DO YOU SAY THAT ANYMORE?

OK. It was OK. The weather that is. After days and weeks of multiple seasons in the one day, but with a disproportionate concentration of winter in that mix, today had been reasonably pleasant. There was the strange appearance of that orangey ball in a blue sky which seemed to be associated with a warming sensation on the skin. People claimed to have remembered it, and what it delivered, but there was a general scepticism that they were just looking for attention. The uncertainty was removed when someone asked ChatGPT and it was confirmed that yes – it actually was the sun and – the sun was responsible for warming the earth. Happy days.

JP, Mono and Rasher had had time to spend some periods of the day in the air outside and their faces had that flushed look which alternated between looking like elevated blood pressure or radiation absorption. Either way, they each were happy with the outcome and sat contentedly in front of three settled pints at Donleavy’s bar counter waiting for the subliminal signal to engage in synchronised pint-drinking. Donleavy was marshalling the defences behind the beer taps and making sure that all the punters had supply chains that were well stocked. With this heightened level of confidence, JP gave the signal and the first pint of the day arced its way to the satisfaction of our three amigos. A symphony of oohs and aahs was accompanied by a return of pint glasses to their respective beer mats at exactly the same millisecond and with exactly the same quantity to the same millilitre removed from the glasses. Mastery in action. Sublime expertise on show. Lifelong proficiency casually demonstrated.

Donleavy glided back along the counter.

              “Well lads, did tha’ go down well?”

The lads threw their shoulders back.

              “Mighty.”

              “Brillo.”

              “Bonzer.”

Donleavy gave a half-laugh, half-grunt.

              “Jayzus, Mono. I haven’t heard that word ‘Bonzer’ in an age. Where’d ya drag that one up from?”

It didn’t need a response. It was one of those rhetorical things. A statement dressed up in its smart Sunday-best clothes as a question. But it initiated a catalytic reaction in JP’s brain. You could almost sense the vibrations as the neurons battered each other and nearly clubbed each other into frenetic activity.

JP raised himself up off the stool and did some necessary buttock equilibration.

              “Funny ya should say tha’. I was just thinkin’ recently of some of the phrases that don’t really make sense anymore or tha’ have got lost with so-called progress.”

Mono and Rasher kept their monastic silence which was the indicator to JP to keep going with his thread of conversation.

              “If ya were sayin’ somethin’ that had an ‘If’ involved in it, me Ma used to always say that ‘if ifs and ands were pots and pans there wouldn’t be work for tinkers’.”

The two boys absorbed this. Rasher was the first to respond.

              “I remember tha’ one.”

Mono was in quickly.

              “Yeah. Now tha’ you mention it. But yer right on two scores. Not sure yer even allowed call them ‘tinkers’ anymore and – definitely – the only place they’ll be engagin’ with pots and pans is in the new kitchenware section of the hardware shop”

They had a guffaw and went for more pint.

They relaxed into quiet contemplation again after their next visit to the pint glass. You could tell that each one of them was trying to come up with an obsolete saying. The bookmakers were laying odds but figuring that JP would be the favourite to be first out of the traps and past the line. Their faith was vindicated when JP hoisted a finger in the air.

              “I have another one….”

The two lads were happy that the conversation topic could progress but perhaps a little bit disappointed that they themselves weren’t the one to add to the discussion.

              “Goin’ to the flicks.”

Mono and Rasher nodded sagely.

              “Jayzus, you’re right JP. Say tha’ to one of yer generation X, Y or Z or whatever they call themselves and they’ll have no idea.”

              “Even in our bleedin’ lifetime we didn’t have the cinema projector havin’ flickerin’ pictures for feck sake.  So that one is back to when Adam was a boy and wearin’ short pants.”

Rasher suddenly had a brainwave and couldn’t wait to lash in another contribution.

              “This one is definitely for our weather lads – ‘colder than a witch’s tit’’

Mono and JP looked at each other in appreciation of the addition. That was one that hadn’t had an outing in a long, long time.

              “Yeah Rasher. That’s a bit like the tinker one. Probably aren’t allowed say tit these days unless its got feathers and flies away.”

