A February night in Donleavy’s. Neither one thing nor the other. Not Christmas Holiday time. Too far away from Easter. Not really winter. No daffodils peaking their heads up to say it is Spring. Cold but not Arctic. A bit of a meaah really. And the meaah seemed to permeate into the conversation, or lack of it, at the bar counter. JP, Rasher and Mono were seated at their usual stools, at their usual bar counter, nursing their usual pints – but there was something missing. No spark. No mojo. Not even a lot of buttock equilibrating motion. Each stared at the mirror behind the bar seemingly lost in their own individual thoughts. Or maybe just lost. Even the timeframe between synchronous visits to their pint glasses seemed to be getting longer and longer. Donleavy, who would normally be gliding up and down the counter, either fulfilling orders or encouraging banter, was leaning with his back to the register seemingly examining the length, texture and structure of his fingernails. At this moment in time there was probably more noise and activity in the local morgue.
A couple of visits to the pint glasses and it was time for renewal. Mono put his finger in the air, Donleavy stopped nail gazing and fresh glasses were assembled under the tap. There was a fresh air of comfort when our three amigos could see the new inventory being worked upon by Donleavy. Confidence in the supply chain is all important for that continued feeling of well- being. Conversely, only stress and discomfort can result from a fear of an empty glass. And that would be so counter-productive to a relaxed evening out at the bar counter.
The pints arrived. There was just a small timeframe required while the final eddies of cream made their way into their proper home above that sharp black line. Each of the three guys – as per normal – focussed on this piece of beverage magic and followed each small eddy until it found it’s way home. Once separation was confidently complete, the subliminal signal was simultaneously received and synchronous pint drinking ensued. Glasses were returned to beer mats and satisfied sounds emanated from each of the three. Another phase of equilibrium had been achieved.
JP gazed at the rows of spirit bottles in front of the bar mirror from where he typically drew inspiration for conversation content. Tonight, the bottles were not giving up their stimulation easily. If there was a catalyst in there – it was well stoppered. JP sighed. Then, as if from nowhere, a question jumped out.
“Lads – how many phrases do ya know for being a little bit crazy?”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. The look said, ‘where did JP get this from?’, but they were well used to their friend flying solo on various tangents, so it never even occurred them to ask the question regarding the origin of the thought. Just easier to go with the flow.
“Wha’ d’ya mean? Give us an example.”
“Ya know – like ‘a sandwich short of a picnic’ or ‘a few slates missin’ off the roof’”
The two lads were immediately in the groove. This was simple territory.
“A screw loose.”
“Not the sharpest tool in the box.”
They smiled because they knew there was lots more phrases just sitting on the frontal lobe waiting for warp speed travel to the tongue.
“Gone off the reservation.”
“Doolally.”
“A few cards short of a full deck.”
They went back to a synchronous visit to their pint glasses. Good to lubricate the vocal cords – this could be fertile ground for another few rounds of brainstorming.
There was a slight pause while they savoured the different taste elements of what they had just consumed. Then it was full action again.
“Bonkers.”
“Bungalow.”
“Batty.”
They had a little laugh that the last round were all ‘B’s. They briefly toyed with going through the alphabet and seeing could they populate the whole alphabet, but they quickly agreed that the exercise could develop into force-fitting and destroy the quality of the outcome. Off they went again.
“Touched.”
“Wacko.”
“Cracked.”
This was almost too easy. There was no delay or let up with the contributions.
“Off the rails.”
“Gone off the deep end.”
“Round the bend.”
They needed to get back to a synchronous imbibing cycle. This was thirsty work. The break also allowed for a continuity of suggestions.
“Loony Tunes.”
“A few fries short of a Happy Meal.”
“Out to lunch.”
While they could have kept going like this until Donleavy called ‘Time’, Rasher became insanely curious as to why they ended up on this path and put his oar in to stem the flow.
“What’s all yer interest in nutjob phrases anyway, JP? Where’s all this comin’ from?”
JP gave out another subliminal signal for a return to the pint glass. He often did this when asked a pointed question. It was his way of both preparing the question and preparing the audience for the response. A practise honed over thousands of pint glass contents. He paused after the glasses had been returned to the counter.
“Well lads, it’s as simple as this. Ya can’t identify the crazies anymore.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. It was clear that JP was going to expound further so they felt no requirement for a clarification question.
“D’ya ‘member how ya used to know if someone was a bit doolally? They’d be goin’ ‘round talkin’ to themselves. And when mobile phones came out first, ya used to get a bit confused but then ya saw the phone and ya took the person back out of the batshit crazy category.”
They nodded. They were with him on this one. JP kept going.
“But now. The phone is in the pocket. The ear pods aren’t even visible without ya being close enough to kiss ‘em on the cheek. And there they all are – hundreds of them – walking around talkin’ to themselves. Sometimes ya even think they’re talkin’ to you. I mean – what shaggin’ chance have ya got to pick out the ones who are livin’ in another dimension. Not bleedin’ possible.”
Time for another visit to the pint glass and let all this ring around the neurons. Modern living certainly had its challenges. Do doubt about that.
Mono thought long and hard about all this before he offered his contribution.
“Hey. I bet ya anything. Anything ya want. I bet ya Donleavy could spot a Loony Tune at a thousand paces.”
They guffawed at that one.
“Whatever ya do – don’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’d say tonight, he doesn’t need a thousand paces. He’d say the three of us are right in front of him.”
Another round of guffaws.
“Why don’t we give Donleavy the nod and go get a battered cod and chips?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Let’s see how many wackos we meet on the way to the chipper.”
They made their way to the exit.
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 