

              “I shaggin’ hate Winter.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Hey. Steady on there, JP. Yer getting’ way ahead of yerself. We’re nowhere near Winter yet.”

              “Yeah. Jayzus. The sunset has moved a little earlier and ya already have us battlin’ in a snow drift. For feck sake.”

It was worth going back to the pints again. On return to the beermat, Mono signalled for another round to keep the inventory ticking over. Donleavy acknowledged and set about his task with the efficiency for which he is renowned. The eyeline of the three boys was automatically drawn to the tap where glasses were being filled and exchanged with consummate skill and continuity. Three pint glasses were then left to settle for that magical separation of mystical black and smooth cream before the final topping up was completed to create another artistic expression. Donleavy gathered the triangle of glasses in his practised hands and laid them down with reverence on the three beermats which had been simultaneously relieved out their previous occupants as the lads finished off the remnants of pint number two. Donleavy always had a word for his three best customers. More than customers. Evangelists of Donleavy good news.

              “Well lads. Any craic?”

              “Divil the bit.”

              “Same ol’, same ol’.”

              “All quiet.”

              “Hey. Nothin’ wrong with quiet. There’s shite hittin’ fans all over the world. Ya could be pickin’ faeces outta orifices it was never meant to inhabit. D’ya know what I mean?”

The lads concurred.

              “Too right.”

              “True for ya.”

              “Never a truer word.”

Donleavy’s attention was signalled elsewhere, and he glided along the bar to the next customer.

JP’s mind seemed to copy and paste the world’s shite throwing fan to his reluctance to positively embrace Winter. He needed, however, to put a positive spin on things.

              “It’s a good thing we have our pints.”

Mono took up the request for clarification.

              “Yeah. Why’s that?”

              “Because the world’s fucked.”

Rasher had a guffaw before replying.

              “Don’t hold back there, JP, tell us what yer really thinkin’”

              “Naw. It is. The world is gone to hell in a handbag. Wars and genocide and famine and poverty. Bloody dictators everywhere who don’t know their arse from their elbow but who love the smell of their own farts. People in charge of health who only know enough to put on the back of a stamp and still have room for a shopping list. And the way we’re goin’ about climate change is like shittin’ on yer own doorstep.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Jayzus, JP. Ya definitely did tell us what yer thinkin’. Wha’ brought all that on?”

JP looked at each of them in turn.

              “Feckin’ Winter.”

              “Winter?”

              “Yeah. Winter.”

It was time for Rasher to seek some elaboration.

              “Jayzus, JP. It’s only a shaggin’ season doin’ what its asked to do. Turn the ol’ globe away from the sun for a few months so that we love Spring even more.”

JP looked at Rasher like he was a kindergarten kid who didn’t understand toilet training.

              “For feck sake. Every bleedin’ Winter gets worse. More shaggin’ extreme. Storms. Wind. Rain. Losin’ me power. Havin’ to tie things down. Sometimes needin’ to imprison meself behind sand bags. Then. Repairin’ the damage. Tiles off me roof. Trees down. Garden fecked. Is any of wha’ I’m sayin’ a lie?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Neither of them could disagree with JP.

              “I mean to say – one of the things I loved about this little country was the weather. Yeah – I know – we kinda complain about getting four seasons in the one day no matter what the season. But tha’ was only messin’ complainin’. We never really were mega pissed off with tha’. Tha’ was just the way of it. We were actually proud that we lived in that narrow temperature band with no extreme shit. None of yer bleedin’ tropical storms. No hurricanes. No tornados. No heatwaves. No coldwaves. No bleedin’ hailstones or heavy downpours. No tropical cyclones. None of that shite. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Fuck-all.”

JP was quite exasperated. Conversations in Donleavy’s typically didn’t extend to multi-sentence offerings.  Exchanges were much more likely to be cut and thrust. The ancient art of banter being executed at the highest of levels. JP gave the subliminal signal for another cycle of synchronous pint visiting. In truth, the visit to the pint seemed to have some small calming effect. There was a moment of quietness while the order of things became open to confirmation. Would JP continue his rant? Would Mono or Rasher feel that it was appropriate to respond. The next steps were up in the very uncertain air.

The decision was made JP went back into his stride.

              “Ya know – when people started talkin’ first – they were talkin’ of global warmin’. And – may God forgive me – my first thoughts were that a little bit of warmin’ may not be such a bad thing. Ya know. Better Summers and all tha’. But shit – then they moved on to describe this shite as climate change. Now – tha’s a different kettle of various fish. A feckin’ hornets’ nest contained in a can of worms in hot water livin’ in a tight corner. If ya know wha’ I mean?”

Mono and Rasher nodded sagely.

              “And puttin’ up a few wind turbines an’ PV panels ain’t goin’ bring home the bacon.”

There was a prolonged period of silence. Each pondering his own place in the realm of such serious matters. Finally, it was Rasher who provided an input.

              “Talkin’ of bacon has got me thinkin’….”

The two other boys waited for his continued interjection.

              “….a quarter pounder with cheese and bacon would be just the ticket to compliment these pints.”

JP and Mono nodded sagely.

              “Yer not wrong there.”

“Let’s drink up. Give Donleavy the nod there.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

EEJITS

It was a look that could have stopped a freight train travelling at warp speed. JP, Mono and Rasher idled into Donleavy’s and someone was sitting on JP’s barstool. It was probably just an innocent mistake by an uninitiated individual, but it was still as near as possible that you can get to a hanging offence outside the judicial system. It had been a long time since it had happened and that was clearly the reason why JP just stopped dead, flanked by his trusty lieutenants, arranged in an arrow-like format bearing down on the unfortunate individual who had the temerity to occupy the hallowed space. In fairness to Donleavy – he spotted it – with all the expertise that an experienced bar owner brings to these situations. Before the three lads had re-engaged first gear, Donleavy had had a quiet word with the poor unfortunate and offered him a ‘much nicer’ barstool in a different location in the bar. One that was also out of eyeline of JP so as to save the poor unfortunate the daggers of stares that would no doubt have ensued from the near encounter. The situation was saved.