They allowed themselves another guffaw and went back for another aliquot of liquid comfort. At this stage it was also becoming imperative that the supply chain was maintained so Mono took on the responsibility of raising a finger in the air to demonstrate to Donleavy that another round of incoming was essential. Only when the signal was received and he could see three glasses being placed near to the tap and the first one being replenished did he relax back on his barstool. Replacement pints can be a nervous stressful time if not handled correctly. Anything could transpire in the timeframe between the placing of the order and the appearance of the filled glasses. Barrels could run empty, an emergency could happen in the bar, Donleavy could get called away on an urgent phone call, electricity could be lost – the risks were endless. Mono was happy that the order had been placed in such a timing that – even in the event of something unplanned and potentially catastrophic – the last quantities in the glass could be eked out until normality was restored. As stated earlier – there is a lot of responsibility in getting the re-order timing right.

By this stage JP was ready to contribute again.

              “Hey lads. I’ve got one tha’ was never even right in the first place.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They were intrigued. They momentarily moved their shoulders slightly forward as if to egg him on.

              “Ya sound like a broken record.”

They took in all the nuances of that.

              “Jayzus, yer right JP. It should never have been a ‘broken record’. I mean, for feck sake, a broken record wouldn’t even bleedin’ play. It shoulda been a scratched record.”

All three nodded in violent agreement.

              “But at least Gen XYZ know what a bleedin LP is. I mean they think its bleedin’ cool to have one these days.”

              “Yeah. Even willin’ to pay ridiculous prices to be retro.”

              “Yeah. Well away with ‘em. I still have some plate records in the attic – they can have them if they pay me a fortune for them.”

              “Jayzus, Rasher. I didn’t know ya were that old.”

              “Hey. Stop shoutin’. Turn it down a notch will ya.”

JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP.

              “That’s bleedin’ brilliant the way ya slipped that ‘notch’ one in there, Rasher.”

Rasher beamed.

By this stage JP, Mono and Rasher were luxuriating over their fresh pints. Another notch in the dial of a relaxed evening. They each found their best equilibrated buttock position and rested elbows on the bar counter. It was turning into a very good evening.

              “I’ll only say one thing more.”

JP left it hanging there for as long as he could judge that suspense would trump impatience.

              “When we’re finished this pint, we should go for a one and one down at the chippy.”

Both lads beamed.

              “A brilliant plan.”

              “Mighty.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

HOW MUCH DO YOU LIKE SPORT?

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.

EARLIEST EUREKA MOMENTS.

It was another unpleasant rainy day and evening. The clouds had never moved from their grey state and never allowed any of that wonderful blue sky, that we know lives ‘up there’, to peak through at any stage. The only thing that differed all day was whether the grey clouds would spit on them or just threaten them. At least that’s how JP, Rasher and Mono rationalised the weather’s behaviour on this miserable day. However, on a more positive note, they were by now on their second pint and any lingering dampness had evaporated into Donleavy’s pub atmosphere and any lingering negativity had been absorbed by Donleavy’s pub ambience. The magic was working. In fact, one could predict that if our three bar room warriors were hooked up to medically certified monitoring equipment, that their resting heart rates – their beats per minute – would have significantly reduced compared to the moment they passed Donleavy’s threshold. Yes – the magic was working.

Another form of magic was about to be demonstrated. Rasher had raised a finger in the air signalling to Donleavy that the volume in their respective pint glasses had decreased to such a scenario that an inventory re-order point had been triggered. Fresh pints were required. Donleavy acknowledged the re-order with an almost imperceptible nod and the business of replenishing the supply chain was initiated. Donleavy started pulling pints. Soon those pints would be settling with their black and white eddies vying for supremacy until the while collar would dominate its more voluminous black foundation and a perfectly settled pint would result. JP, Rasher and Mono never ceased to enjoy the wonder of a settling pint. However, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Donleavy was still at the earlier stage of the supply chain cycle.

As they drained their glasses – and it was OK ands safe to do this now that they were confident that incoming would result in a short space of time – JP took the opportunity to float out a new topic of conversation.

              “Hey, lads. What’s yer earliest memory of one of yer own Eureka moments?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Eur E Ka. Is tha’ somethin’ to do with the European Union or wha’?

JP looked at Rasher incredulously.

              “Ah feck it, Rasher. Were ya awake in science class atall? D’ya not ‘member the Greek lad way back who discovered the answer to somethin’ while he was in the bath and jumped out and ran in his nakidity thru the streets shoutin’ ‘Eureka’.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Ya know, JP. I do kinda ‘member somethin’ like tha’, now that ya mention it.”

