ALL THE WORLD’S A CIRCUS

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.         

NOSTALGIA AIN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE.

The three lads – JP, Mono and Rasher – were well into their second pint. In fact, it would very soon reach that critical re-order point. There is an imaginary line on the pint glass at about the 25% fill level where once the contents went below – this triggered a finger in the air and Donleavy would pick up the order for fresh incoming. Naturally each glass hit this mark at the same time because these lads are the Olympic Champions – the gold standard – at synchronous pint drinking. This re-order mechanism has been honed into a fine art – nay a science – over many, many years and is significantly more sophisticated than any automated feedback loop within the most high-tech engineered device could offer. This is way beyond mastery – this is majesty.

The triggered arrived and Rasher casually raised the re-order signal. No rushed operations here. Everyone knew their part in the play. Donleavy gave a barely perceptible nod of the head and commenced the sequence of pint-pulling. All was good with the world. Everyone knew their place, their function, and their value. JP let out a contended sigh as he scanned the array of alcohol bottles on the bar counter. Donleavy was a collector of drinks and spirit, and JP often found his inspiration for conversation within that collection.

              “Jayzus lads. D’ya see that bottle of ‘Madison’? Feck me – that’s goin’ back a bit.”

              “Jayzus, yer right. I went out with a bird once who only drank Brandy and Madison. She poured them into herself like a siphon. Nearly bankrupted me.”

              “Feck. I hope she was worth it.”

              “Not a bit. I was glad when she ditched me. And me bank balance was delighted.”

They went back to the reflective silence where each spun their own thoughts. JP again broke in.

              “What is it with nostalgia, eh? What makes us spend so much time thinkin’ back rather than plannin’ forward?”

              “Hey. Nostalgia aint what it used to be.”

              “Feck sake Mono – you could come up with something more original than that, couldn’t ya?”

              “Ah – all the ol’ ones are best. Isn’t that exactly what JP is sayin’?”

              “S’pose yer right.”

The new pints had arrived. Donleavy laid them reverently in front of each of them in his classic detailed fashion – on beer mats equidistant from customer and bar counter edge, glass emblem facing the customer, pints generously spaced from each other and – naturally – an absolutely equal size of creamy head on each pint. There was a poetry associated with even this small act of presenting the pints to our three amigos. It was also the time for some ‘Smalltalk’ with the barman should his level of activity behind the bar counter facilitate such interaction.

              “Alrigh’ Donleavy?”

              “Mustard lads. And yerselves?”

              “Grand.”

              “Mighty altogether.”

              “Deadly.”

There was a brief interlude. JP was in again.

              “What do you think about when you look back in time, Donleavy?”

There was hardly a second passed before Donleavy’s reply. He was always quick on the uptake and quick on the response. Maybe it was a barman thing. Guess it had to be quick fire engagement before the next customer required his services.

              “F-troop. Batman. The Man from Uncle. Flipper. The Brady’s. The Monkees. The Saint. Time Tunnel. Thunderbirds. Paulus the Wood gnome. Wanderley Wagon. How ‘bout tha’?”

The three lads visibly say back further on their stools.

              “Jayzus Donleavy. You liked yer TV as a kid.”

              “Not much else to do when yer livin’ over a pub as a kid.”

              “Some great stuff there, thou’.”

              “Magic 102. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

              “Ya can whistle that.”

              “You betcha. Ya don’t even need to give me a tune.”

With that Donleavy’s drinking emporium services were required elsewhere along the bar counter. JP and his two lieutenants were left to their individual musings. JP looked to the left and then to the right and then addressed the two lads.

              “So – just out of interest here – wha’ did ya feel when Donleavy rattled off all them TV shows.”

              “Ah, come on JP. Yer not goin’ to go into this amateur psychologist mode, are ya? This is a barstool, not a bleedin’ couch. Wha’ the hell. Next thing yer goin’ ask me is whether I feel it in my heart or my brain or my gut. Well I’ll tell ya where I feel it, alright.  And it’s none of them bleedin’ places.”

