JP was nicely settled it, flanked by his trusted compatriots Rasher and Mono. He had a settled pint in front of him, he had done the buttock equilibrating moves on the barstool and he had found a comfortable resting place for his elbows. He was eyeing the pint with a sense of great expectation. He had been looking forward to this for most of the day. With an almost imperceptible nod, the signal was given for the synchronised pint drinking to begin. Three arms went out in unison, cradled a pint glass and an equi-volume of alcohol was consumed in exactly the same timeframe down to fractions of a second. Glasses were returned to the counter. This was seasoned drinking being portrayed at its very best. Variation was only allowed in the satisfied ‘umhs’ and ‘ahhs’ that emanated from that section of the bar counter.
They had drink in front of them. The weather was warm outside and there was a nice coolness here at the bar counter. The bar wasn’t too full, so the noise was at a minimum. You could hear yourself think and hear what your amigo beside you was saying. Life was good. The body was relaxed, and stress had been refused entry at the doorway. Breathing was deeper and slower. Life didn’t get much better than this. Yes, indeed. This must be what they were all talking about when they were mouthing on about self-care and resilience. Pints in Donleavy’s. Better than anything.
JP stared at the array of spirit bottles that lined the front of the bar mirror that ran the whole length of the counter. It was where he often found his inspiration for the scintillating conversation topics that sprinkled their visits to this drinking emporium. His gaze momentarily rested on a bottle of Beluga Noble Vodka promoted as being made from fresh water from Siberian springs. He often wondered from where Donleavy got all the different bottles and did anyone ever drink any of them. In all of his time drinking in Donleavy’s he couldn’t recall anyone coming to the bar counter and saying ‘give me three shots of your finest Russian Beluga Noble Vodka. And one for yourself noble barperson’. Nope. Certainly couldn’t recall anything like that.
Anyway, that was a digression. It was time to open the deep and meaningful discussion that characterised our trio’s reputation at the bar counter (apart from Olympic standard synchronised drinking – obviously).
“Ya watchin’ the news these days lads?”
“’Gainst me better judgement.”
“World has got its knickers in a complete twist. Stranglin’ the balls off itself.”
“Complete clusterfuck.”
These statements were allowed to stew and percolate for a while, to concentrate and enrich, to meander around the neurons.
“Bleedin’ Russians. Bleedin’ Hamas. Bleedin’ Israelis. Bleedin’ geriatric Americans.”
A pause.
“Was it always this way, lads? Was there always as many bleedin’ fringe lunatics at the top of the political heap.”
“I think there may have been. Remember – we’ve had our own rep in that sales team.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
“We get what we deserve.”
They went back to the well of alcohol for further sustenance. After the usual imbibing and some optimising seating re-equilibrating, discourse continued.
“How does it bleedin’ happen? How do the knobends garner so much support?”
“Yeah. How come there aint a reaction to call out the fuckwits….as well….what they are….fuckwits?”
“The silent majority, I suppose.”
They let that sink in. They also let another visit to the pint glass sink in. It was conceivable now that remaining glass volumes could be approaching the critical reorder point level. Never, under any circumstances, should a pint glass go empty unless there was another incoming nestling beside it. Except at the end of the pub visit obviously. Otherwise, we’d be here all night (would that be so bad?) or there would be alcohol wasted (outrageous thought when there is so much focus on conservation). Donleavy was politely summoned with the age-old practice of the finger in the air. No – not that finger, silly. That’s the one reserved for other drivers. The next drink ordering finger. In fact, it’s not quite correct to label it as a summoning finger – well not in the traditional travel sense – it is more correct to think of it as a call to action. Because Donleavy didn’t need to walk down to our three amigos. No – he knew exactly what was required and set about his labour of love in a prompt and efficient fashion.
It was only some moments later that Donleavy made an intimate appearance holding a triangle of three pints in his well-practiced hands. With a deft skill he placed the triangle on the bar counter and with a magician’s swish of the hand he replaced each glass on the coaster with its full counterpart. Mastery.
“Thanks Donleavy.”
“Fair Play.”
“Good on ya.”
The barman pushed his hands on the bar counter and stretched himself back. This was the signal that a few additional words could be absorbed within his busy work schedule. These moments didn’t last long, his attention could be required at the drop of a hat, at the raising of a distant finger, at the arrival of new communicants – so it was critical to engage the conversation as sprightly as possible. JP was well practiced in this type of rendezvous approach.