By this stage Donleavy had arrived and placed a triangle of freshly poured pints on the counter. He removed the empty glasses and then separated the new pints with reverence, placing them on new bar mats with the logos on the glasses pointing in the direction of our three amigos and with the beer mats equidistant from each other and from the bar counter edge. JP threw out the same question.

              “Thanks Donleavy. Tell us. D’ya have a memory of yer own earliest Eureka moment?”

Donleavy took a step back for a minute, placed his two hands on the counter and pushed his not inconsiderable bulk backwards. He rocked slightly like this was for a while and then reverted.

              “I do. I do. And here it is. Just because somethin’ travels in one direction, doesn’t necessarily mean it can go back again in the reverse direction.”

The three lads took this on board for a while.

              “Sounds very scientific.”

              “Yeah. Would tha’ be called Donleavy’s Law?”

              “Also sounds like there’s a bleedin’ back story.”

Donleavy rocked a bit more.

              “Yeah. Dead right there Mono. I dunno wha’ age I was but I know I was very young. Me Mam was doin’ a bit of window shoppin’ on a Sunday. Muggins here decided to test out a wooden shop gate to see if the gaps between the vertical boards would accommodate me puttin’ me head thru. Well – they did. But somehow wouldn’t allow me head to come back. I was standin’ there like a little kid with me head in the stocks.”

The lads had a guffaw at that image. Donleavy in the stocks.

              “So wha’ happened?”

              “They tried everythin’. Greasing me head. Everythin’. But me head was never comin’ back out. Me Ma had to get someone to go get a saw and cut the boards and release me.”

The lads had another guffaw as they pictured that one.

              “….and then on the Monday she had to go back to the shop, own up on behalf of her stupid kid and offer to pay for a new shop gate.”

              “Jayzus, Donleavy.”

              “No jailbreak for you, pal.”

              “Bet tha’ was the end of yer pocket money for a while.”

By this stage Donleavy’s attention was requested elsewhere down the bar and the three lads were left to ruminate on their own ‘Eureka’ moments.

Rasher was the first one to offer a memory.

              “I can still ‘member a bleedin’ breakthrough moment for me.”

They urged him to share.

              “I can still vividly ‘member the first time I realised that – while shoes need to go on their own feet – the left shoe on the left foot and right shoe on the right foot – that socks could go on either foot.”

              “Hey!”

              “Yeah – fair play.”

              “Now I’m not sayin’ I ran naked thru’ the streets but I definitely felt at the time that this was a major bleedin’ discovery.”

They both endorsed that this fitted neatly into the category of a revolutionary step forward in life’s understanding. JP decided to go next.

              “I can still vividly ‘member that day I lost all faith and trust in adults. I can’t ‘member what age I was but I do ‘member I was very young and probably very much ahead of my time in realisin’ that adults can’t be trusted.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Jayzus, JP. Tha’ sounds serious. Wha’ the hell happened?”

              “It was to do with eggs.”

They replied ‘eggs’ in surprise and stereo.

              “Yeah. Eggs. Me Ma and Da used to keep tellin’ me to eat the yolk because all the goodness of the egg was in the yolk.”

They replied ‘yeah’ in tacit agreement and in stereo.

              “Yeah. But then I started likin’ the yolk and leavin’ the white behind. And wha’ did they tell me? To eat the white because all the goodness of the egg was in the white. How could a young whippersnapper ever trust them again?”

They replied ‘feck’ in total agreement and in stereo.

By this stage it was time to wet the larynx again and JP issued the subliminal signal for an aliquot of the now perfectly settled pint to be consumed. A masterful exhibition of synchronous pint-drinking followed. When a suitable time had elapsed to savour what had gone before, JP urged the final submission to take place.

              “Well, Mono. Wha’ ‘bout ya?”

Mono scratched his chin.

              “Jayzus, lads. I’ve been tryin’ to think. Honestly. I’ve even been stressed out listenin’ to y’all. I can’t think of anythin’. Nothin’ is comin’ to mind.”

The two lads were nothing but encouragement and support.

              “Just relax and let it come to ya.”

              “Yeah. It’s there. Think back to when ya were five or six.”

Mono closed his eyes. He thought for a while and then slowly opened his eyes again and surveyed his close friends.

              “There is somethin’.”

              “OK. Let ‘er rip.”

              “Go for it.”

Mono was a bit sheepish but continued nevertheless.

              “Its to do with Lego.”