JP waited for the wave to settle before he pushed his surfboard back into the calm waters.

              “Wha’ were ya sayin’ to yerself, Mono?”

              “I dunno JP. I guess it brought me back. Brought me back to a time when I felt good. When I didn’t know any better. When I didn’t know about all the shite that was comin’ down the track.”

JP and Rasher let that percolate for a while.

              “So we get some feelin’ of comfort when we look back, is tha’ it?”

              “Feck it JP. Hold the shaggin’ pony. Yer beginnin’ so sound like a bleedin’ psychiatrist again. None of this couch shite. Ya know the bar talk rules. Ya should know better.”

              “I’m just curious. That’s all. Not a hangin’ offence to be curious, is it?”

There was a longer silence this time. Whether he had meant it or not, JP had broken into a vein of reflection that kept them each with their individual thoughts. Admittedly there was a couple of synchronous visits to the pint glass – but that was only to increase the clarity of the musings. Mono looked to each of them in turn to get some signal whether it was OK to continue this train of conversation. The body language gave no warning signs, no objections.

              “There’s a lot of shite in the past too.”

They both nodded.

              “Too true.”

              “Buckets of it.”

Mono felt he was still all right to keep going.

              “….and maybe….and I’m sayin’ just maybe….the good bits….the nostalgia stuff….maybe that’s a way of coverin’ over the shite. Sayin’ – I’m OK. I have the scars on me bleedin’ back but I can still prefer to talk ‘bout the good stuff.”

Rasher looked at JP. JP looked at Rasher. JP went for it.

              “Jayzus. Mono. That’s probably the deepest thing ya’ve ever said at this bar counter. We’ll have to call ya Professor Mono from now on. I’m tellin’ ya. Ya wouldn’t hear the likes of tha’ inside the walls of the university. Ya should be in there with all the other intellectuals.”

              “Ah – feck off.”

              “Nah. I’m serious. Ya very probably nailed somethin’ there. Proud of ya, kid.”

Mono looked around. Embarrassed. He didn’t know whether they were pulling the piss or actually praising him. He had got caught out in situations like this many times before. Softened up before the barb was planted deep in the flesh. He decided the best thing was to say nothing. Stay stum. Let them on with it. And silence did reign for quite an exaggerated length of time. But – as always – JP took it on himself to bring the conversation to heel.

              “Hey Rasher, get Donleavy’s attention there.”

Rasher did as requested with the fully understood signal. Three more pints would be arriving soon.

They drained their pints. That was a safe enough action as they knew the incoming would be imminent.

              “I’m going to suggest a toast when the pints arrive lads.”

Damn, thought Mono. This is where JP is going to pike it into me. Mono steeled himself for the attack.

              “I’m going to propose a toast. To the future. And everything good. Because when it arrives and goes past – we’re going to block out the shite anyway.”

The other two lads looked at each other.

              “Brilliant.”

              “Yeah. Mighty.”

              “I think ya’d make paupers of all the therapists and ‘ologists but…. feck ‘em anyway.”

The pints arrived. They raised their glasses. They clinked. They had a way forward.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

9/11 and Soccer Hooligans

The background information should read that the sun would be shining and that the protagonists were dressed in shorts and t-shirts and had taken refuge in a bar from the intense heat and were taking a drink while wiping films of sweat from their forehead and eyebrows. But the ‘summer weather’ was not playing to the script. The ‘summer weather’ was ad-libbing. And this ad-lib approach forced the protagonists to swap out shorts for jeans and for fleeces to cover up the t-shirts. What is more – baseball caps sat on the bar counter – not to shield eyes from the sun but to protect heads from the rain.

         “Jayzus lads, wha’ the hell happened summer?”

         “Bleedin’ ridiculous.”

         “I thought global warmin’ was supposed to make the summers hotter?”

         “Well, that’s wha’ the boffins keep sayin’.”

         “Well bring one of them bleedin’ boffins round here for a pint and let him look out the bleedin’ door.”

