AI WILL BE GRAND LADS.

The three barstools at Donleavy’s counter were occupied by their usual patrons. All of the regulars knew that the three lads had the equivalent of a lifetime lease on those particular barstools and woe betide anyone who dared plonk even a single buttock on their worn wooden curves. At this stage it was as if the contours of the stools were a mould in perfect anatomical accuracy to the hind quarters of our three heroes. Sometimes a stranger would venture into Donleavy’s and unknowingly sit on one of these stools in its prime, bar counter, location. When this happened there was usually a collective intake of breath from the remaining bar customers – which must have been a singular source of confusion for the unwitting trespasser. Rumour has it that their bones are hidden behind the kegs in Donleavy’s cellar. Only a rumour, mind…

Tonight, though, the three lads were comfortably perched on the said barstools and patiently waiting for their pints to go through a final settling period. This was a magic moment – a bit like delayed gratification – where you know pleasure awaits you and you’re just waiting for the optimum moment. Maybe a bit more sensual than I originally thought, now that I think more about it. Anyway, the moment of climax had arrived, and JP sent out a subliminal signal and three hands reached out in unison. Synchronous imbibing followed and three hands delivered glasses back to their beermat at exactly the same millisecond. Once again – mastery being demonstrated.

JP moved his shoulders back and to each side to complement the feeling of utter relaxation. The other two lads rested their elbows on the bar counter. It was a scene that should have been captured by the best artists or photographers of our generation. Serenity in action. They all remained silent for quite a while… until JP threw up a kite.

              “A.I. will be grand, lads.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “If ya say so, JP.”

JP looked at each of the amigos in turn.

              “No. It will really.”

              “If ya say so, JP.”

Clearly the bait was just sitting on the hook, no one was biting. JP needed to go for an alternative strategy.

              “All this shiteholery about A.I. takin’ all the jobs. It ain’t goin’ happen.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Oh yeah. Are ya the future employment expert now JP, as well as everythin’ else?”

JP let out a long-sustained exhalation.

              “Lads, lads. Yer both old enough to remember when things went from manual to automation.”

Rasher cut in with a question.

“Wha’ did they call tha’ JP? Was tha’ the fourth bleedin’ industrial revolution?”

Mono lashed in with a reply before JP could draw breath.

              “Nah. The third. The fourth was the bleedin’ internet and robots.”

JP took another breath.

              “Wha’ I was tryin’ to say was tha’ when we went from manual to automated, they said the world was goin’ end. There’d be mass unemployment. People would be beggin’ in the streets. And wha’ happened?”

The two lads answered in stereo.

              “Feck all.”

              “Exactly. Feck all. People just ended up doin’ different things. And d’ya know wha’? It ended up with more people needed to do all them different things.”

The two boys nodded sagely.

              “Yer right ya know.”

It was time to go back to the well. The subliminal signal was emitted once more, and the three hands went out in unison. Another aliquot was gratefully received, and pint glasses were returned in perfect harmony to their original resting places. When Rasher had finished his ‘oooh’ of satisfaction he looked quizzically at his reflection in the bar counter mirror. Without changing his gaze, he threw out the enquiry.

              “So, wha’ were one and two?”

The other two looked perplexed.

              “I’m tempted to say – three. But – one and two wha’?”

              “Wha’ was the first industrial revolution and wha’ was the second?”

Mono laughed.

              “You tell him JP. Ya were around for them all.”

JP shot him a look.

              “Hardy, har, har. Very bleedin’ funny, I’m sure. But as it happens, I do know. One was steam and machines and two was electricity and assembly lines. So now.”

              “See Rasher, just like I said – JP was around for them all.

Rasher didn’t change his gaze from the bar counter mirror.

              “So, are we still on four or have we moved to five?”

Mono shrugged but JP was in there.

              “I’m guessin’ A.I. and cobots and stuff have us in five.”

That seemed to satisfy everyone. Enough for them to catalyse another visit to the pint glass. Inventory levels had sufficiently decreased that Mono took on the responsibility himself of raising a finger in the air. Hardly had that finger reached full extension, but Donleavy was already making his way towards the taps. This was a well-developed and unbelievably efficient purchasing supply chain. The envy of purchasing groups the world over.

Donleavy arrived soon after with three perfectly pulled pints. As our three heroes saw him approach – the risk of not having a drink in front of them diminished to the extent that they each felt comfortable draining their glasses. Donleavy placed the pints in front of them and went through his usual ritual – logo on the glass facing the imbiber, beer mats equidistant from each other and from the edge of the bar counter, glass bang smack in the middle of the beer mat. There were standards, high standards, that needed to be maintained.