It took a little while extra for the lads to settle themselves down after that unexpected interruption and delay in getting to their barstools. Perhaps an additional buttock movement before equilibrium was established….or maybe a few more deep breaths before shoulders fully relaxed. Whatever it was – there was a hiatus before the deep and meaningful conversation, for which the lads were renowned, could commence.

“Feckin’ eejit.”

This evening it was Mono who initiated the engagement.

JP and Rasher nodded in total agreement and understanding and without any further elaboration required as to whom our bar room warrior may be referring.

There was a communal shaking of heads and a combination of various ‘tsk’s’. Donleavy, for his part, had produced three pints to place in front of them in rapid quick time. Perhaps Donleavy felt some form of responsibility for allowing this near drama to unfold.

The three lads watched their pints settle with an unfailing curiosity and appreciation. The magic and mystery that unfolded until black delineated from white never ceased to enthral them. Once separation was achieved three hands went out in perfect formation and with matching arcs the first drink of the night was given a green light and made a perfect landing. Oral reflections of satisfaction ensued. The world had moved into becoming a calmer place. The calmness took its place right throughout that pint….and the next one….and a large part of the third one….with hardly a word exchanged. In fact, it was coming up to the re-order level of pint three before the conversation became initiated.

“Eejits”.

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

“Well – “eejit” really, JP. There was only one of him.”

JP confidently gave the nod that the pint could be drained because he could see Donleavy beginning to walk down the bar with their incoming. OK to have an empty glass now. Only other time acceptable to have an empty glass being the end of the evening.

“No. I mean eejits in general. The world is full of bleedin’ eejits.”

There was a certain obviousness and universality to that statement, so the two boys nodded in sage agreement. Rasher, however, felt the subject deserved a bit more granularity.

“Give us a bit more of wha’ yer thinkin’ there JP.”

JP imperceptibly gave the signal that it would be wise to go for another round of synchronous imbibing before responding – so each of our heroes reached out and performed another wetting of the whistle. JP then felt more emboldened to respond.

“Where do I bleedin’ start? Cars! We could go on forever about cars.”

Mono felt this was a subject also close to his heart and chimed in immediately:

“Jayzus, yeah. There are still eejits out there not wearin’ seat belts.”

“….and lookin’ at mobile phones. Or worse – textin’.”

“….or maybe sextin’.”

They all had a guffaw at that one.

“….or smokin’ with kids in the car.”

“Jayzus. Yeah. Awful.”

“….or bleedin’ weaver birds goin’ in and out of lanes and for wha’? Gettin’ forward in the traffic by two or three cars.”

“Jayzus. Yeah. They’re right feckin’ eejits.”

“….or tailgaters. I mean wha’ the feck are they playin’ at?”

They had exercised their ideas in quick succession and now the pace slowed a little. Time for some gazing into the mirror that ran the whole length of the spirit bar counter behind that eclectic range of spirits that Donleavy had built up over time.  JP took his time with the next contribution. He harumped a few times and this was always a signal that what would next ensue would not be as direct and straightforward as his typical approach.

“Ya know lads. I’m a bit reluctant to say what I’m goin’ say next.”

The boys egged him on with verification of ‘all being friends here’ and ‘what’s said in Donleavy’s – stays in Donleavy’s’.

“Well, ya know I smoked a pipe for a long number of years.”

They nodded.

“Well – I’m not proud of it.”

Mono and Rasher assured him that they were “different” times.

“….and I know ya mentioned smokin’ in the car with kids.”

More nodding.

“….but isn’t smokin’ or vapin’ just the top of the heap of pure eejit-try. I mean yer lungs aren’t designed for that. Ya wouldn’t hold yer head over the smoke from a fire. And yer goin’ to die young and probably painfully. And yer goin’ be coughin’ and being more sick in the winter. And ya smell shite. And yer clothes smell shite. And yer mouth tastes like the soot in a chimney. How can tha’ make sense?”

The lads nearly lost their heads from nodding.

“No. I am not proud of meself for smokin’ that bleedin’ pipe. What a feckin’ turnip head I was.”

The lads did their best to support their pal with guarantees of minimum damage and seeing the light and great recovery and informed action and resolve and clarity of thought and all the other things you would say to a friend who has been a stupid fecker.

Further trips to the pint glasses were absolutely necessary at this juncture. Mono and Rasher were a little uncomfortable with JP’s outpouring of personal eejit-try. It was necessary to get things back on a less personal keel. Mono was the man.

“Tell me something. How much shaggin’ harder is an adult’s skull than a child’s? Tell me tha’.”

JP revelled in this type of question. It was right up his street.

“Well, harder for sure. I mean, I think around eight or nine years old a kids skull starts to get a bit harder.”

There was a pause.

“Why’d ya ask, Mono.”

“Well, bear with me on this one. So – the adult skull is harder. But if ya took this adult and bashed his or her head off a rock and if ya took the child and bashed his or her head off a rock – would there be a big difference?”

JP looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at JP. JP felt like he should be the one to bring his learned expertise in this area to the response.

“Well – I think ya’d have a dacent bit of skin, bone and blood messin’ up the rock.”

Mono let this one sink in for a while.

“Well will ya bleedin’ tell me then – when the family are all out cyclin’ their bikes – why Mammy and Daddy think they’re being so feckin’ responsible havin’ the kids with cycling helmets and they themselves have none? Is it so the kids will be able to push the wheelchair when the parent is brain damaged after all the skin, bone and blood is cleaned off the rock?”

