SKINHEADS

The weather was trying valiantly to push the dial setting that said ‘winter’ to as close as possible to the setting that welcomed ‘spring’. It was still very unpredictable with bitter cold east or north winds being swapped intermittently by southwest less cold winds. Rain was also a bit of a lottery. Blue sky this hour being quickly chased away by grey downpours. Daffodils were doing their able best to shoot out a yellow harbinger of better times to come, but seemed to have their green mouths continuously locked shut in the face of meteorological challenges. Truth be known – our three warriors – JP, Rasher and Mono couldn’t, at this moment, give a hoot about the weather. They were comfortably ensconced in the convivial and warm atmosphere that made up Donleavy’s pub. They were arranged in their usual format on their usual barstools with their usual order of pints in front of them. After that, all consideration to barometric pressure, precipitation, wind speed and direction, cloud type and dispersal, El Nino, El Nina, Coriolis effect, Gulf stream, North Atlantic Drift, Polar currents and the need or not for an umbrella – really didn’t matter a damn. The lads were happy and content. The pints were good. Donleavy was attentive. The conversation was interesting. Shoulders were relaxed. All good.

JP stared into the bar mirror that ran the whole length of the shelving where the spirit bottles were arranged. Donleavy was a collector. There was arranged the most eclectic set of spirits from all over the world, the vast majority of which would never get opened and tasted. That didn’t seem to matter to Donleavy. I guess it’s the same with stamp collectors – they don’t necessarily need to have the stamp used for postage. Or coin collectors – the metal that will never end up in a cash register. Still – JP thought it strange. On the very odd occasion, Donleavy would have opened up a bottle with JP, Mono and Rasher – his favourite and most faithful customers – and enlivened an evening with a new taste experience. But mostly they just stood there like a line of soldiers guarding the bar mirror.  For JP the bottles often served as an inspiration for a new topic of conversation. A bottle of limoncello might serve as a catalyst to talk about something Italian in the news or Metaxa, an event in Greece. Cachaca might result in moving something about the Brazilian soccer team while Stolen Rum or 42 Below might trigger something about the All-Blacks rugby team. There were oodles of conversation openers hiding behind each cork or screw cap.

Tonight JP’s attention was drawn to a bottle of Old Punk Whiskey. It immediately got him thinking.

              “Hey lads. Wha’s the difference between a skinhead and a punk.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They were well used to JP just throwing out topics of conversation from left field. Well – as used to as you can get when conversation in the pub is a continual almost disbelief as to what could come out next.

              “Well JP. Shaved head versus mohawk for a start.”

Rasher then added his bit.

              “And I guess Doc Martens versus safety pins.”

Mono had had time to think.

              “And maybe ska versus pogo-ing.”

JP absorbed all this in his usual contemplative way. It was time to revisit the pint glass and that allowed further time for musing about the contributions. A subliminal signal had gone out, and each arm approached the glass and with perfect synchronicity an aliquot was removed from each glass and three pints returned to their respective beer mats at exactly the same time. A wondrous exercise in imbibing harmony. Sheer class.

When suitable sounds of satisfaction had been completed and a small element of buttock re-equilibration completed, Mono felt compelled to enquire as to the nature and origin of the questions.

              “Wha’ the feck put tha’ into yer mind, JP?”

JP took some time to respond.

              “Well the haircut thing is interestin’.”

The two lads waited for further elaboration, but none was forthcoming. This was often JP’s style to throw out a taste of a conversation starter to entice towards the main course. Rasher was the first one to get hungry.

              “And wha’s so bleedin’ interestin’ ‘bout the haircut, if yer don’t mind be askin’?”

JP sucked in a deep breath.

              “Ya can’t tell the difference anymore.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Between a skinhead and a punk? Between shaved and mohawk? Are ya out of yer tiny mind now, JP. If ya can’t tell the difference, then it’s definitely time yer were goin’ for a set of goggles.”

Rasher had a guffaw at that. No doubt picturing how JP would look in a pair of bottle end goggles.

JP took it all in his stride.

              “Nah. I was more thinkin’ of the skinhead tight cut.”

With nothing more emanating, Rasher looked for the next level of interaction.

              “Wha’ about it?”

JP was quicker this time.

              “Well when we were younger, ya were always afraid of a skinhead. Ya were always unsure if ya were goin’ to get a kickin’ from his Doc Martens. Isn’t that right?”

Clearly each of them preserved a memory of those times. They nodded. JP kept going.

              “If ya saw a group of them at a street corner – and they always seemed to congregate at street corners. D’ya ‘member? They were even called corner boys. Or bovver boys. If ya saw a group, ya’d cross to the other side of the road and quicken yer step. D’ya ‘member?”

You could tell from the reaction that they absolutely did remember. Perhaps remembering the bother that was inflicted on them from such bovver boys when crossing to the other side of the street didn’t have the evasive result that the action was intended to deliver.  The conversation went quiet momentarily while each of them probably remembered some scars and bruises that may have been the consequence of unequal pairings.

After another pause Rasher became more curious.

              “So wha’ the hell brought all this into yer mind, JP?”

JP allowed for another collective visit to the pint glasses before giving his considered response.

              “Well I was thinkin’. They’re all the bleedin’ same now aren’t they? The haircuts. They’re all shaved up like skinheads. The nice guys and the thugs. All the same. How the shaggin’ hell do ya know who ya need to avoid and cross to the other side of the road? It’s not shaggin’ easy.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. He had a point. It was certainly an additional challenge in this modern world. They collectively ruminated over this for a while. Eventually Mono broke the reveries.

              “Let’s drink to simpler bleedin’ times.”

They clinked their glasses and drained their pints.

              “Now let’s go to the chipper for a battered cod and chips.”

              “Yeah, battered in flour, not by a Doc Marten.”

              “Too right.”

              “Give Donleavy the nod there.”

They exited with purpose.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.