Nobody spoke.

              “I used to build houses all the time.”

Still nobody spoke.

              “But for a long time, when I’d get to the top of the wall I’d put the first roof brick square on the top of the wall.”

Still nobody spoke – and to be honest – there was a tiny trace of brow-furrowing with the audience.

              “Then I suddenly realised, as if the idea struck me like lightning, that the first roof brick needed to overhang. Ya know? Not square Lego-brick-on-Lego-brick but offset. And wha’ a difference it made to me houses! They were so much better. Bleedin’ brilliant they were.”

The two lads shared his revelation moment and clinked glasses. After that there were a lot of other shared memories exchanged. Lots of questions that began with ‘d’ya ‘member’ and ‘wait till I tell ya’. The stories and the pints went down well. As they came close to the end of a particular pint, JP brought things more up to date.

              “Who do ya think discovered the battered cod, d’ya think?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Who bleedin’ cares. Let’s just go for a one and one.”

              “Yer right. Doesn’t bleedin’ matter. Anyway, ya couldn’t imagine the chipper man running bare arsed through our street with a chip basket in his hand.”

They clinked glasses again and drained them.

              “Give Donleavy the nod there.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

SKINHEADS

The weather was trying valiantly to push the dial setting that said ‘winter’ to as close as possible to the setting that welcomed ‘spring’. It was still very unpredictable with bitter cold east or north winds being swapped intermittently by southwest less cold winds. Rain was also a bit of a lottery. Blue sky this hour being quickly chased away by grey downpours. Daffodils were doing their able best to shoot out a yellow harbinger of better times to come, but seemed to have their green mouths continuously locked shut in the face of meteorological challenges. Truth be known – our three warriors – JP, Rasher and Mono couldn’t, at this moment, give a hoot about the weather. They were comfortably ensconced in the convivial and warm atmosphere that made up Donleavy’s pub. They were arranged in their usual format on their usual barstools with their usual order of pints in front of them. After that, all consideration to barometric pressure, precipitation, wind speed and direction, cloud type and dispersal, El Nino, El Nina, Coriolis effect, Gulf stream, North Atlantic Drift, Polar currents and the need or not for an umbrella – really didn’t matter a damn. The lads were happy and content. The pints were good. Donleavy was attentive. The conversation was interesting. Shoulders were relaxed. All good.

JP stared into the bar mirror that ran the whole length of the shelving where the spirit bottles were arranged. Donleavy was a collector. There was arranged the most eclectic set of spirits from all over the world, the vast majority of which would never get opened and tasted. That didn’t seem to matter to Donleavy. I guess it’s the same with stamp collectors – they don’t necessarily need to have the stamp used for postage. Or coin collectors – the metal that will never end up in a cash register. Still – JP thought it strange. On the very odd occasion, Donleavy would have opened up a bottle with JP, Mono and Rasher – his favourite and most faithful customers – and enlivened an evening with a new taste experience. But mostly they just stood there like a line of soldiers guarding the bar mirror.  For JP the bottles often served as an inspiration for a new topic of conversation. A bottle of limoncello might serve as a catalyst to talk about something Italian in the news or Metaxa, an event in Greece. Cachaca might result in moving something about the Brazilian soccer team while Stolen Rum or 42 Below might trigger something about the All-Blacks rugby team. There were oodles of conversation openers hiding behind each cork or screw cap.

Tonight JP’s attention was drawn to a bottle of Old Punk Whiskey. It immediately got him thinking.

              “Hey lads. Wha’s the difference between a skinhead and a punk.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They were well used to JP just throwing out topics of conversation from left field. Well – as used to as you can get when conversation in the pub is a continual almost disbelief as to what could come out next.

              “Well JP. Shaved head versus mohawk for a start.”

Rasher then added his bit.

              “And I guess Doc Martens versus safety pins.”

Mono had had time to think.

              “And maybe ska versus pogo-ing.”

JP absorbed all this in his usual contemplative way. It was time to revisit the pint glass and that allowed further time for musing about the contributions. A subliminal signal had gone out, and each arm approached the glass and with perfect synchronicity an aliquot was removed from each glass and three pints returned to their respective beer mats at exactly the same time. A wondrous exercise in imbibing harmony. Sheer class.

When suitable sounds of satisfaction had been completed and a small element of buttock re-equilibration completed, Mono felt compelled to enquire as to the nature and origin of the questions.