In truth – if a boffin had have looked out of the door, he or she would have seen grey clouds, driving rain, and would have heard wind swirling through the power lines. JP, Rasher and Mono were not happy bunnies – not by a long shot. They took some comfort in initiating the drinking from their recently settled pints. This was an area where they exhibited unparalleled patience. The separation of black and white in the pint glass was always an unhurried, relaxed process. There should never be any doubt that full separation had been achieved. There was very probably more intense focus placed on this than any separation that had ever been followed in a NASA control centre. Glasses were returned to beermats in perfectly synchronised harmony and expressions of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ proclaimed a sense of relaxation that at least partially made up for the pissy weather outside. They stayed in this relaxed zone for quite some time before JP, as often was the case, threw in the first comment for discussion, debate, or consideration.

         “Talkin’ ‘bout weather. I went to the Springsteen concert in the Park recently and it pissed on everyone from a great height.”

         “Jayzus, even ‘The Boss’ couldn’t do a ‘hello sunshine’ on it.”

         “Bit of a ‘Thunder Road, wha’?”

         “Apart from the weather – was it any good?”

         “Bleedin’ brilliant. Whatever ‘Jelly Babies’ he’s eatin’, I want a few packets. I can hardly get up an’ down off me barstool, and he’s bleedin’ bouncin’ up and down off the stage.”

         “What age is he?”

         “74.”

         “Feck!”

They went back to the well of their pints, no doubt wondering how they were going to operate when mid-seventies caught up on them. JP once again initiated a discourse.

         “There was one thing pissed me off though….”

         “Ya mean apart from being pissed on by the weather?”

         “Or being shown up by a geriatric singer?”

JP shot them both a look which, as he was flanked on either side, involved a slow head turn accompanied by disdainful, facial features. Mono and Rasher enjoyed the intended rebuke. It was part of the game and the more serious the face – the better it felt that the comment was landing appropriately.

         “Me bleedin’ bottle top.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

         “Ya’ve lost me.”

         “Yep. I’m a sad tailor too. Lost the thread completely.”

JP looked from one to the other again – this time in a more conciliatory way.

         “When I was goin’ into de stadium, a young one wouldn’t let me keep me bottle top. Made me take the top off me water bottle.”

         “What the feck…”

         “Did she think ya were goin’ skull Spingsteen with yer bottle of water?”

         “Yeah – that’s a pain in the arse tryin’ to mind a bottle with no top.”

         “I said to her – ‘this isn’t a soccer match love, it’s a concert’. But she just said – ‘health and safety’.”

         “Jayzus, if ya can’t mind yer own water – no one’s carin’ ‘bout yer health and safety.”

         “Too right.”

         “Bleedin’ soccer hooligans started all this shite.”

         “Yeah – man can’t drink a bottle of bleedin’ water in peace at his own pace.”

They nodded in unison. A moment of agreement and harmony.

JP made the slightest of moves and it catalysed two other arms to join another sense of complete harmony. Another visit to the pint glasses. Another synchronous imbibing of equi-volumes followed by the return of glasses to beer mats within milliseconds of each other. Oh – if they would only add ‘Synchronised Pint Drinking’ to the Olympic slate. Well – they already have synchronised swimming and silly things like walking and breakdancing. So – ‘Synchronised Pint Drinking’ wouldn’t really be that weird. Would it? I digress. JP was just about to pitch in again.

         “And if the bleedin’ soccer hooligans ruined every outdoor event – well 9/11 ruined air travel forever.”

         “How so?”

Mono was frothing at the mouth to have his say on this one.

         “Yer right. Yer right. Yer right. I was in The States just before 9/11. I couldn’t get over the airports out there. Most of them operated like bus stations. You could rock on up and just buy a ticket. No messin’ with bookin’ months in advance. No security checks. Ya’d be standing at McDonalds waiting for your burger with the pilot and ya’d walk back together and he’d let ya sit in his pilot’s seat for a gander. Ya’d think yer were gettin’ a Greyhound bus rather than a United aeroplane.”

