It was getting a bit déjà vu in Donleavy’s pub. Another one of those restriction moves to combat the ‘Rona Virus. Donleavy had continued to serve illicit pints to his chosen customers all the way through the pandemic and this restriction – nearly two years later – sure as hell wasn’t going to change anything. Donleavy was a bit like Churchill….we will imbibe through the lockdown, we will imbibe through the curfews, we will imbibe if it’s only outside….we shall never surrender. Didn’t matter what Greek letter they were putting in front of the nasty spikey virus – Donleavy continued, under cover of black-out and secret approaches – to provide pints to the good people. It was Sunday night. Sunday December 19th to be precise. As a token concession to the spikey ‘Rona our amigos spread themselves at the bar counter a little bit more than usual. Not two meters, but an arm’s length. They felt it was the least they could do to set some good role model actions for the younger imbibers. Sunday December 19th, 2021 was the last day before the 8pm curfew. Our three amigos weren’t in the least bit bothered but they needed to find out from Donleavy what should be the strategy for the next wave of the war. Operation 8pm Curfew. I mean – how should it be played out? The lads assumed that Donleavy would lock up as directed by Government restriction at 8pm. What they needed to know was what was the earliest they should sneak into the pub through the covert circuitous route agreed with the loyal few. Was it 8.30pm? Was it 9pm? Was it later? Mono was dispatched to have a quiet word with Donleavy.
Three pints settled in front of them. JP and Rasher stared at them – seeing all the mysteries of life become simplified as the flowing eddies of the liquid finally settled into the crisp separation of black and white. What a dance? What a flow? What complexity and simplicity captured in a glass? How could anyone drink that lager shite? Inconceivable. When the final creamy eddy had been captured by the black magic, they still did not pick up their glasses. That would have been so far out of order as to represent the worst possible excesses of bad taste. They waited for Mono to return and then, and only then, with a barely perceptible nod, they raised their glasses. First of the day.
“Slainte.”
Nods.
“Aaaah.”
Harmony in that appreciation.
“Well – what’d he say?”
“9pm. No earlier. He’ll review the route and let us know. He’s thinkin’ of takin’ a different pathway through the storeroom. Make it easier to hide if there were ever a raid.”
“That’s Donleavy for ya. Commander-in-Chief. Always thinkin’ ahead. Master tactician. Brilliant strategist.”
“Yeah. Not bad at pullin’ a pint either.”
They had a smile at that and treated themselves to another synchronous mouthful of the black nectar.
JP stared at the spirit bottles and the bar mirror. It was where he often received his conversational inspiration. Nothing was jumping to him at this point. Mono broke the silence.
“8pm curfew. So, it’s supposed to be matinees now?”
“Yeah – afternoon delight.”
Rasher jumped in.
“Hey Mono – why d’ya always have to turn the conversation to sex?
“Harumph – chance would be a fine thing – haven’t had a matinee since I was a teenager.”
“And that’s not today nor yesterday.”
“Ya can whistle that – let me give ya a tune.”
They went back to their individual reveries. JP continued to stare at the massive collection of spirit bottles behind the counter. Donleavy collected them like some people would collect stamps or Matchbox cars. Most of them had never been opened. As like most times – one in particular would take his attention. This time it was ‘Unicorn Tears Gin’. Feck. Where did they get the names from?
“Hoy. Lads.”
“Wha’?”
“D’ya ever wonder? Like…Omicron? Where in the name of feck did they get that shaggin’ name from? I mean it’s bleedin’ sinister by itself. Makes ya squirm just hearin’ it. Why didn’t they call it John or Mary or George? Bleedin’ Omicron. What’s behind that? I’m shiverin’ just sayin’ it. And I’m sure I’m not even pronouncin’ it properly. I always start it with Omni and it doesn’t come out soundin’ anythin’ right after that. I mean – what the feck?”
The lads nodded and went back to their drinks. Silence reigned for a while. Rasher braved the clarification.
“It’s bleedin’ Greek’”
The two others looked at each other. There had been sufficient dislocation in the conversation that there wasn’t an immediate joining of the dots.
“Bleedin’ Greek to me – what ya talkin’ about Rasher?”
“Omicron. Its one of the letters in the Greek alphabet. Just like beta and delta.”
Mono looked at JP. JP looked at Mono. Big broad smiles grew across their faces.