              “Well, lads. Wha’s the topic of discussion tonight?”

JP always felt that he should be the spokesperson for the group when all three were addressed together.

              “We were just sayin’ – A.I. ain’t the shaggin’ Armageddon everyone’s makin’ it out to be. It’s not goin’ to be the case that there’ll be no jobs for anyone or that we’ll all be paid for stayin’ at home. What d’ya think Donleavy?”

              “I think ya’ll still need a pint and then a battered cod and chips afterwards. No matter what happens…and I can’t see no A.I. bot doing tha’ for ya.”

              “True for ya.”

              “Yer bang on there, Donleavy.”

              “Always a man to focus on the priorities in life. Fair dues to ya, Donleavy.”

They were all quiet for a while.

              “Ya know Donleavy, ya’ve put the longin’ on me now. Will we go for the fish and chips after this pint, lads?”

There was a vigorous nodding of heads.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

NORMALISED

The three lads were so glad that they had ‘Donleavy’s’ to fall back upon during this prolonged period of dry and hot weather. Soaring temperatures and wildfires all over the world had become the norm. When the first few weeks of the warm weather began it put everyone in a good mood. It was like as if people stood up straighter and looked ahead rather than down, and wished others a good day and commented on the good weather. Now it was like as if the weather – although not being fully blamed as an out and out naughty boy – was losing a bit of its blue-eyed boy status. Temperatures in a lot of places had become uncomfortable. Thousands of hectares had caught fire and been burned. People had died. And now many were feeling physically tired from the prolonged days of heat. Now the greetings regarding the weather were more likely to contain a sigh rather than a bounce. And with all that as a backdrop it well explained why JP, Rasher and Mono felt so lucky to have the sanctuary of a cool Donleavy’s to sit relaxed and contented on their favourite barstools in front of three creamy pints.

JP emitted the subliminal signal and three arms reached out simultaneously and resulted in three pints arcing their way to each individual owner. These gentlemen are masters of the simultaneous pint drinking disciple and in a short space of time three pints traced a return trajectory to each beermat arriving at exactly the same time. If anyone was interested enough to measure with a laser instrument, they would find that exactly the same quantity had been consumed from each glass. These lads brought pint drinking mastery to levels not previously thought achievable.

JP let out a long happy ‘ aaaah’. He pendulumed a bit until his buttocks were resting just right on the barstool. It was time to crack on with some conversation.

‘Normalised’, was all he said.

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. JP’s style was to put it out there and leave it hanging. Waiting for curiosity to force a reply. This time – and very unusually – neither Rasher nor Mono took the bait.

JP decided to keep the momentum in trap he needed to go again.

‘It’s becomin’ a very popular word’.

Still nothing.

He’d have to keep going if he wanted the other two strung along.

‘We’re normalisin’ shit that we shouldn’t.’

Still not a jot of response. Couldn’t stop now.

‘But we always normalised shit.’

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Rasher couldn’t stay out of it anymore.

‘Where do we start JP?’

This time it was JP who was wasn’t following the train. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. Rasher kept going.

‘Wanna start at the shit we used to normalise? Or wha’ we do now?’

The subliminal signal went out again. Clearly the new liquid addition gave that thinking time to decide from which end of the time spectrum they wanted to walk.

‘Wha’ about the old stuff first?’

There was a fair degree of nodding before Rasher offered up his thoughts.

‘I’ll give ya one from when we wore younger men’s clothes.’

They were both taken aback as Rasher’s features hardened in front of their eyes. There was an anger creeping into him that was way out of line with the previous relaxed tone.

‘Bleedin’ paedophile people in positions of so-called authority. Priests. Teachers. Sports coaches.’

JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. There was an obvious question here as to how much personal detail Rasher had on this particular subject. Neither man thought good about asking. A bridge too far.

‘Jayzus, yer bang on, Rasher. Every dog in the street knew wha’ was goin’ on but nobody was willin’ to do anythin’ ‘bout it.’

They mulled in violent agreement for a while. Rasher’s features softened and almost regained their previous level of relaxation. His shoulders still hung on to some tightness. He was the one to pipe up another example. Maybe he needed to focus on something different.

‘Bleedin’ corrupt politicians.’

They each threw thumbs in the air.

‘Are we sure we’re still in the past?’