“And now look at it.”

“Yeah. I’ve seen cattle steered into the crush who are treated better than passengers goin’ through security checks.”

“Yeah. And they have all these signs up sayin’ if ya even look crooked at the staff that they’ll taser ya on the spot.”

         “….and they recommend y’arrive three hours beforehand….and that’s after you’ve parked the car.”

         “Yeah. Sometimes yer longer on the bleedin’ airport campus that ya are in the air. It’s bleedin’ ridiculous.”

Another moment of harmony for our three amigos as they bemoaned the death of reasonable air travel. But there were much more serious issues at hand. With all the passionate sharing of air travel experiences, the volume in respective glasses had dropped below the critical re-order point. Rasher noticed it first and swiftly raised a finger towards the heavens, a gesture that was picked up by Donleavy quicker than a satellite could bounce a signal from its orbit. And before a satellite could even contemplate a revolution, Donleavy was pouring the fresh incoming order. Potential panic had been averted. A fresh complement of creamy pints was soon to be placed in front of the three lads. Normal service would soon be resumed.

Just your usual night in Donleavy’s.

DONLEAVY CALLS IT OUT

JP was nicely settled it, flanked by his trusted compatriots Rasher and Mono. He had a settled pint in front of him, he had done the buttock equilibrating moves on the barstool and he had found a comfortable resting place for his elbows. He was eyeing the pint with a sense of great expectation. He had been looking forward to this for most of the day. With an almost imperceptible nod, the signal was given for the synchronised pint drinking to begin. Three arms went out in unison, cradled a pint glass and an equi-volume of alcohol was consumed in exactly the same timeframe down to fractions of a second. Glasses were returned to the counter. This was seasoned drinking being portrayed at its very best. Variation was only allowed in the satisfied ‘umhs’ and ‘ahhs’ that emanated from that section of the bar counter.

They had drink in front of them. The weather was warm outside and there was a nice coolness here at the bar counter. The bar wasn’t too full, so the noise was at a minimum. You could hear yourself think and hear what your amigo beside you was saying. Life was good. The body was relaxed, and stress had been refused entry at the doorway. Breathing was deeper and slower. Life didn’t get much better than this. Yes, indeed. This must be what they were all talking about when they were mouthing on about self-care and resilience. Pints in Donleavy’s. Better than anything.

JP stared at the array of spirit bottles that lined the front of the bar mirror that ran the whole length of the counter. It was where he often found his inspiration for the scintillating conversation topics that sprinkled their visits to this drinking emporium. His gaze momentarily rested on a bottle of Beluga Noble Vodka promoted as being made from fresh water from Siberian springs. He often wondered from where Donleavy got all the different bottles and did anyone ever drink any of them. In all of his time drinking in Donleavy’s he couldn’t recall anyone coming to the bar counter and saying ‘give me three shots of your finest Russian Beluga Noble Vodka. And one for yourself noble barperson’. Nope. Certainly couldn’t recall anything like that.

Anyway, that was a digression. It was time to open the deep and meaningful discussion that characterised our trio’s reputation at the bar counter (apart from Olympic standard synchronised drinking – obviously).

        “Ya watchin’ the news these days lads?”

        “’Gainst me better judgement.”

        “World has got its knickers in a complete twist. Stranglin’ the balls off itself.”

        “Complete clusterfuck.”

These statements were allowed to stew and percolate for a while, to concentrate and enrich, to meander around the neurons.

        “Bleedin’ Russians. Bleedin’ Hamas. Bleedin’ Israelis. Bleedin’ geriatric Americans.”

A pause.

        “Was it always this way, lads? Was there always as many bleedin’ fringe lunatics at the top of the political heap.”

        “I think there may have been. Remember – we’ve had our own rep in that sales team.”

        “Yeah.”

        “Right.”

        “We get what we deserve.”

They went back to the well of alcohol for further sustenance. After the usual imbibing and some optimising seating re-equilibrating, discourse continued.