“Ya been followin’ the news, Donleavy?”
Donleavy pushed back against the bar.
“What news exactly?”
The response was a mite more terse that JP or the other two lads expected. There was a slight delay as JP looked around and took up his usual role as spokesperson.
“Well….ya know…Ukraine, Gaza, Convict Trump….d’usual.”
Donleavy rocked a little on the bar counter.
“Wha’? Ya think that just because I’m a bleedin’ barman that I don’t understand the news, that it?”
There was a grit in the words that the lads had never heard from Donleavy in all their years separated by the counter. Again, it lay with JP to respond. The other two guys were sitting there with their mouths open like goldfish breathing in a bowl.
“No. No. Not at all. D’opposite in fact. We were just interested in yer take on things.”
Donleavy rocked a little more vigorously.
“Me take on things. Me take on things. Ya think that just because I spend my time pullin’ pints that I’m as thick as three planks nailed together. That it?”
JP was nearly hyperventilating at this point. The goldfish on either side of him were being starved of oxygen. What was happening here?
“Jayzus, Donleavy. Steady on…no-one said anythin’ like…”
“Steady on. Steady on. Ya sit on d’other side of the bar and ya tell me to steady on. Ya think that barmen haven’t the bleedin’ mental capacity to understand what’s going’ on in the world, that it?”
“Jayzuz, Donleavy…”
“Ya think that no barman has enough education to understand anythin’ greater than a keg, a glass and a pint. Dats what yer sayin’?”
“No. No. No.”
Donleavy raised his hands momentarily from the bar counter as if to go but quickly swung back.
“I would never, ever have thought this of ya JP. Or you Rasher. Or you Mono. But this is blatant bleedin’ discrimination of bar people. It’s bleedin’ disgraceful. It’s bleedin’ disgusting. And it’s not bleedin’ acceptable. It is simply not acceptable.”
Donleavy did relinquish his hold on the bar counter on this occasion and turned his back on our three friends and began to walk up the bar. JP was shellshocked. The two goldfish were gasping with a huge deficit of oxygen. A couple of steps up the bar, Donleavy turned around and walked back. The three amigos almost cowered as they waited upon the next onslaught. Donleavy playfully punched each one in turn on the soft part of the shoulder. The barman grinned from one ear right across to the other ear.
“Had y’all there. Didn’t I?”
There was a tsunami of breath exhaled from the customer side of the bar. It was then replaced by an almost speechless vacuum. The colour had drained from the faces of the three lads and was now only starting to slowly reemerge.
“What the actual f…”
“Where did dat all come from?”
“I think I may have sharted.”
“What was dat all ‘bout?”
Donleavy motioned for them to drink from some of their pint. It was the equivalent action to giving rescue remedy to someone in shock. After a couple of glugs from the pint glasses, some semblance of normality had been restored to JP, Rasher and Mono. To be honest though – there were still some elements of residual shock reverberating around the group. Pre-Donleavy-rant breathing patterns had not been fully restored.
JP probably got his composure back a little quicker than the other two.
“What was dat all ‘bout, Donleavy?”
“Simple lads. I had a couple of Israelis in the bar earlier today. I wanted ya to get a sense of what it was like to talk to ‘em. Anythin’ you say….and I mean anythin’…sun is shinin’ today, pint is nice and cool, traffic is bleedin’ awful, burgers have got smaller in McDonalds, buses are runnin’ late…and they can somehow accuse ya of being antisemitic. Never experienced anythin’ like it. I couldn’t even spell the word semitic before today.”
The three lads finally evened their breathing.
“Well, ya had us good and proper.”
“Definitely over a barrel.”
“….or a keg.”
“Ya took the wind out of me sail and sank me bleedin’ boat so ya did.”
Donleavy lay back against his side of the counter. Drink orders were being sought further down the counter. It was time to leave.
“Just wanted ya to experience wha’ I felt like.”
“Jayzus, Donleavy. Next time keep it to yerself will ya.”
“Yeah. Abso-bloody-lutely keep it to yerself.”
JP called Donleavy back.
“We need a stiffener after that. Give us three Belugas.”
“On the house. Ya deserve that.”
On this occasion – not your usual night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 