It was one of those very unlike summer evenings where the rain was belting off the windows in Donleavy’s pub. The clientele was quite relaxed on their barstools and in their chairs. There was something about being in a pub when the weather was inclement. Perhaps it tended towards a less guilty mind. I mean – when the rain is the dominant player – one can’t ‘do’ the garden, or paint the house, or fix that creaking gate, or even the gate that’s hanging off. No hedge cutting; no strimming; no car washing; no mowing. One might as well be in the pub. Which is exactly where JP, Mono and Rasher had found themselves for the last while. Although to be totally transparent – our three lads didn’t need foul weather to give them an easy mind in the pub – they could raise that state of mind even if the sun was splitting the stones.
JP was our hero in stating the obvious.
“Aint it just feckin’ shite weather out there lads.”
“Ya can whistle that. I’ll give ya a bleedin’ tune.”
“Yeah. Better off being in here where it’s dry. Ya could catch yer death in weather like that.”
They clinked glasses in saluting their superior decision making. A long synchronous swallow ensued. This in turn was followed by a perfectly timed return of the glasses to their respective beermats. If only Synchronous Pint Drinking was added to the Olympic card. They would score top marks for equal volume consumed, in-time lifting of glasses, similar trajectory and arc, time of consumption, and artistic merit. Don’t laugh. There is many an Olympic event today that would have been scoffed at in previous years. These guys are the global leaders. And it hasn’t come easily. Hours, nay years, of practise had brought them to this superior performance level. Athletes.
Our three amigos sat contentedly back on their stools and took their individual focal points behind the spirit bottles on the long bar counter mirror. This mirror and these bottles had often represented a rich source of conversational catalysts. Tonight, was no exception.
“I was on a train to the city a few days ago”, Mono interjected and then let the comment hang there in the pub ether.
“Well bully for you.”
“Happy for ya.”
There was a high threshold for intellectual content in the lad’s conversation and anything that didn’t reach those heady height was typically treated with immediate derision. All part of keeping standards.
“I went into the jacks.”
“Thank ya for sharin’”
“Are we perhaps headin’ for too much information?”
Mono ploughed on regardless. A dogged performer.
“There was a baby changin’ shelf in the jacks.”
The two other lads looked at each other. There was a tacit and unspoken agreement to cease and desist with the derision. After all – a baby had been mentioned – no notion as to where Mono was going with this. Best to stay on the safe side. Act in haste, regret in leisure and all that.
“Yep.”
“Go on.”
Mono gave that subliminal message that maybe another slug of pint would be good before proceeding. Synchronous drinking again was executed sublimely. Mouths were wiped and satisfied ‘aaahs’ were produced. Buttocks were re-equilibrated on the barstools and Mono got back into his stride.
“There was a sign on the baby changin’ shelf. It said – and I quote exactly – “Warning – do not leave baby unattended.””
Mono let the aforementioned warning absorb and percolate the attention of his two drinking partners. There was a respectful silence for a while. Eventually JP broke it.
“Jayzus. If this is where we’ve come to. That people need to be reminded to keep their attention to a baby on a changin’ shelf – then maybe they shouldn’t be left in charge of babies.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’.”
“Is this all to do with that hot coffee cup insurance payout?”
“Not with ya.”
“D’ya’member. The millions that McDonalds lost when someone spilled hot coffee on themselves and then everythin’ needs a reminder of everthin’ on it afterwards.”
“Yeah. This is hot. Of course its shaggin’ hot. Its coffee. This is cold. Of course it’s shaggin’ cold. Its ice. For feck sake.”
“Yeah. This is a baby. It can roll off and crack its head.”
“Maybe babies will have to have a sticker like that on their foreheads leavin’ the hospital in future?”
They mused upon this for a while. Quite a while really. Long enough for them to return to their pints. Long enough for Rasher to point a finger in the air that attracted Donleavy’s attention and set in train the replenishment cycle. It would never do that they could arrive at a situation of empty glasses in front of them. Well – not before they were due to depart home at least. The incoming pints arrived with a flourish and with Donleavy’s acknowledged efficiency. The bar wasn’t exploding with renewed orders, so Donleavy took an extra time with his most loyal customers to chew the cud.
“Well gentlemen. What’s the topics that are keepin’ ye exercised this evenin’?”
JP did a good synopsis of their conversation with Donleavy doing lots of nodding and empathy oozing from every part of his considerable frame. He drew himself up to his full height and then added his own pet hate.
“Well gentlemen. Can I tell ye what really pisses me off?”
The lads all directed their attention to their barman.
“Ya have the floor Donleavy.”
Donleavy took a deep breath.
“What really pisses me off is those parents who say they are living on the breadline and can’t afford to feed their children. No. Worse than that. They say they are in the poverty basket and can’t keep their children in food or clothes.”
The lads looked at each other. This seemed like an unusual outburst from Donleavy. He was typically laid back and very tolerant and strong social feelings weren’t part of his barman modus operandi. Donleavy looked at each one in turn. JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher strained his head to see what JP’s reaction was. There was an uncomfortable silence. Donleavy fired up his cylinders again.
“Will I tell ya why it pisses me off so much?”
They all meekly nodded.
“This”, and Donleavy mimicked smoking a cigarette.
The three lads exchanged looks again.
“While they are tellin’ ya how hard things are, and how they can’t feed their children, they are puffin’ away on two packs a day.”
Now the lads nodded more forcibly.
“Let me ask ya lads….how much is a bag of oat flakes?”
They shrugged.
“Well how much is a big tray of eggs?”
Again, they shrugged.
“….a large bag of chicken pieces?”
They still had to shrug.
“Well I don’t bleedin’ know either. But I can guarantee ya somethin’. It’s less than a day’s fags. And it would probably go a long way towards feeding the family for a week.”
The lads had to agree with this and muttered noises of assent.
“….and if anyone ever challenges them, they go on about how the cigarettes are their only little comfort. Well let me tell ‘em – feck their comfort. Feck their comfort. Feed their bleedin’ children first. Feed them and clothe them and look after them. The whole thing gets on me goat.”
Donleavy turned away – his anger showing in red patches on his neck and face. He was halfway up the bar counter when he swivelled on his heel. The three lads put their pints back on the counter in an instinctive reaction. Donleavy strode back to his previous soapbox.
“And another thing. The cigarettes typically gives them a dry throat so they have to keep themselves lubricated with a slab of cheap lager. But I didn’t want to mention that – given my station in life.”
With that he retreated back again to the far end of the bar. The three amigos remained speechless on their barstools. There was a bit of uncomfortable buttock shifting. It was hard to know where to look and how to proceed with the conversation. Eventually Rasher broke the awkward stillness.
“There’s only one thing one can say at this point gentleman….”
He left it hang there for a while before Mono took up the response.
“That we should drain the pints and go get a spiceburger and chips?”
“Yar on the money.”
“OK. Give Donleavy the nod. We’re away so.”
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
Well – a little bit different.
JP@Donleavy’s 