        “How does it bleedin’ happen? How do the knobends garner so much support?”

        “Yeah. How come there aint a reaction to call out the fuckwits….as well….what they are….fuckwits?”

        “The silent majority, I suppose.”

They let that sink in. They also let another visit to the pint glass sink in. It was conceivable now that remaining glass volumes could be approaching the critical reorder point level. Never, under any circumstances, should a pint glass go empty unless there was another incoming nestling beside it. Except at the end of the pub visit obviously. Otherwise, we’d be here all night (would that be so bad?) or there would be alcohol wasted (outrageous thought when there is so much focus on conservation). Donleavy was politely summoned with the age-old practice of the finger in the air. No – not that finger, silly. That’s the one reserved for other drivers. The next drink ordering finger. In fact, it’s not quite correct to label it as a summoning finger – well not in the traditional travel sense – it is more correct to think of it as a call to action. Because Donleavy didn’t need to walk down to our three amigos. No – he knew exactly what was required and set about his labour of love in a prompt and efficient fashion.

It was only some moments later that Donleavy made an intimate appearance holding a triangle of three pints in his well-practiced hands. With a deft skill he placed the triangle on the bar counter and with a magician’s swish of the hand he replaced each glass on the coaster with its full counterpart. Mastery.

        “Thanks Donleavy.”

        “Fair Play.”

        “Good on ya.”

The barman pushed his hands on the bar counter and stretched himself back. This was the signal that a few additional words could be absorbed within his busy work schedule. These moments didn’t last long, his attention could be required at the drop of a hat, at the raising of a distant finger, at the arrival of new communicants – so it was critical to engage the conversation as sprightly as possible. JP was well practiced in this type of rendezvous approach.

        “Ya been followin’ the news, Donleavy?”

Donleavy pushed back against the bar.

        “What news exactly?”

The response was a mite more terse that JP or the other two lads expected. There was a slight delay as JP looked around and took up his usual role as spokesperson.

        “Well….ya know…Ukraine, Gaza, Convict Trump….d’usual.”

Donleavy rocked a little on the bar counter.

        “Wha’? Ya think that just because I’m a bleedin’ barman that I don’t understand the news, that it?”

There was a grit in the words that the lads had never heard from Donleavy in all their years separated by the counter. Again, it lay with JP to respond. The other two guys were sitting there with their mouths open like goldfish breathing in a bowl.

        “No. No. Not at all. D’opposite in fact. We were just interested in yer take on things.”

Donleavy rocked a little more vigorously.

        “Me take on things. Me take on things. Ya think that just because I spend my time pullin’ pints that I’m as thick as three planks nailed together. That it?”

JP was nearly hyperventilating at this point. The goldfish on either side of him were being starved of oxygen. What was happening here?

        “Jayzus, Donleavy. Steady on…no-one said anythin’ like…”

        “Steady on. Steady on. Ya sit on d’other side of the bar and ya tell me to steady on. Ya think that barmen haven’t the bleedin’ mental capacity to understand what’s going’ on in the world, that it?”

        “Jayzuz, Donleavy…”

        “Ya think that no barman has enough education to understand anythin’ greater than a keg, a glass and a pint. Dats what yer sayin’?”

        “No. No. No.”

Donleavy raised his hands momentarily from the bar counter as if to go but quickly swung back.

        “I would never, ever have thought this of ya JP. Or you Rasher. Or you Mono. But this is blatant bleedin’ discrimination of bar people. It’s bleedin’ disgraceful. It’s bleedin’ disgusting. And it’s not bleedin’ acceptable. It is simply not acceptable.”

Donleavy did relinquish his hold on the bar counter on this occasion and turned his back on our three friends and began to walk up the bar. JP was shellshocked. The two goldfish were gasping with a huge deficit of oxygen. A couple of steps up the bar, Donleavy turned around and walked back. The three amigos almost cowered as they waited upon the next onslaught. Donleavy playfully punched each one in turn on the soft part of the shoulder. The barman grinned from one ear right across to the other ear.     