There was more communal nodding. More importantly there was also another visit to the pint glasses. Critically the level in the glass was approaching and passing the recognised reorder point and as no-one had signalled, then the subliminal message was clearly that the night was approaching its denouement. JP had one final reflection on the evening.

“D’ya know, its funny. Most of our eejit comments have been about road users.”

“Jayzus, yeah.”

“Yer bang on.”

The shared a knowing look.

“We could have gone for phones and screen and social meeja for a massive population of bleedin’ eejits.”

“Too right.”

“Next time.”

“Give Donleavy the nod there. We’ll go for a battered cod and chips.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

RETURNING SPIRITS

It had been an unusual cycle of pleasant weather. Waking up to clear blue skies and warm air. Feeling the heat on your face and your neck getting warmer as the sun got higher each day. The first week had everyone in good spirits and was a constant topic of conversation. The second week saw people begin to tire and slow down. By week three people were almost deflated and visibly sagging. What a turnaround! The three lads were on their usual barstools at the counter in Donleavy’s. JP in the middle flanked by Mono on one side and Rasher on the other. The air in Donleavy’s was refreshingly cool and the lighting was subdued. A perfect escape from the elements. 

What also was contributing to the feeling of well being was the three pints that were going through their magical period of settling in front of their eyes.  Eddies of creamy streams were making their way in a haphazard way to the top of the glass while the black body intensified second by second. These were moments of pure enchantment. Moments to savour. And our three amigos did appreciate these times with the experience of sublime exerts in the pantheon of masterful imbibers. 

So – three creamy pints with razor sharp separation of the phases now allowed for drinking to begin. An almost imperceptible nod from JP constituted the signal for arms to outstretch. With perfect synchronicity, pints were raised, lips met glasses at exactly the same time, equi-volumes were imbibed and beer mats were reengaged at exactly the same time. How many hours do they say are required to reach the level of mastery? How many pints do they say need to be consumed to achieve this level of synchronicity? Whatever the answer – these boys were the benchmark, the reference point, the gold standard, the gurus of the bar counter.

One area where individuality was totally allowed was in the realm of vocal appreciation of the quality of the pint. Donleavy always served a superior offering and the three boys expressed their respect with various levels and lengths of ooohs and aaahs. 

This was the best part of the evening – that first aliquot of thirst quenching thirst quencher of the gods. JP looked around him – taking in the surroundings as if it was the first time he’d been here – as opposed to someone who frequented this stool so often that he rightfully could have claimed legal ownership under squatters timeframe occupancy. 

As was his wont – JP looked to the line of bottles on the bar counter for conversational inspiration. He spotted a bottle of vodka called ‘Black Death’. That set him thinking. He looked slowly right and then left. Mono and Rasher recognised the movement and knew that JP was about to hold forth. They subconsciously looked in opposite directions away from JP in the vain hope that this might discourage him from issuing forth. As usual – it was in vain. 

“What happens when we die lads?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. There was a momentary pause.

“Me missus looks for a quiet place where she can’t be disturbed – and yells the loudest ‘yippee’ she’s ever had the lung capacity to belt out.”

“All the people I owe money to form a disorderly queue at me front door.” 

JP gave each of them in turn a long hard look of disdain.  This look which would have withered the strongest of people gave Rasher and Mono a delightful thrill. Only for the fact that JP was between them and the movement would have been awkward, they would have savoured the moment between them with the highest of fives. 

They each went back to the well. The glasses were returned lovingly to their respective beer mats.

‘No seriously, will we be comin’ back? How will it work.’

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

JP continued. 

‘I mean , if we’re comin’ back, will we be higher or lower on the food chain?’

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. JP felt he needed to expand more. He was losing the lads.

‘Well – if yer rewarded in the next phase do ya come back with lots more of challenges and responsibilities and decision makin’? Is that a bleedin’ reward? Or do ya come back with an easy life where it’s all plain sailin’ and ya don’t need to exert yourself?’

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. There was silence for a while before Rasher risked a response.

‘I tell ya somethin’…’

The other two looked at him earnestly

‘….it really pisses me off when people say they wouldn’t change a bleedin’ thing if they got to do it all again. I mean to say. Did they learn nothin’?’

The other two nodded in earnest agreement. Mono felt OK to pick up the thread. 

‘And what ‘bout them eejits that win the lottery…oh, it’s not going to change me… Well I tell you somethin’ – you don’t deserve to win the bleedin’ lottery then. Give it all to me. Because I can promise you – it’ll definitely change me.’

They all had a guffaw over that one. 

Rasher came back with a deep philosophical enquiry.

‘Do ya think that we’d still like a battered sausage and chips after a feed of pints when we come back.’

JP and Mono didn’t have to agonise over this one. 

‘That’s in the DNA lad.’

‘Best base pair of the lot.’

‘Highly evolved characteristic.’

‘Fundamental behaviour.’

There was unanimous, even violent agreement.

‘Will we head to the chipper, so?’

‘Jayzus yeah. All the talkin’ ‘bout it is makin’ me hungry.’

‘Give Donleavy the nod then.’

Just another night in Donleavy’s

SCHOOLYARD TARIFFS

JP, Mono and Rasher were seated on their usual barstools in Donleavy’s on a fine Spring evening. It did seem like a shame to be indoors in a pub on probably the first decent day of weather since the previous year. Thankfully, Donleavy had pulled the blinds so that the sunshine didn’t penetrate the bar and pile levels of guilt onto the innocent imbibers. A low level of lighting was always good in a pub environment and there are probably oodles of scientific data to support the fact that low lux combined with fresh pints has a commandingly positive impact on mental health. Whether that is medically consistent or not, our three amigos were quite serene as they finalised some buttock equilibration on individual barstools and waited for pints to settle.