              “Wha’ the feck put tha’ into yer mind, JP?”

JP took some time to respond.

              “Well the haircut thing is interestin’.”

The two lads waited for further elaboration, but none was forthcoming. This was often JP’s style to throw out a taste of a conversation starter to entice towards the main course. Rasher was the first one to get hungry.

              “And wha’s so bleedin’ interestin’ ‘bout the haircut, if yer don’t mind be askin’?”

JP sucked in a deep breath.

              “Ya can’t tell the difference anymore.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Between a skinhead and a punk? Between shaved and mohawk? Are ya out of yer tiny mind now, JP. If ya can’t tell the difference, then it’s definitely time yer were goin’ for a set of goggles.”

Rasher had a guffaw at that. No doubt picturing how JP would look in a pair of bottle end goggles.

JP took it all in his stride.

              “Nah. I was more thinkin’ of the skinhead tight cut.”

With nothing more emanating, Rasher looked for the next level of interaction.

              “Wha’ about it?”

JP was quicker this time.

              “Well when we were younger, ya were always afraid of a skinhead. Ya were always unsure if ya were goin’ to get a kickin’ from his Doc Martens. Isn’t that right?”

Clearly each of them preserved a memory of those times. They nodded. JP kept going.

              “If ya saw a group of them at a street corner – and they always seemed to congregate at street corners. D’ya ‘member? They were even called corner boys. Or bovver boys. If ya saw a group, ya’d cross to the other side of the road and quicken yer step. D’ya ‘member?”

You could tell from the reaction that they absolutely did remember. Perhaps remembering the bother that was inflicted on them from such bovver boys when crossing to the other side of the street didn’t have the evasive result that the action was intended to deliver.  The conversation went quiet momentarily while each of them probably remembered some scars and bruises that may have been the consequence of unequal pairings.

After another pause Rasher became more curious.

              “So wha’ the hell brought all this into yer mind, JP?”

JP allowed for another collective visit to the pint glasses before giving his considered response.

              “Well I was thinkin’. They’re all the bleedin’ same now aren’t they? The haircuts. They’re all shaved up like skinheads. The nice guys and the thugs. All the same. How the shaggin’ hell do ya know who ya need to avoid and cross to the other side of the road? It’s not shaggin’ easy.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. He had a point. It was certainly an additional challenge in this modern world. They collectively ruminated over this for a while. Eventually Mono broke the reveries.

              “Let’s drink to simpler bleedin’ times.”

They clinked their glasses and drained their pints.

              “Now let’s go to the chipper for a battered cod and chips.”

              “Yeah, battered in flour, not by a Doc Marten.”

              “Too right.”

              “Give Donleavy the nod there.”

They exited with purpose.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

FULL CIRCLE

The pints were going down well – about that there was no doubt. What was also not in doubt was that Donleavy served the best pint this side of the Tibetan Highlands. All seemed temporarily good with the world. To hell with your geopolitical instability and your new world order and tariffs and genocides and NAVI worlds or VUCA worlds or Davos or G7, 8, 20 or any other alphanumeric. These pints were good, and you sometimes just have to live in the moment. JP, Rasher and Mono were sitting contentedly on their respective barstools with very little being exchanged in conversation. Every now and then it is good to just luxuriate in the unspoken understanding and comfort that comes with years of friendship. To the onlooker it would have seemed that our three life-hardened warriors were perched on their barstools just individually staring into the middle distance. What this onlooker would not have taken into account, was that these guys were quite likely individually mulling over the great philosophical quandaries of our time.

But individual reveries were never allowed to last forever in this environment and were typically punctured by either Donleavy adding his spice to the mix on one of his jaunts up and down behind the counter, or JP throwing a curve ball to initiate a discourse. This evening it was the latter.

            “Jayzus lads. Isn’t it amazin’ how things often come full circle?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. The looks had this unspoken aspect which generally contained questions like ‘will we sit this out and let him rant away?’ or ‘should we ask him what he’s on about?’ or ‘lets do nothing in the hope he goes back to being quiet’. On this occasion Rasher couldn’t contain himself.

            “No doubt yer goin’ to expand on this wonderment, JP. We’re all ears.”

JP firstly gave that subliminal signal that resulted in each reaching for their pint glass in perfect synchronicity and harmony. A masterful exhibition of Olympic level performance where glasses were raised, imbibed and lowered with perfect timing and returned to beer mats with exact volumes removed. Amazing. JP regained his thoughts.