        “Had y’all there. Didn’t I?”

There was a tsunami of breath exhaled from the customer side of the bar. It was then replaced by an almost speechless vacuum. The colour had drained from the faces of the three lads and was now only starting to slowly reemerge.

        “What the actual f…”

        “Where did dat all come from?”

        “I think I may have sharted.”

        “What was dat all ‘bout?”

Donleavy motioned for them to drink from some of their pint. It was the equivalent action to giving rescue remedy to someone in shock. After a couple of glugs from the pint glasses, some semblance of normality had been restored to JP, Rasher and Mono. To be honest though – there were still some elements of residual shock reverberating around the group. Pre-Donleavy-rant breathing patterns had not been fully restored.

        JP probably got his composure back a little quicker than the other two.

        “What was dat all ‘bout, Donleavy?”

        “Simple lads. I had a couple of Israelis in the bar earlier today. I wanted ya to get a sense of what it was like to talk to ‘em. Anythin’ you say….and I mean anythin’…sun is shinin’ today, pint is nice and cool, traffic is bleedin’ awful, burgers have got smaller in McDonalds, buses are runnin’ late…and they can somehow accuse ya of being antisemitic. Never experienced anythin’ like it. I couldn’t even spell the word semitic before today.”

The three lads finally evened their breathing.

        “Well, ya had us good and proper.”

        “Definitely over a barrel.”

        “….or a keg.”

“Ya took the wind out of me sail and sank me bleedin’ boat so ya did.”

Donleavy lay back against his side of the counter. Drink orders were being sought further down the counter. It was time to leave.

        “Just wanted ya to experience wha’ I felt like.”

        “Jayzus, Donleavy. Next time keep it to yerself will ya.”

        “Yeah. Abso-bloody-lutely keep it to yerself.”

JP called Donleavy back.

        “We need a stiffener after that. Give us three Belugas.”

        “On the house. Ya deserve that.”

On this occasion – not your usual night in Donleavy’s.

ON THE SPECTRUM

It was another cold night outside the door of Donleavy’s pub. The three lads were very happy they were inside. The air inside Donleavy’s was warm and cosy. The pints were cold. You’d imagine the whole mixture shouldn’t work. But it did. Worked very well.

Outside, winter was doings it’s able best to move into Spring. It had allowed some daffodils to open their vivid yellow heads. It had added a couple of hours of daylight to morning and evening. It had lulled the farmers into ploughing a few fields. But every now and then, it brandished a cutting wind from the north or from the east. A wind that would get into your head, would make your legs feel heavier and would make you aware that your feet could act as low temperature measuring devices. Inside Donleavy’s was a sanctuary from all this. With doors shut, blinds drawn and a real fire burning in the grate – outside could be briefly ignored and temporarily forgotten. All was good with the world in Donleavy’s.

JP, Mono and Rasher were unusually quiet. Not much had passed by way of conversation, interchange, or debate. Each seemed to be content in their own thoughts – or lack of them. As was JP’s wont – he gazed into Donleavy’s array of spirit bottles – alcohol from all over the world – and waited until the muse of imagination, contemplation or conversation infused into him. The volume in each of their pint glasses was getting low, which was a much more critical scenario than any of the deeply philosophical subjects that might ensue. However, the situation was rescued by Rasher, who with a finger in the air, gave the well-understood guidance to Donleavy that further incoming was required. With a request in the order book and the knowledge of the much-admired efficiency of the master barman – the atmosphere relaxed again.

“The spectrum”, that was all that JP uttered.

The other two amigos were well used to this approach. JP would leave something hanging in the wind waiting for one of them to take a hold of it. Rasher and Mono on the other hand would resist for as long as possible giving JP the satisfaction of taking his bait. Eventually one of them would cave in. Tonight, it was Rasher.

“The young fella at home is a dab hand at the Science. Tellin’ me all about IRs and UVs. Is this what yer witherin’ on about, JP?”

JP took another swig from his pint. They all did. JP waited a minute before replying.