Once separation was achieved, JP emitted that subliminal signal that said that synchronous pint drinking could commence. What a thing of beauty! Three pint glasses arcing through the air in perfect harmony, resting on lips for exactly the same timescales, arcing back to beer mats and arriving on the counter with the same quantities removed and achieving touchdown at the exact same time. Years of practise had gone into this phenomenal human activity understanding. Evolution had brought this practise to such a level of perfection it was incredible to behold. Now, however, was the time for individual expression and there was wide variation in the ooohs and aaahs of personal satisfaction.

JP wallowed in satisfaction for a while before breaking the silence.

              “Were either of ya bullied in the schoolyard?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They often wondered where exactly JP dragged up the conversation openers. Clearly a study of ‘JP conversation openers’ could provide fodder for a myriad of PhD’s for interested, budding anthropologists.

              “Nah.”

              “Nah.”

The reply came in surround sound stereo. (JP always sat in the middle, flanked by his trusty lieutenants).

              “Were ya ever a schoolyard bully yerself?”

The two lads had an equal look of shock and disappointment.

              “Ah Jayzus, JP.”

              “For feck sake.”

JP ploughed on regardless.

              “Just checkin’ – for completeness – ya know. Important to get a full background check.”

They went back to their pints. The situation seemed to warrant another cycle of relaxation. A reestablishment of equilibrium took place. Mono took up the reins.

              “Wha’ the hell are ya askin’ ‘bout schoolyard bullyin’ for?”

JP ruminated for a while before answering.

              “I want ya to think back, lads. Imagine yerself back in the yard. Biffo the Bully, or whatever he was called – because he has his own personal problems, feels the need for others to feel worse than him.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They smiled.

              “Yeah. Get that.”

              “Yeah – I can actually picture the fecker.”

JP waved his hands like a priest recognising his flock.

              “And wha’ happens first?”

Mono was back in again.

              “Feckin’ Biffo starts pushin’ someone in the chest…and the crowd gather ‘round.”

Rasher added to the image.

              “….and Joe Bullied tries to push his chest out to make himself look bigger than he is.”

JP issued the subliminal signal to trigger around visit to the well. Rasher then raised a finger in the air to give Donleavy the well-understood signal that stock levels had reduced sufficiently that additional inventory needed to be addressed by another immediate order. Like a mega efficient supply chain, Donleavy was addressing the order by pulling the first pint almost before Rasher’s finger returned to the horizontal. Businesses could learn a lot from the practises at Donleavy’s pub. While they awaited the arrival of the next round of incoming, JP ‘went back’ to the schoolyard.

              “….and there follows a fair bit of pushin’ and shovin’ and in yer face stuff. Yeah?”

Rasher had the bit between his teeth at this stage. He was well ‘back’ in the schoolyard.

              “….and if I’m Joe Bullied I’ll probably say to Biffo tha’ me Da is goin’ to wreck Biffo’s head.”

              “….and Biffo will probably say that his Da is much bigger and will rip off Joe Bullied Da’s head.”

They discussed for a while how it would go back and forth with various statements about whose parent was bigger and how parental body parts would be parted company with torsos and how an abundance of blood would be spilled between the parents. Also, while all this was playing out there would be a continuation of chest pushing and shoving between Biffo and Joe Bullied. This drama would be accompanied by the other children forming a circle around the protagonists without wishing to get involved and with quiet appreciation for the fact that each individually was not in the position of Joe Bullied.

By this stage the replenishment was arriving on the bar counter. This was the signal to drain the pint glasses of remaining liquid so that Donleavy could efficiently swap out the new for the old. This act of rejuvenation was carried out with hand actions and body movements that any aspiring gymnast would be well proud. For a man of Donleavy’s size and bulk, his movements up and down the bar counter were amazing and the only word that adequately gave an accurate description was as if he was ‘gliding’. A few pleasantries were exchanged regarding present wellbeing, current weather and future forecasts. It was then reasonable for Donleavy to move on and for our heroes to reengage with the schoolyard drama.

JP looked right and left to make sure he was back with undivided attention.

              “So, now we know what the scene looks like. But how does it all generally end.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Each egging the other on to respond. Finally, Rasher felt obliged to issue a response of behalf of both of them.

              “The crowd lose interest. Somethin’ more excitin’ comes along. Or a distraction – they get called back into class.”

Mono had additional time now to make a contribution.

              “Or Biffo might realise that he underestimated Joe Bullied and he’s not as soft a touch as he initially figured.”

JP seemed happy with the responses and a return to the pint glasses was called for.  After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he added his own contribution.

“Yeah.  It throws things up in a heap for a while. It messes up the games in the schoolyard which everyone was enjoyin’. But usually, it just peters out and as long as no-one loses their lunch money then there probably isn’t a lot of long-term harm done.”

Time for another visit to the well. After a period of reflection Mono sought a clarification.

              “Hey, JP. What the hell was that all ‘bout. What the bejayzuz brought schoolyard bullies into yer mind?”

JP looked at each of them in turn and smiled.

              “Just think of it all as schoolyard tariffs.”

They all had a wry smile.

              “What the hell. Let’s get down to the chipper quick before there’s a twenty five percent increase in the price of a smoked cod and chips.”

              “Yayzuz. Yer right. Urgent action required.”

              “The job is Oxo. Give Donleavy the nod there.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

USA – A SHORT STORY

The three lads weren’t sure whether they were out or whether they were out out. The pints were tasting really good, and Donleavy was excelling himself behind the bar in ensuring that service was hyper-efficient and levels in the pint glass never fell below the critical reorder point before inventory was restocked. Pints kept flowing. It was just one of those nights where everything seemed alright with the world. The fact that the world was well on its way to going to hell in a handbag was irrelevant. And maybe it was because the world had completely fallen arse over tit that catalysed JP, Mono and Rasher to take additional pleasure from the joys of relaxed company and superior pints.