They all had a good laugh at that one. They went back to the well and in case the well might run dry JP signalled to Donleavy for reinforcements.

Donleavy set about plying his trade and the lads had a clear view of three pint glasses being filled. They always felt good when the third pint was filled. It had now gone past the risk of the barrel running empty. Worst that could happen was pints not being topped off. Damage limitation.

Rasher went for it again. He was definitely on a roll this evening. A bit like he was purging a number of long held pissers.

‘And wha’ ‘bout the so-called scandal of havin’ children out of wedlock? Jayzus, the life-changin’ shit that rained down on a poor girl when a bloke wouldn’t own up to a chiseller.’

More nodding.

‘Yeah. Well at least that one doesn’t make it to the current list.’

‘Yeah. No shaggin’ harm.’

Donleavy arrived with fresh pints. They filled him in on tonight’s conversation topic. As with what typically occurred when it was clear that there wasn’t a chaos of drink orders awaiting their favourite barman – he was asked for his own addition to the proceedings. Donleavy had learned to move quickly behind the bar, and his brain was equally swift. When asked for an input he gave it without hesitation. This evening he must have been feeding from the same adrenaline trough as Rasher because there was zero hesitation in the response.

‘It’s a good topic lads. Here’s what we’re normalisin’. Acceptin’ war without the proper response. Being afraid to call genocide, genocide. Toleratin’ outrageous personal wealth. Losin’ democracy in the first world never mind the third. Politicians being more interested in power or personal money than servin’ the people.’

The three lads had their mouths open.

‘Have ya enough to be goin’ on with there, lads? It’s just that I may have pints to serve.’

Donleavy smiled. At this moment there were no pints to serve. He puffed out his chest and then plonked his hands on the bar counter like he was going to start a cycle of press-ups.

Our three amigos each closed their mouths gradually and slowly. Donleavy was still smiling.

‘I may not get out from behind the bar often, lads, but I still know what’s goin’ on in the world. Or what’s not goin’ on.’

Our three heroes nodded.

‘Bleedin’ right.’

‘Fair dues Donleavy’.

‘On the money.’

Before they had a chance to compliment Donleavy further on his double-quick submission and the breath of its content, a punter requiring emergency hydration had called him away. JP looked to his right and then left.

‘Well lads! Is there anythin’ else to add?’.

Mono took up the response.

‘Nah. I’d say he has it covered’.

‘Will we go for a battered cod and chips, so?’

‘Sounds like a plan’.

‘Give Donleavy the nod then’.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

CONQUERING THE SMALL THINGS.

The weather had been incredibly warm. Not just in the environment of Donleavy’s but all over the northern hemisphere. There were heatwaves, thunderstorms, heat domes, El Nino effects and all sorts of other things driving the mercury to new heights. JP, Rasher and Mono were so pleased to be able to have the cool sanctuary of Donleavy’s to gain some respite from heat and humidity for which they were not trained for, not born into. The waves of heat had left our three heroes with faces that could be described – in the most charitable description – as ruddy and glowing. However, at this exact moment in time the only waves that interested them were those waves and eddies that were taking place in the three cold pint glasses that were in front of them. The black was starting to intensify, and the creamy head was beginning to dominate and press down on the larger volume below it. They never ceased to be amazed at the magic and the mystery that lay at the heart of a pint of stout.

The pints proceeded to their final phase of complete settling and separation and presented themselves as finished articles ready for consumption. It was like as if a subliminal signal was emitted as all three hands and arms reached out in perfect unison and harmony and described perfectly comparable arcs resulting in equi-volumes being consumed and returned to beermats at exactly the same time. A mastery in synchronicity honed over many years.

There was no synchronicity or even repeatability in respect of the ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ that came next. Different days, different times, produced different pitches of satisfaction reflection. In fact, there could be even differences between pints on any given day. Typically, however, the first pint was the one that delivered the most heartfelt sense of contented relaxation. The lads then did a series of buttock equilibrating manoeuvres followed by some shoulder relaxing movements before they were truly settled in for the evening. I’m sure that mindfulness, meditation, Taichi, aromatherapy, prayer and deep breathing all have their important places in the pantheon of relaxation but if you were a fly on the wall here in Donleavy’s it would be hard to argue against these lads having discovered something truly special.

So – there they were. JP on the middle barstool ably supported by his wingmen – Rasher and Mono. Everything all right with the world. Warm outside. Cool inside. Perfect pints pulled by Donleavy, the master barman. An oasis of calm blotting out the chaos of the outside world. JP felt particularly serene.