            “Priests.”

That was all he said. It hung out there. Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Shoulders were shrugged. Eyebrows were raised. A time was allowed to elapse, but Mono couldn’t take anymore.

            “Yeah. So bleedin’ wha’ ‘bout priests. Are they circular now or somethin’?”

JP looked at each in turn knowing he had them hooked.

            “D’ya ‘member when we used to export priests in bleedin’ great numbers to deepest, darkest Africa? D’ya ‘member that?”

They nodded.

            “Well now go into any bleedin’ church in the country and we’re importin’ priests from Africa. D’ya agree?”

They nodded. It was definitely true.

            “That’s wha’ I mean ‘bout some things goin’ full circle. Exports now imports. D’ya get me?”

Rasher surveyed the remaining volume in their glasses. Another visit to their pints could easily bring them to a perilously low inventory level. This must be avoided at all costs for the level of anxiety that it could catalyse. It was time to trigger the reorder point. Rasher raised a finger in the air, and the signal was received loud and clear by Donleavy. The risk could be considered passed and a potential crisis had been averted. Donleavy set about his task and incoming could be confidently relied upon.

This time it was Mono who piped in to keep the conversation ticking over.

            “Immigration and coffin ships.”

The other two looked perplexed.

            “Well. D’ya member Irish history? Since the famine there’s been people headin’ to the U.S. in their droves. D’ya member yer history books? ‘Searchin’ for a better life’ was always the phrase that was used.”

The two considered this.

            “And wha’s happenin’ now? There’s a whole legion of Yanks lookin’ for Irish passports and movin’ from the U.S. to Ireland. And why do they say they’re doin’ it….?”

There were smiles all around and a chorus of the three together in perfect harmony:

            “….searchin’ for a better life.”

That consensus conclusion was definitely worth a clink of the glasses so they did the three-way clink and felt confident about subsequently draining their pints as they could see Donleavy on his way with the triangle of fresh pint glasses cradled in his big bartender hands.

            “Cheers Donleavy.”

            “Cheers lads. Wha’s the craic today? Wha’s the hot topic of conversation?”

They spent a moment watching the magic of the pint settling before JP, who had initiated the topic, felt it was only appropriate that he acted as spokesperson.

            “Things goin’ full circle Donleavy. Any big thoughts yerself.”

Donleavy was back, quick as a flash.

            “Vinyl.”

The three amigos echoed a question back.

            “Vinyl?”

Donleavy was quick again with his elaboration.

            “Vinyl. LP’s. Long playin’ records. They died. Replaced by cassettes and 8-tracks and CDs and downloads. Record shops went out of business and shut down. And now – it’s cool to play vinyl. New LPs are bein’ offered, record players are bein’ manufactured again and are back in fashion. Even the odd scratch is like a badge of honour on the playin’ quality.”

            “Jayzus yer bang on Donleavy.”

            “Who knows wha’s goin’ to come back next – DVD’s?”

            “….or Nokia phones?”

            “….or posted letters?”

            “….or corner shops?”

            “….or floral pattered bell bottom trousers.”

They all had a guffaw at the last one – no doubt remembering the garish type that each of them inevitably wore at some stage but none of them having the courage to own up to this memory.

Donleavy looked down the counter.

            “Right lads. Got to go. Some thirsty punters need attention or maybe even revivin’.”

Donleavy glided down behind the bar counter and the lads were left to their thoughts of things that were once revered that had fallen away by the wayside. There was silence for a while as they nursed both their thoughts and their pints. After what seemed like a long while JP threw in a new contribution.

            “I’ve got one tha’ I would love to come back full circle, lads.”

He had their attention. JP took a pause for dramatic effect. He looked at each of them in turn. Then he went for it.

            “World bleedin’ order and shaggin’ democracy.”

There was nodding and tutting and a realisation that the conversation had moved from fun and triviality to somewhere different. JP felt strongly about his interjection but was also very conscious of the mood.

            “I know I made a pitch for democracy but I’m goin’ to issue an executive order here.”

The two lads were intrigued.

            “When we finish these pints, we’re goin’ to the chipper for a battered and a bag. No dissenters. No argument. Executive order. Lack of compliance punished by extreme measures.”

Smiles all around.

            “We’ll follow your order, JP.”

            “Down to the very last salt and vinegared chip.”

They raised their glasses.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

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