“I was actually thinkin’ ‘bout the neurological spectrum.”

“Oooh”, the two lads said in unison. “The neurological spectrum – fancy that.”

“Well, aren’t you the clever clogs all the same. Able to pronounce big words like tha’. I doubt yer Mammy taught ya about neurological spectrums when ya were in the pram suckin’ yer baw-baw.”

JP let all their responses drift over his head. He was thinking of pointing out that the plural of spectrum was spectra but reckoned that would leave him open to further slagging.

JP went at it again.

“Let me tell ya what was in me thinkin’.”

“Go on.”

“We’re all ears.”

Donleavy arrived with pints and there was a brief diversion from the current conversation while discourse on the weather was shared with the barman slash proprietor.

They reconnected with the topic under consideration.

“Ya know the way they’d say ‘yer man’ or ‘yer woman’ is on ‘the spectrum’?”

The two boys took this in for a while.

“Yeah”, said Mono. “If someone was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

Rasher didn’t want to feel left out so he also chimed a response.

“Too right. If someone was missin’ a few slates. Not the full shillin’. Not sure we ever used the spectrum word. Modern thing. More PC if ya know what I mean.”

JP let it all absorb and percolate.

“Well, here’s the thing. We’re all on the spectrum.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. There was a pause.

“Have you been watchin’ ‘Life of Brian’ again JP. We’re all individuals. Yada yada.”

There was a bit of a silence. Rasher and Mono bore the frowns of being offered a moniker that they didn’t feel sat well with them. There was another synchronous visit to the pint glasses while they let this spectrum thing ruminate.

JP went for another round. A double round really. One round involved a finger in the air to indicate to Donleavy – that further incoming of pints was required. The other round involved some clarification on the spectrum thing.

“Have yiz heard of the bell curve thing?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Some waves of recognition and uncertainty bashed against each other. Mono went for it.

“Is this the thing that’s shaped a bit like a bell, and we’re all supposed to be inside hangin’ on to the clapper for dear life, so we don’t get fecked out of the bell. “

“Hey”, Rasher interjected quickly, “is that where the phrase ‘we legged it like the clappers’ comes from?”

JP attempted to put a bit of order on things.

“Well, I’m not sure of all that exactly. But yes. Most people fall within the big dome of the bell, but some people are out at the edges.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

A few waves of certainty and understanding broke on the mind’s beach and became replaced by ebbs of confusion.

“Jayzus, JP. Are we talkin’ about a bell or a spectrum. I’m totally shaggin’ confused now.”

“Yeah. One minute I’m hangin’ on for dear life to a clapper in a bell and the next minute I’ve been dropped on to a bleedin’ rollercoaster slide on some bleedin’ graph “

“Yeah, JP. What’s going on? Me and Mono are bleedin’ exhausted. This was supposed to be a few quiet pints in Donleavy’s. “

“Yeah, JP. A couple of jars to ease ourselves from the bleedin’ turbulence of life. But what’s happened? Me and Rasher are full out knackered. Great night out this turned to be. “

JP let them play themselves out. A bit like a fisherman giving them as much line as they wanted. Eventually they’d tire themselves out and go quiet. At this judicious point he made a request for Donleavy to traverse the length of the bar to engage with them. This hand signal was a slight waving of the finger and not to be confused with a more erect and assertive pointing of the finger. The latter being associated with ‘more pints please’, the former – ‘come ‘ere a minute, I wanna talk to ya’.

Donleavy eased his big frame along the back of the bar counter as effortlessly as a kid on roller skates.

“What’s the craic lads?”

JP engaged his barman with a question as he had done on multiple previous occasions.

“Donleavy – we’re lookin’ for your objective opinion here. Do ya think that all of us lie on the spectrum or is it us on one bell curve and others on a different bell curve?”

“Jayzus, JP that’s a very bleedin’ philosophical question. I better check the keg to see what’s been in them pints I’ve been feedin’ ye with “

The three amigos waited for Donleavy to get his neurons fired up to speed with the thread of the conversation. A few moments passed – the tension of which could at least be reduced by another synchronous visit to the pint glasses.