              “Lads, d’ya ever wonder why some things just seem to resist a simple bleedin’ solution?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. JP was off somewhere and they’d have to do a bit of work to find out where he was heading with all this.

              “Wha’ d’ya mean JP?”

JP’s mouth did a quizzical slight upturn at the edge as he gazed up into the corner of the bar ceiling.

              “I’m not talkin’ ‘bout the big things here. Ya know – world hunger, drought, climate change, flashfires, storms and earthquakes. None of tha’ stuff. Nah. Drop ‘er down a load of notches.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. There was still work to do to find a ramp onto JP’s wavelength. Still – that wasn’t unusual. They just needed to stick with the task and compress his bandwidth.

              “Jayzus, JP yer makin’ as much sense as an ashtray on a feckin’ motorbike. Give us a bleedin’ clue here.”

              “Yeah, an ol’ example wouldn’t go astray either.”

JP pushed his shoulders back and rolled them around a bit. He had loads of examples, but it was important to suck the two lads in with a major resonance. He puckered his lips and blew out a couple of breaths. As he knew it would – a light bulb went on in his brain.

              “Here’s one for ya. Potholes. Bleedin’ potholes. The roads are full of ‘em. The world is full of ‘em. Surely with all the shaggin’ brains in the world, someone would have come up with a solution?”

The two boys nodded in violent agreement.

              “Jayzus, yer right JP. Even when they do try and repair them down our road, it’s as bad as ever after a few days.”

              “Yeah. As useless as a shaggin’ chocolate teapot.”

It took all JP’s restraint to stop himself from preening. He had them now. Best to follow up quickly with another example before he could loosen the reins of the conversation.

              “And wha. ‘bout stitchin’ up bad cuts in your flesh. I mean it’s bleedin’ barbaric when ya think ‘bout it.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They both winced with the obvious memory of seeing that needle pick its way through live flesh on one side and then out through the other side and closing a wound like trussing up a chicken’s hole.

              “Jayzus, yer right JP. I mean I know they tried superglue, but I think it caused inflammation or irritation or something else starting with ‘i’.”

              “But – yeah – since man came out of the cave and came out the bad side of conversation with wolves – there’s been a need here. Why doesn’t someone watch a few episodes of ‘Star Trek’ and come up with somethin’ better.”

Again, there was violent agreement and a synchronous visit back to their pints was a natural progression to the conversation.

By this point Donleavy was making one of his periodic cycles of customer care and enquiry up and down the length of the bar counter.

              “Well lads, how are they hangin’? Wha’s the great question of our age that is keepin’ ya all challenged this evenin’?”

They filled him in as concisely as possible on the nature of their discussion. He liked the topic. In fairness to the man there were lots of evenings when you just knew that Donleavy would much prefer to be over on the other side of the bar counter making it a gang of four rather than gang of three.

              “So, Donleavy. Wha’ would ya add to the great unsolved areas of our modern livin’?”

              “Yeah, Donleavy. Wha’ have Musk, Dyson, Jobs, Branson, Collinson and all of them lads missed?”

Donleavy thought for a while.

              “Bleedin’ noisy dishwashers.”

The three amigos pressed their shoulders slightly forward looking for more clarity and detail.

“I’ve got two dishwashers. One in me house and one here in the pub for washin’ the glasses. Both of them work perfectly but they sound like a tsunami inside a Fiat500. Sometimes I think someone is goin’ to shout clear for take-off, and they’ll fly out the bleedin’ window. Why do they have to be so noisy?”

The lads did the nodding dog trick and went back to the well for another deserved visit. Rasher threw his hand in the air like as if the teacher had asked a question and only he knew the answer.

‘Jayzus Donleavy, ya’ve reminded me of one. The wife has a CPAP machine to help her sleep and it’s not that it’s very noisy but…’

There was more than one interruption with a number of variations on ‘what the feck is a CPAP?’. Rasher tried his best to explain about sleep apnoea and the mask and the continuous air feeding it.

“For feck sake, lads. She looks like the elephant man with this big trunk hangin’ out of her snout. Thousands of years of evolution and science and that’s the best we can do? Hookin’ her up to an air pump like a tyre at the garage.”

There were more general agreement and a slight confusion as to whether the sympathetic utterances of ‘poor fecker’ were aimed at Rasher or the wife. Donleavy needed to leave the lads to serve another deserving customer, but he returned much mor quickly than was his normal cycle of engagement.

