I have to say – and it is very rare that I would say something like this – but the mood in Donleavy’s was a bit downbeat. There just seemed to be a deadness in the air this particular evening. Usually, it was a situation where the ambiance – that beautiful French word – was surrounding the imbibers with the most wonderful feeling of comfort and relaxation and ease. But tonight was a little bit different. There was, for some reason, a feeling of a little tension in the air. A bit like a small obstacle that was persistent in not getting out of the way to allow the full slide into that sensation of total relief from the outside forces. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but it was there. Maybe it was just the weather. For the last twenty-four hours there had been a meteorological warning regarding wind and rain. Typically, that would previously have not adversely impacted the mood in Donleavy’s. If anything, it usually acted in a positive way with a feeling of gratitude that the patrons were neatly tucked away with their pints and their conversation, while the weather gods could amuse themselves whatever way they wanted. A real case of ‘I’m alright, Jack’. Anyway, whatever it was, there was some impediment pulling the ambiance down.
JP, Rasher and Mono were nursing their pints. They were even drinking slower than normal and maybe even withdrawing reduced aliquots at every visit to the glass. That’s what it might have seemed like to the experienced observer of our masterful synchronised pint drinkers. Definitely we were talking about outlier data here tonight. Not much had passed between them in conversation thus far. There seemed to be a general reluctance to push the conversation button. That wasn’t the worst thing in the world. They knew each other over years of shared barstools that silence was still comfortable and there wasn’t any mad panic to push the talking envelope. Perhaps Donleavy noticed the unusually quiet situation at the end of the bar counter because he glided down and stood with his usual stance – feet back and two hands on the bar counter taking his full not inconsiderable weight. He was dead centre facing our three amigo – directly in front of JP who was flanked by Mono on his right and Rasher on his left. Donleavy scanned them equally.
“Wha’s the story, lads? Any craic?”
The three lads replied a little languidly.
“Divil a bit.”
“No story.”
“All quiet….on every front.”
The words were allowed to rest for a while. No-one was urgently requiring Donleavy’s bartending attention, so he took his time progressing the conversation.
“Some bonkers racist stuff in sport recently, wasn’t there? Wha’ the feck gets into people?”
They raised their glasses in agreement.
“D’ya mean the soccer, Donleavy?”
Donleavy nodded.
“Yeah. The soccer. And don’t forget all the bleedin’ keyboard shaggin’ warriors with the rugby.”
The other three nodded.
“Wha’ d’ya think goes through their bleedin’ heads?”
The three lads tutted and slowly shook their heads to acknowledge that this was indeed a conundrum. Donleavy noticed an imbiber in a low inventory position trying to attract his attention and left JP, Rasher and Mono to their collective musings.
It took a while, but JP opened up the forum once more for contributions.
“It’s bleedin’ mental aint it?”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They nodded and uttered some guttural noise stereophonically in agreement. Truth be known – they weren’t entirely sure what they were agreeing to, but on the balance of probabilities it would be reasonable to assume that it had something to do with racism in sport. As they were both well and truly anti-racist them a grunt was, in this particular instance, the appropriate response. JP took up the cudgel again.
“D’ya think these bleedin’ numpties are actually racist? Like do they actually hate people just because they are different? Or are they just bleedin’ nut jobs who would prefer a reaction rather than being ignored?”
Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Somehow, subliminally, Rasher got the signal to first respond.
“They’re missin’ the nipple.”
This time it was JP and Mono who exchanged confused glances.
“Wha’?”
“The nipple?”
Rasher took a deep breath.
“Yeah. It’s a well known scientific and biological fact that these racists either weren’t breast-fed or didn’t get enough breast feedin’ and that therefore they’re missin’ somethin’ in their development and are not wired properly.”
The two lads had a bit of a harrumph at this. Just to be clear – harrumphing in this context represents a lack of clear agreement or consensus.
Mono felt a need to postulate another possible reason for the existence of racists who felt the need to run down sports people who had made some success at their chosen game.
“Maybe it’s like the conspiracy theorists? They say that they get some meanin’ in their lives by knowin’ somethin’ that you don’t. Gives them an edge, like.”
JP was quick to chime in.
“Feck. I always thought it was because there were failures in parts of their lives, or felt like failures, and this was their way of differentiatin’ themselves.”
Mono was equally quick to further contribute.
“Jayzuz, JP. Differentiate – that’s a shaggin’ big word. Probably more letters than ‘marmalade’. I’m sayin’ probably, ‘cause I can just about spell ‘marmalade’ but definitely sure I can’t spell ‘differentiate’.”
Rasher made sure to have his say on the record.
“Lads. I think we’re losin’ bleedin’ focus here. Let’s stick with the bits we agree upon. They’re numpties, nut jobs, feckin’ eejits.”
They raised their glasses and clinked. This was one hundred percent something they could agree upon. While they had their glasses raised it made sense to continue the trajectory and the subliminal signal was sent and received that resulted in another aliquot been removed from the glasses in another exercise of synchronous pint drinking. Glasses were retuned to beer mats at exactly the same millisecond; buttocks were re-equilibrated and satisfied sighs emanated. The lads were on the same page.
By this stage, Donleavy was doing another one of his circuits behind the bar counter. JP took the opportunity to re-engage him.
“Wha’ d’ya think Donleavy. Wha’ drives these people to shout racist abuse at matches or to go online and say hateful things about someone who’s only tryin’ to run or kick a ball or whatever?”
Donleavy stopped, placed his hands on the bar counter and balanced his weight like as if he was doing a push-up.
“Jayzus lads. I’ve always had a theory. I’m glad ye asked.”
The three boys straightened themselves in anticipation on their barstools.
“Go on so.”
“Give ‘er holly.”
“Drive ‘er on.”
Donleavy took a deep breath.
“It’s as simple as this. These lads – and maybe they’re lassies too – these lads threw their rattles out of the pram when they were babies. And whinged like feck. But nobody cared enough to go get their rattles and put them back in the pram. So, they’ve been whingin’ ever since. Simple.”
The three lads couldn’t deny the simplicity of the explanation. Donleavy re-engaged his vertical core and continued his circuit to the other end of the bar. There was a lot from the various potential explanations to muse upon. JP decided to put some order on proceedings.
“Lads. Drink up there. Drain them glasses and we’ll go get some sausage and chips….”
Rasher had a mischievous look in his eye.
“….and maybe some white pudding.”
JP and Mono were down on him like a ton of bricks.
“Don’t even think what you were goin’ to say next.”
“Wha’ the feck. I wasn’t goin’ to say anythin’. Jayzus lads. Cool the jets.”
They drained their respective glasses.
“Give Donleavy the nod there.”
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 