“Well feck me backwards with a wet kipper. Our own little classical scholar. Where the feck did ya pick that one up?”
Rasher blushed slightly
“Don’t know to feck. When yer good, yer good. Isn’t that wha’ ya always say JP?”
“True fer ya. True fer ya. And yer good this time Rasher. We might need to re-christen ya. Aristotle Rasher of Donleavy’s. How does that sound?”
Rasher raised his pint. A subliminal message for all three to sup once more – and the decreasing volume became a catalyst for JP to raise a finger in the air – which message cascaded down the bar resulting in three empty glasses being plucked from their tray – and the magic of pint pouring to commence yet another lifecycle.
“Yeah. Aristotle Rasher of Donleavy’s. I can live with that.”
Rasher did a brief shake of his shoulders and straightened his spine to match his new-found status. Donleavy busied himself with preparing three pints. JP had a concentrated look across his brow.
“No but seriously. The storm last week. Storm Barra. And – Storm Emma in 2018.”
“Yeah – Jaysus I remember Emma. Now she was a rough ride.”
“Ya still talkin’ ‘bout the storm?”
“But seriously. If they can call storms with everyday names that people can pronounce and understand – why the feck do they need to get all high-falutin’ with a shaggin’ virus? Why couldn’t they just call it ‘Rona like we do?”
“Fair shaggin’ point.”
“True fer ya.”
They new pints had arrived and with this level of agreement, accord and harmony it definitely merited a good initial swig. Pint glasses were replaced on the counter and mouths wiped with the back of a hand. A sense of calm descended once more and enveloped our three amigos. It wasn’t to last. Mono was in.
“And feckin’ double barrel names for kids. Well, that pisses me off.”
“Yeah. Yer dead right.”
“So, Murphy shacks up with Ryan and produce a sprog and before ya know it, the poor bastard has been labelled as Ryan-Murphy or Murphy-Ryan. Like a boy named Sue. Poor mite.”
“Ya think that’s bad. I came across a quadrupler recently.”
“Yer jokin’ now.”
“No – I swear it. It was like a Ryan-Murphy ridin’ a Byrne-O’Connell and producing a Ryan-Murphy-Byrne-O’Connell.”
“Yer pullin’ the piss.”
“Yer definitely tryin’ to extract the Michael.”
“I swear it on me pint.”
The two boys had to respect this – any man swearing on his pint had to be taken seriously. But it was hard to credit. Like a boy being called MaryAnn Sue. It was very sad.
JP stared at the bar counter mirror once more. Then he switched his vision to all the liquor bottle labels and the various names. The answer came to him in a lightning flash.
“I have it lads.”
There was an air of excitement even though the other two had no clue as to what their excitement should be all about.
“Wha’?”, they stereo-ed.
“We’re all in favour of equality in this pub, aren’t we?”
“Yep.”
“Full respect for any woman who can hold her pint.”
“I have the answer.”
“That’s feckin’ brilliant JP. I didn’t even think we had a question.”
“Shush now. Hold yer whisst. You know Little Larry down the road?”
“Yeah.”
“Wha’ about him?”
“What’s the name of his house?”
“What the feck has this to do with anythin’? It’s ‘Larmar’.”
“And where does the name come from?”
Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They had no idea where this had come from, where it was at, and where it was going. But, from decades of experience of drinking at Donleavy’s, it was always best to just go with JP’s flow – rivers of confusion often reached ports of clarity. It was Mono who spoke up.
“Larry and Mary. Mary and Larry. House name – ‘Larmar’.”
“Spot on.”
“Ehh. Yeah. So what?”
“Don’t ya get it?”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Whatever there was to be got here, it was easily evading both of them.
“D’ya not see. When people get hitched – just combine the names into one shortened one – we’ll set a limit on the number of characters – like they do with a password – give them both the new combination. And then there’ll be no confusion – sprogs will have the same name as Mammy Bear and Daddy Bear – and then when the sprog grows up and velcros himself to his chosen fabric – you just repeat the exercise. Everybody gets a max of eight characters and the world is simpler.”
The two lads went quiet, and the silence was only filled when the three amigos took a long, hard, contemplative slug of their pints. After what seemed like an eternity, Mono entered the fray.
“I think you might be on to something JP, but we may need to think more about it over chips and a battered cod.”
“You could be right.”
“Give Donleavy the nod there.” They drained their pints. Just another night in Donleavy’s
JP@Donleavy’s 