JP was flanked at the bar counter in the usual arrangement by Mono and Rasher. Three bar stools that had the curvature of specific buttocks worn into them over decades of occupation. Three bar stools that no one else in Donleavy’s pub would ever have the temerity to borrow or take up. Donleavy’s was absolutely a place of democracy and meritocracy where every voice was given free airing and respect – however – if there were to be any suggestion of a hierarchy within the structure, then it was very clear – Donleavy was the emperor, and the Three Amigos were next in line. And that kind of subliminal rank put virtual names on those bar stools. All the stools were short of – was a Star Trek type hologram that said – ‘Touch these and you’re feckin’ dead’.
But tonight, in Donleavy’s, it was peaceful. There was no suggestion of any stool coup d’état. Well….it was peaceful to the extent that there were no warring factions…. but there was an excited hum around the bar. It was Friday night. The crowd was swelled with the weekend warriors. JP, Rasher, and Mono never fitted the category of weekend warriors. They were men for all seasons. The three boys would be of the category that would prefer to drink two pints seven nights a week rather than seven pints two nights a week. And that’s not to suggest that they would inhabit Donleavy’s seven nights a week. Well, they would if it was possible, but often those dastardly domestic duties would rear their ugly head for one of them. And it was absolutely verboten to travel out for pints with a reduced cohort. Three amigos or nothing. The ecosystem would implode and collapse if there were to be anything less than a full triumvirate.
The full extent of an excited hum in Donleavy’s constituted conversation – a sense that everyone was talking at once – and much laughter – that sense of the physical impossibility of people laughing and talking at the same time. These were the sounds that energised Donleavy and drove that bar owner up and down behind the counter dispensing various brands of alcohol at warp speed. No other sounds were permitted. It was rumoured that Donleavy employed a permanently placed sniper whose role was to take out any piped music, jukebox, gaming machine or TV salesperson. No matter creed, ethnic origin, or gender – such a sales individual was to be cut down at the perimeter. Donleavy often said that it would be over his dead body that any of the aforementioned would enter the pub and it would be absolutely guaranteed that Donleavy and the sniper would go down fighting as if it were the Alamo of the pub trade.
Three creamy pints were settling on the counter in front of the inhabitants of the sacred bar stools. Until that last eddy of settling fluid had absolutely found a home in either the cream or the dark separation – it would have been a mortaller to even stretch out a hand. Basic etiquette. Pint drinking 101. At a judicious point JP, seated as he always was (and always would be), in the centre of his two companions looked left and right and there was a barely perceptible nod that the pint drinking should begin in the most perfect synchronous fashion. Glasses raised. Slugs taken. Pint returned to the counter. Quantity imbibed from each glass comparable to the nearest millilitre. Poetry in motion. If you stood end-on to the three patrons and looked down the bar – all you would see was one action. Olympic synchronised swimmers or water ballet people would never ever achieve this level of perfection. This can’t be taught. It’s natural talent in the DNA. Maybe if the scientists were to run a full genome investigation on the three lads there would an unravelling of where this expertise originates – but until then it’s simply a mystery to be savoured.
JP scanned all the bottles on the shelf in front of the bar mirror and behind the bar counter. It was where he got a lot of his feedstock for conversation openers. But tonight, it was Rasher that threw in the first salvo….
“Feckin’ Ukraine thing is poxy, innnit?”
“Cat malogen.”
“That Putin is a prick. I hope the devil makes a ladder out of his spine.”
“Too right. And spends every minute of every day climbin’ up and down.”
“Motion carried. Let’s drink to that.”
They raised their glasses in a mock toast and repeated another round of thirst-quenching activity. The mood was heading to the relaxed zone that allowed the shoulders to relax, the legs to hang off the stool and the buttocks to spread. All was good in the world of Donleavy’s even if it was heading towards global catastrophe elsewhere. JP was uncharacteristically quiet. It was Mono who injected the next round of enquiry.
“Hey. Have ya seen any Ukrainians around our neck of the woods yet?”
They all paused for a few seconds to check the memory banks.
“I haven’t seen sight nor sound. But I hear Mrs. Murphy took in a family last week.”
They absorbed this additional piece of information.
“Makes sense. They’ll be company for her. Since her Tom died and the kids all in Australia, sure she has space and it’ll give her somethin’ to do.”
“There’ll be a language problem thou’.”
“Naw – sure all them Ukrainians have a good smatterin’ of English.”
“Yeah. But Mrs. Murphy never said anythin’ that sounded like English.”
They all had a good laugh at that one. When the bellies equilibrated again it was a sign to go for another swallow of the black magic. Glasses were replaced on the counter, lips and chins were wiped to remove any residue and contented aaahs were allowed release.
JP finally made his entry mark on the conversation.
“Lads. There are a few things I’m uncomfortable abou’.”
“Reflux? Neuralgia? Herpes….?”
“Or bleedin’ haemorrhoids. Now that would be uncomfortable.”
JP gave them a withering look.
“No seriously lads. The worlds on the brink of World War Three. There are people literally dyin’ on the streets. That feckin’ maniac in the Kremlin says he’s tryin’ to stop people actin’ like Hilter but he’s doin’ the best impersonation of the economy-moustache man himself….and….the fecker has a red button….and here we are jokin’ about the fact that Mrs Murphy is probably unintelligible to all races and languages of the world.”
“Feck it. She is thou.’”
“But seriously Mono.”
The feelgood balloon had the air slowly sucked out of it. It was lying limp and lifeless. None of the three approached their pints for what seemed like an eternity. Even the sights and sounds of Donleavy’s took on another complexion. Nothing was said for what seemed like an eternity. Rasher finally took the nettle in his fist and grasped it tight.
“Feck it lads. I know what JP is sayin’. But listen up. A wise man once said to me….I think it was one of the homeless lads on Main Street….if ya cant influence it, then there’s feck all use gettin’ overconcerned about it.”
They let that digest. The digestion needed to be aided by following it with some fresh input of liquid. When the glasses were returned to the bar JP was in a position to add to the conversation.
“And there is truth in that. I grant ya that. But now that ya mention it, if I was one of those homeless lads – a victim of this so-called housin’ crisis that’s been runnin’ for years – I’d be quare pissed off that the country could suddenly swing into overdrive and house all these Ukrainian refugees – yet couldn’t manage to take its finger out of its hole for years to find homes for its own people.”
“Feck it – you’re right JP. And I was listenin’ to that McVerry chap on the wireless the other day. And him sayin’ that we needed to change our opinion of what a homeless person is. It’s not just druggies and wasters. It’s ordinary people like you and me who can’t afford the rent increase or lose their job and can’t pay the mortgage anymore. It’s you and me by the grace of God.”
They drained their pints. This was a signal in itself. Pints are never drained before incoming replacements are signaled unless departure is the next step. Another nugget of pint drinking wisdom delivered in pint drinking 101. No words required. A message received and understood by everyone – including Donleavy.
“Early night tonight lads”, Donleavy bellowed as he seemed to float up and down behind the bar counter.
“Yeah. We have important business we need to attend to.”
“What’s tha’? Smoked cod and chips at the chipper.”
“Ya read our minds.”
“As always, lads. As always.”
JP@Donleavy’s 