JP, Mono and Rasher were nicely relaxed in front of their pints on an uncharacteristically warm and dry evening. Mind you – once they were ensconced at the bar counter in Donleavy’s – it didn’t matter what the weather was doing outside. It could be rain or hail or snow or sunshine, and it would not penetrate into the consciousness once they had equilibrated themselves on their respective barstools in the hallowed drinking emporium. Only one weather event was of any consequence and that was if a meteorological event was so severe as to prohibit their exit from the bar and catalyse a lock-in. Every imbiber’s dream.
There had been the usual sharing of banter and good-natured sledging, poking, mocking, teasing and taunting that constituted friendly engagement. A foreigner had once enquired from our illustrious trio as to what ‘banter’ meant. It had taken then by surprise at first that anyone could ask such a question about such a fundamental social interaction. They each felt it was a bit like asking ‘what is a carrot’. I mean it’s absolutely answerable, but it takes a bit of thinking as to describe something so basic in an accurate fashion. JP, as always, pulled them out of the quandary. His dissertation went like this: Imagine the following – I say something mildly insulting to you. You do not take offence but say something slightly more insulting to me. I do not take offence and counter in the offence rally. We keep on going like this until we give and accept the signal to mutually agree to call it a draw. All of this needing to be done with a tone of voice that clearly indicates that the insults are not meant. The foreigner was perplexed. He was also warned not to try it – unless you have been born into this environment it can go horribly wrong and risk being physically harmed. JP wondered at the time whether there was a police statistic for assaults on foreign nationals under the heading ‘Banter Failure’. Hmmm!
After they had given the signal to Donleavy to deliver another round of pints and felt confident that the glasses could be filled without the keg running out and causing an interruption to the supply chain – they felt a level of confidence in draining their pint glasses. Typically it was an absolute no-no to sit in front of an empty glass unless it was at the night’s end but with the knowledge that they could see their next wave of incoming pints filled at the tap then there was only marginal risk that the order would not be fulfilled. Indeed within a very short time Donleavy arrived with his experienced hands cradling the triangle of fresh pints.
“Well lads, what’s the craic?”, Donleavy enquired as he laid out the pints and tidied away the empty glasses.
“Divil a bit.”
“Nothin’ new.”
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
They all nodded sagely for a moment.
“Funny ol’ world.”
Donleavy left this as his parting statement. It was rhetorical. It was understood. He glided smoothly back up behind the counter with the effortless movement of someone half his size.
But Donleavy had unknowingly left a seed to germinate. JP gave the subliminal signal that the synchronous visit to the fresh pints was to commence. Three arms reached out and with three exact arc trajectories that even NASA would not be able to detect differences – equi-aliquots were consumed, and exact return trajectories were executed. Poetry in motion. JP wiped his lips with the back of his hand and decided to engage his compatriots in conversation that was a little more highbrow in nature.
“Jayzus lads. I’ve been readin’ ‘Animal Farm’. Nearly finished.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher spoke first.
“Surprised a person of your great intellect has never read it, JP. I’ll tell ya somethin’ for nothin’. That Napoleon is a right ol’ bollix.”
Mono wasn’t to be left behind in showing that he also had read it.
“Yeah. He wasn’t long in givin’ Snowball the heave-ho. And anyone else who stood in his way. A real shite artist.”
They all clinked glasses to toast their communal knowledge of the subject.
“All pint drinkers are equal.”
They paused for dramatic effect.
“….but some pint drinkers are more equal than others.”
They had a guffaw on this one and clinked glasses again.
It was time to go back to the pint glasses to celebrate this shared memory. After a few utterings of satisfaction, it was time to address the heady topics again.
“Donleavy is right though. There are too many shitehawks in power today.”
They nodded.
“And not just politicians. Now we’ve got businessmen shitehawks that can feck us all over as well.”
They nodded and tutted.
“And some shitehawk politicians are shitehawk businessmen as well.”
They nodded and tut-tutted.
JP reached out and started to turn his pint glass around slowly on it’s beermat. This seemed to be a signal to the other two and within moments there was synchronous glass turning going on. When the exercise was finished it was interesting to note that all three glasses had finished up with the logo on the glass perfectly positioned towards its drinking companion. Precision personified. Perfect rotation completed. Beermats equidistant from each other to the nearest millimetre. There were various levels of mastery that were being subconsciously demonstrated in Donleavy’s pub.
“Isn’t it funny thou’? Ya bang on about drainin’ the swamp and the masses think yer a shaggin’ Messiah come to lead ‘em, and then ya end up in just a different swamp.”
“Yer feckin’ right, JP. It’s ‘Animal Farm’ over and over again.”
“Too right. There was a shaggin’ time that if ya mentioned Napoleon then people would automatically think Bonaparte. I think we’ve nearly got to a stage where you’ll say Napoleon and people will ask why Boxer had to die.”
They went back to their pints and with another synchronous cycle of imbibing, the volume in each glass dropped another level. Each in their own mind was thinking that after another visit to the glass that it would be prudent to engage Donleavy’s attention for a further round of drinks. No point in taking the risk of potentially sitting in front of an empty glass. That type of anxiety can have a serious detrimental effect and negate the value of a relaxed environment with one’s fellow barroom philosophers. Rasher broke the silence of the individual reveries.
“I don’t shaggin’ get it. Why are people so shaggin’ thick? And I include us in that. Why do so many people vote for these shitehawks?”
As usual JP felt he needed to provide some sort of explanation to his two colleagues.
“I think maybe at heart we all think that a change will be better.”
The explanation was left there for a while. Rasher wasn’t having it, though.
“Jayzus JP, it’s a bit like sayin’ that ya have a pain in your finger but by amputatin’ yer hand it’ll make the pain go away.”
They all had a guffaw over that one.
“Ya could be right.”
“Jayzus, Rasher, maybe you should write yer own ‘Animal Farm’.”
“Feck. Maybe I will.”
“What’ll ya call it.”
Quick as a flash came the answer.
“’Donleavy’s Pub’ of course.”
They all had another guffaw and celebrated with another visit to their pints.
“Hey. Give Napoleon behind the bar there a shout and tell him we need another round of pints here.”
Rasher put a finger in the air.
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 