Nobody had actually said anything, made no attempt to force conversation over the last extended period. Well – that is – if you exclude ooohs and aaahs of satisfaction and maybe the odd sneaky fart. But this monastic silence couldn’t last forever. Eventually it was JP who split the silence atom.

‘Can I tell a story, lads?’

‘All ears’.

‘Yer clear for takeoff’.

JP reached out for his pint glass, no doubt to oil the larynx before he began. The other two lads fired their arms out and made up the milliseconds of reaction difference so that all three pint glasses arced into the air at the same time, same trajectory and same duration. Oh, if only synchronous pint drinking was an Olympic event!

Pint glasses re-engaged with beer mats and even with a slow screen video replay it would been impossible to discern any difference or time lag between the touchdowns. This was mastery at the most amazing level. JP wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath.

‘It’s a true story, lads’. I promise ya that.

‘Mighty’.

‘Better again.’

JP looked from right to left. From Mono to Rasher.

‘It’s about America’.

Nobody said anything.

‘Well, that’s not strictly right. It’s about Americans’.

Nobody said anything.

JP harrumphed and got himself into his stride.

‘True story, guys’.

‘Ya said that’.

‘Got it the first time’.

JP looked up the bar counter.

‘Maybe I’ll wait until Donleavy isn’t busy and bring him in for the story’.

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

‘Jayzus, get on with it – will ya’.

‘Yeah, we’ll be doing Bed and Breakfast, if ya don’t get a move on’.

JP decided on the basis of the feedback that he could enlighten Donleavy at some future juncture.

He began:

‘I want ya to picture the scene. It’s a ferry comin’ back into the country. We’ve been travellin’ across the sea for 24 hours. We can now see land in the distance’.

‘Jayzus, JP, yer not shaggin’ Christopher Columbus’.

‘….or bleedin’ Scott of the Antarctic’.

JP didn’t let them rattle him. He kept his composure and continued in a calm voice.

‘When ya’ve been on a ferry for that long it’s only natural to gravitate to the decks and watch the land get closer’.

The two boys nodded in agreement. They’d both done these type of ferry trips and knew what JP was talking about.

JP watched the nodding head validation and went on to the next level of the story.

‘So behind me are these two big Yanks. They’re not travellin’ together but Yanks seem to have this radar system where they pick up a similar species without ever havin’ to hear each other speak’.

More nodding.

‘So, they start talkin’ to each other swappin’ zip codes’.

‘Yeah, well, in fairness, we’d be like that too. Tryin’ to figure out where yer from, what’s yer seed, breed and generation and does anyone in yer family owe us any money’.

They had a bit of a guffaw over that one.

‘But this is where it gets good. We’re gettin’ ever closer to land and there is an announcement on the speaker thing, on the Tannoy’.

JP talks through his nose and does his best impersonation of a speaker announcement.

‘Would all non-EU citizens please ensure that they fill in a disembarkation card before landing’.

Rasher and Mono shared another guffaw.

‘Jayzus, JP, ya’d make a great little announcer’.

‘Yeah. I could just imagine ya in the supermarket. Non anal leakage Beans on aisle 9 are on special today. Diet Cola has been relocated to the battery acid shelves’.

They clinked glasses. That was worth another synchronous, equi-volume imbibing.

‘So where was I. Oh, yeah. The non-EU citizens to fill out their cards. So – and I shit you not – one Yank turns around to the other and he says ‘Gee, are we a member of the EU?’’

The two lads lift their eyes to heaven.

‘….and then – wait for it – it gets better – the other Yank turns around and says ‘Sure are. We’re the biggest member of it’’.

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher

‘And I promise you as sure as I sitting here with me arse perfectly balanced on this barstool – that’s a true story’.

‘For feck sake’.

‘That’s fecked up on so many levels’.

JP had a smug grin of satisfaction on his face.

Rasher was all for decisive action.

‘Wha’ ‘bout we finish the pint and go for a battered cod and chips before the world collapses into a black hole’.

‘Sound idea’.

‘Give Donleavy the nod there’.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

CAN’T IDENTIFY THE CRAZIES

A February night in Donleavy’s. Neither one thing nor the other. Not Christmas Holiday time. Too far away from Easter. Not really winter. No daffodils peaking their heads up to say it is Spring. Cold but not Arctic. A bit of a meaah really. And the meaah seemed to permeate into the conversation, or lack of it, at the bar counter. JP, Rasher and Mono were seated at their usual stools, at their usual bar counter, nursing their usual pints – but there was something missing. No spark. No mojo. Not even a lot of buttock equilibrating motion. Each stared at the mirror behind the bar seemingly lost in their own individual thoughts. Or maybe just lost. Even the timeframe between synchronous visits to their pint glasses seemed to be getting longer and longer. Donleavy, who would normally be gliding up and down the counter, either fulfilling orders or encouraging banter, was leaning with his back to the register seemingly examining the length, texture and structure of his fingernails. At this moment in time there was probably more noise and activity in the local morgue.

A couple of visits to the pint glasses and it was time for renewal. Mono put his finger in the air, Donleavy stopped nail gazing and fresh glasses were assembled under the tap. There was a fresh air of comfort when our three amigos could see the new inventory being worked upon by Donleavy. Confidence in the supply chain is all important for that continued feeling of well- being. Conversely, only stress and discomfort can result from a fear of an empty glass. And that would be so counter-productive to a relaxed evening out at the bar counter.

