JP nursed the end of his pint and looked up and down the length of the bar counter. Flanked by his trusty lieutenants – Rasher and Mono – it could have been any other Thursday night in Donleavy’s pub. Except it wasn’t. This was an illegal gathering in the middle of Covid-19 lockdown. And ‘gathering’ – well gathering was too big a word for what was going on here. Since the start of ‘Wave 1’ Donleavy had invited his most trusted regulars to continue to drink in the pub within a certain time window every night and under the cover of strict rules. Donleavy nearly had more rules than the Government regulations. But it had worked. And one year later they were still here – a select little group – still acting as if nothing had changed in the imbibing world. Well – lots had changed really. The pub was nearly as silent as a forgotten crypt. Tutankhamen’s tomb probably had more stray light entering with the way Donleavy had sealed the windows. And it was probably easier to navigate into Tut’s final resting place than the circuitous route that Donleavy insisted on entering and exiting the pub.
But clearly something had worked because one year later JP, Rasher and Mono were still supping pints and solving the greatest philosophical conundrums of our time. Donleavy hadn’t fared so well. The pressure of this covert exercise had shrunk and rounded the man. It had also made him grumpy. It was for this reason that JP decided he would choose this time to go to the ‘Jacks’ so that Rasher could have the pleasure of engaging with Donleavy for fresh incoming.
On his return from the relieving room, JP was happy to see that his plan had worked out expertly as evidenced by three fresh pint glasses full of the magic of settling stout. He took his ordained place on the middle stool and delicately pitched from buttock to buttock until his equilibrium was perfectly balanced. When settling was complete (pints and buttocks) the three amigos raised their glasses in the most exquisite example of synchronised harmony and, showing years of practise, swallowed for exactly the same length of time and with the same volume. A weights and measures expert would have attested that the volume remaining in each glass was equal within the tolerance of a few millilitres. The presence of greatness. A living example of the 10,000 hours practise required for perfection. 10,000 pints in this case.
JP straightened up his back, rolled his shoulders and sought inspiration in the rows of spirit bottles behind the bar. His gaze came to rest on a bottle of Tequila with a cork shaped like a Mexican sombrero. In this ‘spit and sawdust’ pub, Donleavy had the most incredible collection of bottles of which the vast majority were still intact and unopened. Within this collection the inspiration for all forms of conversation could be sparked. JP’s neurons were sparking loudly as he perused the Tequila bottle.
“Cycling helmets”, he announced directly to the bar counter mirror.
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They collectively threw their eyes up to heaven. This was typical of JP’s style. A statement to the Gods and they were supposed to automatically pick up on JP’s train of thought. Rasher bit his tongue – he just wasn’t going to give JP the satisfaction of a follow up. Mono bit down for as long as he could but eventually, he inhaled like a suffocating man and let out a despairing question.
“Wha’ the bloody hell? We’re suppin’ pints in Donleavy’s. What the feck do ya want a cycling helmet for?”
JP did indeed initiate another synchronised cycle of pint supping before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and evolved the topic.
“Bad role modellin’. Cyclin’ helmets.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. This time it was Rasher who was incapable of holding back.
“Sweet sufferin’ Jaysus. What are ya witherin’ on about man. No-one knows where the feck or in what cave yer brain has come to land.”
JP stared into a focus spot in the bar mirror from which only he could extract his creative muse. Then he turned his gaze to the deep inspirational pool of his pint of stout.
“Tell me this, lads. How many times have ya seen a parent out cyclin’ with their kids?”
The looks on Rasher and Mono’s face was clearer than any words. It screamed – yeah, yeah, get on with it. Somewhere in the deep recess of whatever cave JP was inhabiting – the echoes of this scream bounced off the walls, because he continued his flow.
“…and when you do see ‘em. How many times have ya seen the kids wearin’ cyclin’ helmets – as is only right and proper and just and Christian – and the parents bareheaded – not a helmet to be seen. Yeah. Tell me that’s not so. I challenge ya.”
The two lads looked across each other and quietly nodded. Clearly JP was on fairly sure ground with this one. He was out of the cave and up to the surface. The dark recesses were replaced by a bright clarity.
“Yer bang on, JP. Yer on the money.”
“So, tell me lads. When the parent hits the pothole and smacks his or her noggin square on the kerbstone – clearly a parent skull must be covered in titanium – because there can’t be any other logical explanation. Rasher, Mono – yer both parents – last time ya looked – did ya have a titanium coated skull?”
They shook their heads.
“What a complete cat malogen example of role modellin’.”
They nodded their heads.
“Jaysus. Imagine what the kid must think. As soon as I grow up, I don’t need a helmet. We know for sure what goes through the kid’s head but what the feck goes through the adults head?”
JP mimed an inverted comma for the last bit of the sentence. The three amigos absorbed this in their own way. For once in violent agreement. This was incontrovertible. As undeniable as the fact that beans make you fart.
There was a long silence before Rasher kicked on the conversation.
“Jaysus. When ya think about it. There’s a huge bleedin’ lack of role models for kids today. Thems that should be – are about as far away as bein’ a good influence as the devil from the gates of heaven.”
“Too right. An’ this bleedin’ pandemic has really exposed some people as the shite artists that they actually are.”
“Yer on the ball there. For sure.”
Donleavy has making one of his many laps of the bar counter. Pint glasses were lifted and leaned forward in silent respect, recognition, and gratitude. Donleavy was only a shadow of his former enthusiastic self. Covid-19 and the stress of running this illicit watering hole had taken the bounce out of for step.
Rasher almost folded himself into a fractional version of himself and let go of a whisper.
“Us. We’re hardly role models. Suppin’ here.”
The two other lads looked at him. There was a scolding expression to the appearance.
“Let it go.”
“We’ve dealt with that.”
“Temporary thing.”
“No more.”
Rasher – suitably chastened – felt the need to immediately ingratiate himself back with his imbibing colleagues.
“Bleedin’ teachers.”
“Feck, yeah.”
“Strike action in the middle of a pandemic?”
“Who in the name of all that’s good and wholesome do they think they are?”
“What feckin’ planet do they live on?”
“Clearly not one with Covid-shaggin’-19.”
“Bung ‘em all into ICU. Let ‘em see wha’ front line really means.”
“Role models me hole – a lad or lass in the class will go out into the world thinkin’ when all the world is dyin’ it’s OK to whinge about breakin’ a fingernail.”
“Come the revolution, comrade…….”
They drained their glasses.
“Another…?”
“I’m hungry after all that.”
“Yeah – we’ll go for a battered sausage.”
“Give Donleavy the nod.”
The lads made their way through the covert exit of the back room and the store area and out into the darkness of the rear yard. Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 