Those days between Christmas and New Year were always good times in Donleavy’s Pub. The fire burned cheerily in the grate. The outside world was shut out behind blackout curtains and doors. There was always a critical mass of warm bodies populating stools and chairs. There was the temporary return of the ex-pats. Even though tradition required people to spend that one public holiday day known as Christmas Day with their families – by the following day it was like a release of the hostages. There was still money being made available – however that happened – to spend on alcohol. Maybe people stopped caring about their delicate financial positions? May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Throw another goldfish to the cat. Whatever the myriad of reasons that found the punters in the warm glow that represented Donleavy’s pub, the clientele were all in good humour – and that made for a good atmosphere all around the pub.
Three bar stools were not available to the casual visitor. These three bar stools were never available to any drinker. That was another accepted tradition. JP, Mono and Rasher had an unwritten but universally accepted lifetime lease on these three bar stools in question. On this particular evening the buttocks of our three amigos were in various states of equilibrium as they occupied the said bar stools and had every intention of maintaining that occupation for a considerable length of time. They too had been released with other hostages and they had every intention of sharing this freedom until Donleavy would later lie about the fact that the police were at the door and enquire whether they actually had any homes to return to. Buttocks equilibrated – the lads were all set for a session. They were ‘out out’.
Donleavy was pirouetting up and down at the back of the bar counter like a man half his size and half his age. The athletic bartender. He was also handling about six orders all together at any one time. The genius bartender. He even had time to engage in some ritual small talk and banter. The social bartender. What a legend. A complete legend.
JP, Mono and Rasher were waiting for that final current of settling to take place in their respective pints. Waiting for that sharp line to appear between the black and the white. When it was the appropriate time, a subliminal message was exchanged that resulted in our three amigos lifting pints at exactly the same time, drinking the same quantities and returning the glasses to beermats at precisely the same moment. Supreme synchronous drinking legends. Complete legends.
There had been very little exchange of words between the lads over the past number of minutes. It was all about comfortable companionship without any rush or urgency. Their silence was very much out of trend with the rest of the pub, but this was of no consequence to them. Eventually JP threw in a starter….
“I think I may have just invented a new phrase.”
The two other lads looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Wouldn’t be the bleedin’ first time.”
“Won’t be the bleedin’ last.”
They went back to their pints for another synchronous visit. Clearly in any normal dynamic the next most obvious line of communication would have been for Rasher or Mono to enquire what was the substance of this new phrase. This would then have been followed by an explanation and a discussion or relative merits and acceptance. However, this engagement did not follow any usual format or custom. More likely Mono and Rasher subconsciously didn’t want to encourage this direction of conversation for fear it would lead to some boring, over-philosophical and mind-numbing places where only JP could find some amusement. Thus, they ignored him.
What was obviously required was some quick diversionary tactic. Rasher was first in.
“I think we should raise a toast to ‘Donleavy’s’. I mean the rest of the known world has gone batshit crazy and here we are in the only sane dominion left on the globe.”
“Too right.”
“To ‘Donleavy’s’. Utopia with kegs and a bleedin’ counter.”
They clinked glasses and reduced the glass volume to precariously close to the re-order point. Mono took up the responsibility and raised a finger in the air to signal to Donleavy that incoming was required. With the pub this busy, the reorder was possibly a bit late for comfort. Heaven forbid that they should be left with an empty glass except at exit time. However, Donleavy was keenly aware of their anxiety and put their order on fill ahead of some other requests. Panic averted. The benefits of a superior barman-customer relationship honed over many years.
While they awaited their fresh pints JP looked first to Mono on his right and then to Rasher on his left.
“It’s funny that ya should mention the catastrophic state of the world.”
The two lads exchanged a glance.
“Because in a way that is wha’ has inspired me new phrase.”
The two lads exchanged a groan. Diversionary tactic unsuccessful.
“It’s a brave new world, isn’t it lads?”
The stereo of groans was meant to work as an answer.
“….and we need new ways of dealin’ with all the madness. Am I right or am I right?”
Reluctant nods of assent. Who knew where this was going to end up?
By this stage pints had arrived and settled, and the subliminal messaging went out that it was appropriate to visit the pint glasses for another exhibition of legendary synchronous pint drinking. Glasses were returned to beer mats and mouths felt the movement of back of hand caress. The world may have been mad outside the confines of Donleavy’s but it was very sane inside. In fact, if only the governments and politicians of the world would just give the nod – there could be most of the problems of that world solved at this very bar counter. JP had settled back and was ready to go again.
“Anti Hibernetic.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Nothing exchanged between the two of them that registered as any form of understanding. The thing now was which of the two would be willing to poke the bear. As it turned out there was no need. JP was going to keep going regardless.
“Tha’s me new phrase.”
Rasher could hold back no longer.
“Jayzus, JP. I have no clue wha’ the hell yer talkin’ ‘bout.”
JP looked at them both in turn.
“It’s bleedin’ brilliant in its simplicity. It’s the magic bleedin’ response to anything. To everyone. In any situation.”
“No idea still wha’ yer talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Yer definitely witherin’ now JP. Y’ave fallen off the edge.”
JP had that contented look on his face that might even be described as an aura. He was positively glowing in their lack of clarity. He gave another subliminal signal to return to the pints. He clearly wanted to drive this moment to a crescendo.
They settled again.
“Like I said. It’s simple lads. Whoever says anything to ya – ya just accuse them of being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer lyin’ – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer dishonest – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer aggressive – – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya the dog had pups – – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. I’m tellin’ ya – it’s the way to go – the way forward – don’t know why it took me so long to realise this. It’s a shaggin’ ‘get out jail free’ card.”
The two lads were still scratching their heads.
“Trust me on this one lads. Just practise it a few times. I guarantee ya it’ll be like livin’ a Teflon life.”
Mono and Rasher weren’t one hundred percent convinced. JP went to the well again.
“I tell ya wha’. We’ll go to the chipper and try a few practise runs there.”
“Hey. Now yer talkin’. Battered cod and chips.”
“Or maybe a battered sausage?”
“Give Donleavy the nod.”
They slipped off barstools and with a wave of the hand made their way through the still bustling patrons.
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 