The pints arrived. There was just a small timeframe required while the final eddies of cream made their way into their proper home above that sharp black line. Each of the three guys – as per normal – focussed on this piece of beverage magic and followed each small eddy until it found it’s way home. Once separation was confidently complete, the subliminal signal was simultaneously received and synchronous pint drinking ensued. Glasses were returned to beer mats and satisfied sounds emanated from each of the three. Another phase of equilibrium had been achieved.

JP gazed at the rows of spirit bottles in front of the bar mirror from where he typically drew inspiration for conversation content. Tonight, the bottles were not giving up their stimulation easily. If there was a catalyst in there – it was well stoppered. JP sighed. Then, as if from nowhere, a question jumped out.

              “Lads – how many phrases do ya know for being a little bit crazy?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. The look said, ‘where did JP get this from?’, but they were well used to their friend flying solo on various tangents, so it never even occurred them to ask the question regarding the origin of the thought. Just easier to go with the flow.

              “Wha’ d’ya mean? Give us an example.”

              “Ya know – like ‘a sandwich short of a picnic’ or ‘a few slates missin’ off the roof’”

The two lads were immediately in the groove. This was simple territory.

              “A screw loose.”

              “Not the sharpest tool in the box.”

They smiled because they knew there was lots more phrases just sitting on the frontal lobe waiting for warp speed travel to the tongue.

              “Gone off the reservation.”

              “Doolally.”

              “A few cards short of a full deck.”

They went back to a synchronous visit to their pint glasses. Good to lubricate the vocal cords – this could be fertile ground for another few rounds of brainstorming.

There was a slight pause while they savoured the different taste elements of what they had just consumed. Then it was full action again.

              “Bonkers.”

              “Bungalow.”

              “Batty.”

They had a little laugh that the last round were all ‘B’s. They briefly toyed with going through the alphabet and seeing could they populate the whole alphabet, but they quickly agreed that the exercise could develop into force-fitting and destroy the quality of the outcome. Off they went again.

              “Touched.”

              “Wacko.”

              “Cracked.”

This was almost too easy. There was no delay or let up with the contributions.

              “Off the rails.”

              “Gone off the deep end.”

              “Round the bend.”

They needed to get back to a synchronous imbibing cycle. This was thirsty work. The break also allowed for a continuity of suggestions.

              “Loony Tunes.”

              “A few fries short of a Happy Meal.”

              “Out to lunch.”

While they could have kept going like this until Donleavy called ‘Time’, Rasher became insanely curious as to why they ended up on this path and put his oar in to stem the flow.

              “What’s all yer interest in nutjob phrases anyway, JP? Where’s all this comin’ from?”

JP gave out another subliminal signal for a return to the pint glass. He often did this when asked a pointed question. It was his way of both preparing the question and preparing the audience for the response. A practise honed over thousands of pint glass contents. He paused after the glasses had been returned to the counter.

              “Well lads, it’s as simple as this. Ya can’t identify the crazies anymore.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. It was clear that JP was going to expound further so they felt no requirement for a clarification question.

              “D’ya ‘member how ya used to know if someone was a bit doolally? They’d be goin’ ‘round talkin’ to themselves. And when mobile phones came out first, ya used to get a bit confused but then ya saw the phone and ya took the person back out of the batshit crazy category.”

They nodded. They were with him on this one. JP kept going.

              “But now. The phone is in the pocket. The ear pods aren’t even visible without ya being close enough to kiss ‘em on the cheek. And there they all are – hundreds of them – walking around talkin’ to themselves. Sometimes ya even think they’re talkin’ to you. I mean – what shaggin’ chance have ya got to pick out the ones who are livin’ in another dimension. Not bleedin’ possible.”

Time for another visit to the pint glass and let all this ring around the neurons. Modern living certainly had its challenges. Do doubt about that.

Mono thought long and hard about all this before he offered his contribution.

              “Hey. I bet ya anything. Anything ya want. I bet ya Donleavy could spot a Loony Tune at a thousand paces.”

They guffawed at that one.

              “Whatever ya do – don’t ask him.”

              “Why not?”

              “Because he’d say tonight, he doesn’t need a thousand paces. He’d say the three of us are right in front of him.”

Another round of guffaws.

              “Why don’t we give Donleavy the nod and go get a battered cod and chips?”

              “Sounds like a plan.”

“Let’s see how many wackos we meet on the way to the chipper.”

They made their way to the exit.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

ANTI HIBERNETIC.

Those days between Christmas and New Year were always good times in Donleavy’s Pub. The fire burned cheerily in the grate. The outside world was shut out behind blackout curtains and doors. There was always a critical mass of warm bodies populating stools and chairs. There was the temporary return of the ex-pats. Even though tradition required people to spend that one public holiday day known as Christmas Day with their families – by the following day it was like a release of the hostages. There was still money being made available – however that happened – to spend on alcohol. Maybe people stopped caring about their delicate financial positions? May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Throw another goldfish to the cat. Whatever the myriad of reasons that found the punters in the warm glow that represented Donleavy’s pub, the clientele were all in good humour – and that made for a good atmosphere all around the pub.

Three bar stools were not available to the casual visitor. These three bar stools were never available to any drinker. That was another accepted tradition. JP, Mono and Rasher had an unwritten but universally accepted lifetime lease on these three bar stools in question. On this particular evening the buttocks of our three amigos were in various states of equilibrium as they occupied the said bar stools and had every intention of maintaining that occupation for a considerable length of time. They too had been released with other hostages and they had every intention of sharing this freedom until Donleavy would later lie about the fact that the police were at the door and enquire whether they actually had any homes to return to. Buttocks equilibrated – the lads were all set for a session. They were ‘out out’.

Donleavy was pirouetting up and down at the back of the bar counter like a man half his size and half his age. The athletic bartender. He was also handling about six orders all together at any one time. The genius bartender. He even had time to engage in some ritual small talk and banter. The social bartender. What a legend. A complete legend.

