It’s November. It’s after the US elections. It’s a Monday night. ‘Donleavy’s’ crowd is very light. Actually, crowd would be a very inappropriate word. It’s a minuscule gathering. November is that month where people save up their money and their time so that they can do the complete dog on it during December. It’s like doing a race with twelve laps of the track where they hold back on lap eleven so that they can let loose with a sprint finish on lap twelve. JP, Mono and Rasher typically run a different race. One where every lap is consistent with that which went before and with that which will come after. Reliable. Repeatable. Consistent. They were hardened experienced athletes in the gymnasium of pint- drinking. So, it resulted in our three amigos taking their time-honoured places on their stools at the bar counter. Always in the same order – Rasher – JP – Mono. They were currently waiting on their pints to settle. Pint number two of the evening. Some would call it the champion pint of the evening. Pint number one to quell the thirst and the desire, to be followed by pint number two which can be savoured and attended to and relished.
With a barely perceptible nod, JP gave an almost subliminal signal that resulted in each of our amigos reaching for their pint at exactly the same time; drinking the exact same quantity and for the same duration; and returning the pint glasses at exactly the same time. These imbibers were more than athletes – they were pub Olympians. Unparalleled champions of synchronised pint drinking – these guys had well surpassed the 10,000 hours of mastery. They had morphed into legends.
One area that was fully individual was the choice of exhalation that was selected after the completion of the aliquot swallowing. Some preferred aah, others ooh and often repeats and mixes. And this was further inconsistent in the fact that an ooh-man tonight could be an aah-man tomorrow night. Selection was wonderfully random and individual and dependant on a myriad of parameters too complex to address here.
JP stared at the bottles of spirits behind the counter which was his wont when he was looking for inspiration for conversation topics. Sometimes the story of the bottles themselves gave up an inspirational topic; sometimes just the quiet focus threw something up. Tonight, it seemed to be the latter.
“Lads, were ya followin’ the US election?”
A couple of nods bade him continue.
“Wha’ kind of a bleedin’ circus has it all become?”
More nodding.
Mono took it up then.
“Worse than a bleedin’ circus. Circus is just fun and laughs and everyone joinin’ together to suspend reality for a while. This is lies and division and crime and suspendin’ reality OK – but bringin’ us to some feckin’ dystopian clusterfuck.”
JP looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at JP.
“Jayzus, Mono. Did ya swallow a bleedin’ dictionary. A dis what? Two pin wha’?”
“Can ya even say swallow a dictionary anymore? Do ya now have to say somethin’ like – did ya get interfaced with an electronic language resource application?”
They had a guffaw over that and went back to their pints for another Olympian demonstration of synchronised pint drinking.
When they were resettled and there had been a little buttock re-equilibration, JP took up the topic once more.
“D’ya know lads, I blame TV ads.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Combined shrugs.
Since neither looked for clarification, JP felt obliged to keep going.
“The first time I was in the US, I was gobsmacked with how crap the TV advertisin’ was. Buy OMO cause DAZ is shite. Drive FORD because CHRYSLER is shite. Brush with COLGATE because MACLEANS is shite.”
“Jayzus, yer bang on there, JP. I couldn’t believe it either when I saw ‘em first”
“I mean – for feck sake – advertisin’ wasn’t exactly creative. Just say the other stuff is shite.”
They all nodded in agreement.
“So that’s where it all started – ya didn’t have to prove it was shite or even what colour or texture of shite it was. Ya could just get away with sayin’ it was shite.”
They all nodded in agreement.
“So now – when a presidential candidate lies repeatedly through their bleedin’ teeth – no one in the US notices. It’s a DAZ/OMO thing.”
They all nodded in agreement.
It was time to go back to the well for more sustenance. Each of them reached for their glass. Critically it was also approaching the re-order point. Mono managed to perfectly engage with this latest round of imbibing while also raising a finger in the air to attract Donleavy’s attention. Who says men can’t multitask? Donleavy was already approaching the tap before the pint glasses were returned to the bar counter.
“We’re goin’ to have to realign some definitions or bleedin’ descriptions.”
Mono looked at him for guidance. The conversation was escaping him.
“I mean if ya had have asked me before how a President should carry him or herself – I would have said ‘Senatorial’. Distinguished – like.”
A bit of shaking and nodding – as if there might be alternative descriptions.
“But now the US Senate is a bit more like a bleedin’ circus – so instead of Senatorial conjurin’ up images of refined, concise, honest, reflective, erudite, experienced, trustworthy – the image is more like Krusty the bleedin’ Clown“
They guffawed.
“Hey – if it wasn’t so serious – that would be really funny. Krusty the Clown – speaker of the Senate.”
Each one had his own image of red nose, big red shoes, strange hair pointing in weird directions at the lectern in Capital Hill.
“One thing is for mega-sure….”
“Wha’s tha’, JP?”
“There’s no bleedin’ shortage of Side Show Bobs.”
“Yeah. Ya can whistle tha’.”
“Yeah. I’ll give ya the tune. The tune of The bleedin’ Simpsons.”
They sought solace in their pints. And it went that way for the remainder of the pint. Each seeking some measure of solace in their own thoughts. Trying not to think they were drinking while the world turned inside out, fiddling while Rome burned to its last ember – floating away as a pointless and powerless piece of ash. As they began to approach the latter end of their pint glass, JP decided that it was time to initiate some action.
“Lads, I think we need to do somethin’.”
“Couldn’t agree more, JP.”
“Yeah. Can’t sit idly by anymore, JP”
JP looked from right to left, from Rasher to Mono.
“I’m goin’ suggest somethin’.”
“Go for it.”
“We’re with ya.”
JP gave the nod, and they drained the glasses in one large swallow.
“Will we go for a battered cod and chips?”
“Mighty idea.”
“Give Donleavy the nod, so.”
Just another November night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 