              “I’ve thought of another one lads.”

They waited for his contribution.

              “Bleedin’ fruit and veg.”

The lads were definitely all at sea here wondering where this was going.

              “D’ya know when ya go to the supermarket. Every shaggin’ apple and pear and orange and onion and turnip and tomato is the same size as its brother or sister. I mean wha’ the feck? Wha’s tha’ all about? Why do the powers that be think we need every shaggin’ fruit and veg to be the same size. And wha’ happens the outliers? The smallies and the biggies? That’s wha’ I wanna know. It’s feckin’ ridiculous.”

They went back to their pints to give this the consideration it deserved. What was happening with fruit and veg? Was there a massive cover up going on just waiting to be exposed? There was a lot to think about.

Rasher ordered fresh pints. This could be a long night. Maybe not just your ordinary night in Donleavy’s.  

THE MIND OF A MURDERER.

Everyone in Donleavy’s seemed to be in relaxed mode. The atmosphere was slow and laid back. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that the weather had turned dry and mild. People just seemed to be generally in better form. JP, Mono and Rasher were in their usual positions and even they appeared to be more at ease than usual. They were sitting a little further away from the bar counter with shoulders that were loose, broad and relaxed. To the detailed objective observer, they were drinking slower than their usual pace with longer durations between visits to the pint glass and less volume consumed. Although this was a change to the norm – the synchronicity both in respect of time and volume consumed was still being observed. It was as if this level of mastery at synchronous pint drinking allowed subliminal messages to be conveyed across our amigos resulting in alignment of their actions. Truly breathtaking. 

Donleavy was gliding up and back behind the bar counter as his clientele called for his services. He stopped briefly in front of JP who occupied his normal position flanked on either side by his two lieutenants.

Donleavy looked across and back.

“Well lads. Wha’s the craic tonight? Wha’ deep and meaningful topic has ye ensconced in life’s mysteries and challenges this evenin’?”

“Feck all Donleavy”

“Could actually be brain dead”

“Might need to drag out yer defibrillator”

Donleavy’s response trailed behind him as a punter gestured for his attention.

“I’ve no doubt yer only restin’ before ya attack some major philosophical conundrum “

He was gone. 

JP stared into the bar counter mirror behind the spirit bottles at once taking in the various mirror reflections and the array of different alcoholic spirits on show. He had often found inspiration for conversation topics from the varied and diverse spirits that Donleavy collected. Some people collected stamps. Some others collected foreign currency bank notes. Others might even collect sports cards. Donleavy collected alcoholic spirits from all over the world. And very often JP collected his thoughts around one of those particular bottles and a conversation was catalysed from the bottle’s name, contents or origin. This evening, though, the catalyst seemed deactivated. Nothing was striking the neurons into hyperdrive. The brain cells in the pre-frontal cortex seemed to be taking a nap. JP was so uncharacteristically lacking in a conversation topic that he was sure he could hear the zzzz’s behind his forehead. Might be time to reach for the pint glass again.

Three hands went out. Then up. Then returned down again. Some buttock re-equilibrating occurred. A new sense of balance was restored. Mono took a sharp intake of breath and subconsciously the other two looked in his direction knowing that some form of communication was about to emerge.

              “Bleedin’ murders.”

That was it. That’s what came out. Rasher looked at JP. JP looked at Rasher. JP was quietly pleased that Mono had initiated some form of conversation to make up for his own brain blanking in that direction. However, neither JP nor Rasher had a clue where this was going.

              “Murder a pint?”

              “Murder a chaser with the pint?”

It was a quest for further clarification. Mono took another sharp intake and leaned forward to take the two into his line of vision.

              “I was thinkin’ of that Satchwell character who was convicted of murderin’ his wife a while ago.”

Rasher looked at JP. JP looked at Rasher.

              “Jayzus, Mono. Wha’ made you think of tha’? Were you thinkin’ of slayin’ the dragon or someit?”

              “Ya could just leave her. No need to go as far as finishin’ off ‘her indoors’.”

There was a bit of a lull in the conversation while Mono put some coherence to his thoughts on the matter.

              “Her indoors is right. D’ya’member that Satchwell fella had his dead wife wrapped in plastic and hidden in the wall of his livin’ room. Literally buried in the wall. And all the while him bein’ interviewed by police and media and cryin’ about his missin’ wife – and he after murderin’ her and stashin’ her body in the wall and plasterin’ and decoratin’ over her.”