JP, Mono and Rasher were waiting for that final current of settling to take place in their respective pints. Waiting for that sharp line to appear between the black and the white. When it was the appropriate time, a subliminal message was exchanged that resulted in our three amigos lifting pints at exactly the same time, drinking the same quantities and returning the glasses to beermats at precisely the same moment. Supreme synchronous drinking legends. Complete legends.

There had been very little exchange of words between the lads over the past number of minutes. It was all about comfortable companionship without any rush or urgency. Their silence was very much out of trend with the rest of the pub, but this was of no consequence to them. Eventually JP threw in a starter….

              “I think I may have just invented a new phrase.”

The two other lads looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

              “Wouldn’t be the bleedin’ first time.”

              “Won’t be the bleedin’ last.”

They went back to their pints for another synchronous visit. Clearly in any normal dynamic the next most obvious line of communication would have been for Rasher or Mono to enquire what was the substance of this new phrase. This would then have been followed by an explanation and a discussion or relative merits and acceptance. However, this engagement did not follow any usual format or custom. More likely Mono and Rasher subconsciously didn’t want to encourage this direction of conversation for fear it would lead to some boring, over-philosophical and mind-numbing places where only JP could find some amusement. Thus, they ignored him.

What was obviously required was some quick diversionary tactic. Rasher was first in.

              “I think we should raise a toast to ‘Donleavy’s’. I mean the rest of the known world has gone batshit crazy and here we are in the only sane dominion left on the globe.”

              “Too right.”

              “To ‘Donleavy’s’. Utopia with kegs and a bleedin’ counter.”

They clinked glasses and reduced the glass volume to precariously close to the re-order point. Mono took up the responsibility and raised a finger in the air to signal to Donleavy that incoming was required. With the pub this busy, the reorder was possibly a bit late for comfort. Heaven forbid that they should be left with an empty glass except at exit time. However, Donleavy was keenly aware of their anxiety and put their order on fill ahead of some other requests. Panic averted. The benefits of a superior barman-customer relationship honed over many years.

While they awaited their fresh pints JP looked first to Mono on his right and then to Rasher on his left.

              “It’s funny that ya should mention the catastrophic state of the world.”

The two lads exchanged a glance.

              “Because in a way that is wha’ has inspired me new phrase.”

The two lads exchanged a groan. Diversionary tactic unsuccessful.

              “It’s a brave new world, isn’t it lads?”

The stereo of groans was meant to work as an answer.

              “….and we need new ways of dealin’ with all the madness. Am I right or am I right?”

Reluctant nods of assent. Who knew where this was going to end up?

By this stage pints had arrived and settled, and the subliminal messaging went out that it was appropriate to visit the pint glasses for another exhibition of legendary synchronous pint drinking. Glasses were returned to beer mats and mouths felt the movement of back of hand caress. The world may have been mad outside the confines of Donleavy’s but it was very sane inside. In fact, if only the governments and politicians of the world would just give the nod – there could be most of the problems of that world solved at this very bar counter. JP had settled back and was ready to go again.

              “Anti Hibernetic.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Nothing exchanged between the two of them that registered as any form of understanding. The thing now was which of the two would be willing to poke the bear. As it turned out there was no need. JP was going to keep going regardless.

              “Tha’s me new phrase.”

Rasher could hold back no longer.

              “Jayzus, JP. I have no clue wha’ the hell yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

JP looked at them both in turn.

              “It’s bleedin’ brilliant in its simplicity. It’s the magic bleedin’ response to anything. To everyone. In any situation.”

              “No idea still wha’ yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

              “Yer definitely witherin’ now JP. Y’ave fallen off the edge.”

JP had that contented look on his face that might even be described as an aura. He was positively glowing in their lack of clarity. He gave another subliminal signal to return to the pints. He clearly wanted to drive this moment to a crescendo.

They settled again.

              “Like I said. It’s simple lads.  Whoever says anything to ya – ya just accuse them of being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer lyin’ – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer dishonest – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer aggressive – – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya the dog had pups – – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. I’m tellin’ ya – it’s the way to go – the way forward – don’t know why it took me so long to realise this. It’s a shaggin’ ‘get out jail free’ card.”

The two lads were still scratching their heads.

              “Trust me on this one lads. Just practise it a few times. I guarantee ya it’ll be like livin’ a Teflon life.”

Mono and Rasher weren’t one hundred percent convinced. JP went to the well again.

              “I tell ya wha’. We’ll go to the chipper and try a few practise runs there.”

              “Hey. Now yer talkin’. Battered cod and chips.”

              “Or maybe a battered sausage?”

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

They slipped off barstools and with a wave of the hand made their way through the still bustling patrons.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

JANUS COULD TELL YOU A THING OR TWO.

It was a typical winter’s midweek night in Donleavy’s. The pub was only lightly populated. The doors and windows were respectively shut tight and curtained to keep in as much heat as possible. The open fire slowly consumed large logs and burned glowingly in the wide hearth. If a winter season was necessary – then Donleavy’s was a good place to wait it out until the daffodils poked their heads up. JP, Rasher and Mono sat at their usual positions at the bar counter. The conversation had been sparse up to this point.  JP scanned the array of bottles across from him on the shelves. Donleavy really liked to collect alcoholic beverages from all over the world. JP often wondered did he actually sell any drink from these bottles or were they just like some sort of collector thing, like stamps or coins or model aircrafts. His scanning picked out Limoncello. Ah yes – Donleavy had shared some of this liqueur with them previously. Italian. Lemony – obviously! Nice refreshing taste. Italian – that sparked something in JP’s eccentric train of thought.

              “Hey lads. D’ya ever hear of Janus?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Genius O’Toole? Yer man who lives down The Avenue. A few sandwiches short of a picnic?”

