It was a Thursday night in Donleavy’s in the middle of a relatively hot spell of weather. The bar takings would be down. Everyone was off at the beach or the lake or the BBQ in the back garden. Only the faithful were still ‘practising’ at the bar counter. Numbered among those faithful were JP, Rasher and Mono. Consistency is everything. Each of the three was of the unwavering belief that their life would be best served by communicating together, and with Donleavy, through the medium of the most perfectly poured pint. This was not a seasonal charade. This was not some fad. This was not weather dependant. This was consistency. And as far as they were concerned, life needed more principled people like them.
Each sat in front of their settling pint waiting for that moment of perfection. Waiting for that separation of black and white. Waiting for that almost subliminal signal that synchronised pint drinking could commence. This is a magic moment when all is good with the world. This is the triumph of anticipation. This is when blood pressure relaxes. After each had moved through anticipation and tasted the first of the day, there were some satisfied ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’, followed by some buttock shifting, until the optimum relaxed positions were settled upon.
JP broke the radio silence in an uncharacteristically early fashion.
“Isn’t fashion or – popularity – a weird thing lads?”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.
“Jayzuz, JP, did ya find yer bell bottoms in the drawer or somethin’?”
“Or yer stripey tank top?”
JP let it sit for a while. These weren’t questions that needed any consideration, far less – an answer. But, in any event, he did decide that he could weave the enquiries into his response.
“Ya could be right lads. It generally all comes round in cycles. Wha’s the bettin’ that bell bottoms and tank tops won’t come ‘round again? Maybe even more than once?”
They gave it some consideration. No doubt a few mental pictures were conjured up in the ether above the bar counter. These mental pictures never looked good in their original form so there was absolutely no reason to believe they would benefit with age. JP reached for his pint and within timeframes too quick for the naked eye to segregate, his reach was joined in pint-seeking by our other two amigos. They weren’t the synchronised pink drinking Kings for nothing. There were neural pathways involved here that even the most eminent neuroscientists couldn’t elucidate. Pint glasses were lowered and restored to standing positions on coasters.
JP brought things on another notch.
“Smokin’.”
“Yeah?”
“What abou’ it?”
JP took a few deep breaths almost as if he was demonstrating the exaggerated cycle of inhalation-exhalation of smokers who are still capable of deep breathing.
“Who remembers the ‘Rothmans’ ad?”
“Oh, feck yeah. The airline pilot who chucked the box of ‘Rothmans’ ciggies onto the airplane dashboard.”
“Oh yeah. We all thought tha’ was mega cool.”
“I get ya, JP. Now ya’d be callin’ ‘em a gobshite. Wonderin’ why a person intelligent enough to fly a plane would be pollutin’ their lungs so they could die younger and more painfully. The total opposite of cool. Ya look at someone vapin’ or smokin’ now and yer first thought isn’t ‘cool’. Its feckin’ gobshite.”
There was a small lull in the conversation.
“Did ya ever smoke lads?”
There was a slow and guilty nodding of heads.
“Guess it’s a case of he who is without sin, eh?”
This thought was enough to direct them back to their drink and another round of perfectly synchronous pint drinking ensued. The volume remaining in each glass was also so comparable that a volumetric measuring device would unlikely see any differences if the content of each glass was subjected to scientific scrutiny and measurement rigour. But much more important than that – the said volume had dropped below the critical level for re-order. An empty glass can only be tolerated at night’s end. No other time. Mono raised a finger in the air to give Donleavy all the data and information he needed for stock replenishment. It was a slow night in Donleavy’s so, excepting a disaster like a required barrel change, there shood be no issue with replacement pints arriving in a comfortable space of time.
JP broke the waiting silence as he often did.
“Isn’t it feckin’ strange the way things that are good or cool or fashionable today can jump on their own head tomorrow?”
“Jump on their own head?”
“Yeah – like be seriously uncool or actually bad.”
They thought about this for a while. Quite a long while. Long enough for there to be a couple of visits to the pint glasses. JP advanced his head further towards the bar counter and steered towards his drinking partners.
“Cancer is an interestin’ topic.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.
“Cancer?”
“Since when did cancer become interestin’?”
“Yeah. Cancer. Look at all the shit aside from smokin’ that’s bad for ya. And – some of it we actually thought was good for ya.”
That provoked another cycle of thought-inducing trips to the pint glasses. So much so that Rasher gave the signal for another round of incoming. They all knew that once one suggestion was thrown out there that there would be a brainstorming tsunami of proposals. And that’s exactly what ensued.
“Asbestos.”
“Yeah. Well. Tha’ was never good for ya.”
“True. Good insulator though.”
They all nodded.
“What’s the name of tha’ weedkiller stuff?”
“Yeah. Well. Tha’ wasn’t actually good for ya either.”
“True. Mighty stuff for killin’ weeds though.”
They all nodded again.
“Feck it – what’s the name of that artificial sweetener in the Diet Coke?”
“Jayzus, yeah.”
“Well – if it wasn’t good for ya, at least that was supposed to be less bad.”
“Cancer candidate now.”
“Feckin’ mad.”
They all nodded at the seeming absurdity of it.
“Mind you – ya’d probably need to drink thirty cans of Diet Coke a day before it would start droppin’ tumours inta ya.”
They all nodded with a laugh. A shared mental picture of tripping over empty Coke cans.
“Red shaggin’ meat!”
“Spot on. Now that was supposed to be good for ya. Protein. Build ya up. Red blood cells for sale. Stronger than Popeye on one of his good days.”
“And now its not just a possible carcino-whatever. It’s a bleedin’ probable one.”
“Mental.”
They all shook their head on this one.
Donleavy had delivered the next round by this stage. They had drained the previous glass and were each looking forward to the next magical encounter. There was that moment of anticipation again. Would this moment be as good as the last? Would it exceed the last? Donleavy had completed his job with the highest level of skill that only a craftsman barman like him could deliver. The omens were all optimistic. The wizardry of the black and white waited to reveal itself. What Mono said next would however go towards ruining the moment.
“I have to say it lads. It needs to be said.”
This time it was JP who looked at Rasher and Rasher looked at JP.
“Don’t go away with a stone in yer shoe, Mono. Ya can share anythin’ here.”
Mono looked a bit downbeat.
“What’s tha Minister what’s-his-face thinkin’ of – when he’s goin’ put cancer signs on our pint?”
There was some shared tut-tutting.
“Bleedin’ ridiculous.”
“Should be sacked.”
“Feckin’ publicity seekin’”
“Gobshite.”
Clearly there was a shared sense of disagreement to introduce comprehensive health labelling of alcohol products. Votes would not be garnered for this particular Minister in this particular drinking emporium.
“It’s all gone way OTT. With a pint in one hand and a mobile phone in the other – I may as well ring for the undertaker on the phone and save some time. Cause I’m obviously fecked.”
They nodded in disillusioned agreement.
A short silence prevailed.
“Will we go for a cod and chips.”
“Are they on the list.”
“Don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Right. Great idea. Let’s do it while we can still enjoy it.”
“Give Donleavy the nod.”
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 