No doubt each of them had their own mind bubble where this sequence of activities was played out in consecutive scenes. And indeed, it was fresh enough in the news that they each remembered the heartfelt pleas of the husband as he entreated his wife to come home, pleading with her to return to him – while all the time she was behind the wall.

There was another lull in the conversation before JP pitched in with an enquiry.

              “But wha’ brought this into yer mind Mono? Are ye actually thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ away with yer missus? Is tha’ it?”

Mono looked at JP with a disgusted look.

              “Fer feck sake. Nah. I’ll tell ya. I’m wonderin’ how the hell a bleedin’ situation like this ends up in a trial that takes five weeks and yer man pleadin’ innocent.”

They all let this absorb and percolate. JP was the one to respond. He obviously felt a smidgin remorseful about being so offhand in his previous remark when Mono was clearly discussing a serious subject. It was time to readjust his input.

              “D’ya know wha’ Mono. Yer dead right. Imagine what was the cost of everyone goin’ through the courts for five weeks when yer man was plainly guilty as sin.”

Mono gesticulated with both palms upwards.

              “That’s exactly me point. What the hell? I mean, yer honour, there’s been a bit of a misunderstandin’ here. We were thinkin’ of doin’ a bit of redecoratin’ and clearly someone must have dropped in to give me missus a quote for the job. And while he was there he musta murdered the wife and stuck her behind the wall. I was wonderin’ for ages wha’ was different ‘bout tha’ wall – now tha’ ya mention it.”

It was time for another visit to the pint glasses and before the connection, Rasher took the responsibility – since the volumes would now drop to critical re-order point level – of raising a finger in the air and grabbing Donleavy’s attention. Once the signal had been understood there was a greater level of comfort and confidence in that re-engagement with the pint glass. A potential stress point had been avoided.  JP now saw it as his responsibility to advance the thought process a little further.

              “It’s good tha’ ya bring this up Mono. I mean wha’ must go through a murderer’s mind to think tha’ he can say he’s innocent and put everyone through the trial. I mean all this fella was short of was gettin’ conjunctivitis from the smokin’ gun he was so caught out.”

They thought about this for a while as they watched Donleavy perform his magic of settling three further creamy pints, before picking them up in his big bar owner hands in an enchanted triangle and delivering them with the ultimate care and attention to their resting places on three fresh beer mats. Donleavy, as usual, paid due attention to the levels of detail for which he was renowned. Beermats equidistant from each other and equidistant from the bar counter edge; glasses centred on the beermat; glass logos facing the punter. This man took pride in his talent.

              “Thanks Donleavy.”

              “Hey – Donleavy, did ya follow the Satchwell trial?”

Donleavy looked to the heavens.

              “Yeah. Don’t know why it took the jury so long. They didn’t even need to leave the courtroom. They could have decided there and then.”

The three boys echoed the sentiment with a nodding of heads.

              “Jayzus yer right. Not like they were getting’ paid by the hour.”

              “Maybe they wanted to get another free dinner out of it.”

              “Probably just playin’ cards to eat up some time to make it look like they discussed it.”

Donleavy was called away once again.

They watched the new entry with reverence. A new pint always looked so good that it seemed like a shame to disturb that sharp black and white separation. That being said – they each got over the feeling and relished that fresh mouthful. Aaah. When they were nicely resettled, JP took the lead this time.

              “D’ya think it’s just a case that a murderer is so screwed up in his or her own head that they think pleadin’ innocent when they are so clearly guilty is actually a viable option? I mean the guy who murdered the girl by the canal did the same thing – pleaded innocent when everyone knew he was guilty as feck.”      

              “Maybe it’s the bleedin’ legal eagles who make ‘em plead innocent so as they can earn a shedload of pay?”

              “I don’t think we’ll ever understand either of them.”

They nodded in agreement on that one. They each went back to their musings.

After what seemed a long while Mono took up the conversation again.

“I would like to make another proposal, your honour.”

The two other lads looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“I would like the jury to take into consideration that the three defendants, known in the underworld as JP, Mono and Rasher, typically go to the chipper after a feed of pints and it is probable that if they are released this very evenin’ from Donleavy’s that this is very likely to happen again. The likelihood for reoffendin’ in this manner is very high.”

The two other lads looked at him with smiles on their faces.

“There will be further fatalities. I’ll murder a cod and chips.”

“Ya betcha. But there won’t be a shred of evidence left behind.”

They went back to the preparatory work of drinking their pints.

Just another night in Donleavy’s

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.