              “Nah. Janus. A Roman God.”

              “Guess that’s a bit away from Genius O’Toole, so.”

They reached for their pints and indulged themselves in some synchronous pint drinking. Some buttock re-equilibration occurred, and everything settled back into a nice calm place.

              “So wha’ about him?”

              “Who?”

              “Janus!”

              “Oh yeah. He had two heads and could look backwards and forwards at the same time. They often put a bust of his head on doorways.”

              “Good thinkin’. I’d say Donleavy would love to have him as a bouncer on the door on Saturday nights. Very bleedin’ efficient tha’.”

              “True for ya. Donleavy would have ‘im signed up. Janus the bouncer.”

They went back to their pints for another synchronous visit. Same action. Same timing. Same volume. Same return to the bar counter. Poetry in motion.

              “Hey, JP. What of it? What ‘bout this Janus two-headed dude.”

              “Oh yeah. I forgot. I was thinkin’ of this Palestine situation.”

              “You and the rest of the bleedin’ world. How do ya pronounce yer man’s name. The war crimes fella?”

              “Well, there’s a couple of guys already dead, but its Deif on one side and Gallant and Netanyahu on d’other side.”

              “Yeah. The last fella – how do ya pronounce it?”

              “Net – en – ya -who.”

              “Yeah. A right bleedin’ yahoo if ya asked me.”

At this point Donleavy was gliding behind their area of the bar counter. As he slid past Mono threw out a question.

              “Hey Donleavy, how would you like a two headed bouncer. His name is Janus.”

Donleavy, never short of a quick response, was already past them while his words made their way back the counter.

              “Janus. D’ya know. Give me two of them. They can keep an eye on each other as well.”

The boys gave him a recognition guffaw.

It was approaching time for glass volumes to be given extra attention. Re-order triggers needed to be keenly observed if empty glasses (serious transgression!) were to be avoided. Subliminal messaging seemed to favour Rasher as the one to raise that finger in the air (no – not that one) – the universal signal for ‘same again’. While re-order was being taken care of, Mono attempted to get the conversation realigned.

              “Still not tunin’ in to yer frequency JP, what are we even talkin’ ‘bout?

JP looked left to right and pushed out his chest.

              “Ah yes. Janus and Yahoo. Well, if Yahoo would only be a bit more like Janus, he wouldn’t just look back but try lookin’ forward as well. Then he might realise that he’s not wipin’ out his troubles. In fact, he’s makin’ sure that the troubles go on for decades to come.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “How so, JP, sure the bleedin’ country is in ruins. Did ya see the pictures?”

              “Well, the Gaza boys shouldn’t have done what they did, but just you imagine if you were a recruitment bod in the future. Just imagine. A couple of pictures and the mention of 2024. They’ll be signing up in their droves. Ya can’t completely wipe out a nationalist movement. It just doesn’t happen. Ask history. Ask Janus.“

              “Jayzus. Ya could be right, JP. And Yahoo will have moved on. He won’t have to see what happens in the future.”

They went back to their pints. There was quiet contemplation as each, no doubt, conjured up their view of the future. Maybe. Maybe they were only contemplating whether a burger or battered fish would go better with the inevitable visit to the ‘chipper’ at the end of the evening. It was Rasher again who broke the silence and pushed the conversation on.

              “Yahoo won’t see much of what happens in the future.”

It was a bald statement. JP sought some additional clarification.

              “That’s very probably correct. He’s no spring chicken. Is tha’ wha’ ya mean.”

Rasher looked to them both.

              “Yeah. That. But they are all chasin’ him down. Not only on the war crimes gig but do I remember that he’s up on corruption charges as well?”

              “Jayzus yer bang on Rasher. Only thing that stopped him being put in the dock for bribery and fraud was the ‘Rona Virus first and then followed by the war crimes.”

              “Ya’d have to wonder.”

              “Deffo.”

It was getting to that point in the evening where decisions needed to be made. Another pint? Or a trip to the ‘chipper’. Sometimes these decisions followed a democratic process – a proposal was made and then voted upon with majority deciding. Sometimes the communication was at a subliminal level and decisions got made without the need for overt communication. One way by which the latter would occur would be when the reorder level in the pint glass occurred without any of the three beckoning additional incoming. That was a tacit, unspoken agreement that upon draining of the current pint the pub night was at an end. This seemed to be the case in this instance. Critical volume level in the glass was reached and none of our heroes signalled to Donleavy. Therefore – this was it. Last pint of the evening. No words required. Intentions understood.

              “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

              “Wha’?”

              “Yahoo has been declared a criminal and he, no doubt, will be supported by the bullyboy, orange criminal in DC.”

              “Ya couldn’t write this shit.”

              “Yeah. Well, ya could. But no one would believe it. Too far-fetched.”

They mused on this for a while. Each in their own thoughts regarding this new world order. One which they would not, or could not, have ever predicted. One which their parents would have tut-tutted as being outlandish daydreaming. One which their children would have to clean up to get the world back to some reasonable semblance of normality and maturity.  JP took them into the next level of conversation.

              “I think in these days we all have to be open to different approaches.”

There was no take up to progressing this idea until Mono made the enquiry.

              “So, are ya suggestin’ somethin’, JP?”

              “I am indeed Mono. I’m suggestin’ we try somethin’ different this evenin’. “

              “Wha’?”

              “How ‘bout a battered sausage? Ya’d get fed up with the burgers or fish.”

              “Sounds like a mighty idea.”

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

The pundits would have completely backed a choice of either fish or burger. But the ‘chipper’ actually did a superb battered sausage. This would become evident later when the three amigos chased some battered sausages down with wonderfully fried chips lathered with salt and vinegar. All it took was a little bit of out-of-the-box thinking to open up new vistas and better outcomes.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.