Donleavy finally gathered his thoughts.

“Well – the way I see it – we’re all one big happy global family – colour, creed, sexual orientation, ethnic background, physical or mental capacity, beer or stout drinker, wine or spirits. We all bleed when we cut ourselves shavin’. We all fart when we eat too much cabbage. So – guess I’d fall in with us all being on the one spectrum. “

JP puffed his chest out with pride at the endorsement of their respected bar proprietor. Rasher and Mono might question JP’s rationale but never that of Donleavy’s. It was a moment of clarity and consensus.

Donleavy suddenly turned around when he was halfway up the bar.

“Hey. Hold on. There are a couple of exceptions. “

JP’s face immediately turned a shade ashen.

“Them bleedin cocktail drinkers…and them Cork feckers.”

They raised their glasses in agreement.

“Too right. “

“Abso-bleedin-lutely. “

“A truer word has never been spoken.

“Will we celebrate that, lads?”

“Have to. “

“A one and one?”

“Deffo”

“Wish I could join ya, lads. Have a battered sausage for me. “

They drained their glasses. Just another night in Donleavy’s.

CHANGE OF THE GUARD AT DONLEAVYS.

The three lads were well installed on their regular barstools at Donleavy’s. ‘Regular’ might be one description but it does no justice to their sense of ownership. In reality, and for the purposes of health and safety, these barstools really should have the three amigo’s names fully inscribed somewhere to warn others. JP in the middle and Mono and Rasher as outriders. Clearly the regulars at Donleavy’s Drinking Emporium would never have the temerity to even approach these barstools within a certain radius – but the situation was very unfair to visitors who might unknowingly stray into this specific risky scenario. Luckily for all concerned Donleavy’s is not the type of pub that attracts visitors or a random footfall. Donleavy has his regulars, committed disciples of this particular offering, a faithful following.

So it was this stormy night with the wind hollowing around the rooftops that JP, Rasher and Mono once again found themselves taking refuge on the aforementioned barstools – patiently watching and waiting as their pints went through the last final eddies of settlement in their glasses. White separated cleanly on top of black and JP gave that almost imperceptible nod that synchronise pint drinking could commence. Each took a swig and returned their glass at exactly the same moment to its respective beermat. Forget about your Olympic Synchronised Swimming – this was true synchronised mastery in action. A period of reflection followed while each of the lads found their true physical barstool equilibrium and a balanced headspace to match. These guys were comfortable with silence. There was no talk just to fill a void. These were sincere players in the barroom arena.

JP had been staring at the spirit bottles for quite some time. It was where a lot of his inspiration came from. It was also the case that Mono and Rasher often had to jump some train tracks to get onto JP’s line. It started like this.

              “Vodka.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Two pairs of shrugged shoulders.

              “Putin.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Eyebrows raised to the heavens.

A period of silence. Neither Mono nor Rasher in this instance was willing to give JP the satisfaction of enquiring regarding the connection. A period of prolonged silence.

              “Imagine if he was sittin’ here instead of me on this bar stool in Donleavy’s.”

The two lads pursed their lips. They knew this conversation could now go anywhere and to places never before imagined. Another pause.

              “….and you Rasher – had to give up your stool to Netanyahu….and you Mono – had to give up your stool to Trump. And they’re all nicely primed with pints of plain.”

The two lads nearly fell into their pints with laughter.

              “Ya mean these mullockers have taken too much of the truth serum and are well pissed.”

              “Yep. Got it in one.”

They each had a nice guffaw and went for another slug of pint. With a bit more contemplation, Rasher asked for a clarification.

              “Does this mean I’m Netanyahu?”

              “Yep.”

Mono let out a yelp.

              “Jayzus. That means I’m The Donald. For feck sake. Magic 101.”

Each took a while to get into character. JP put on his sternest Russian face and tried to bring his voice down an octave.

              “I want to thank you Benjamin. Since you started bombing the shit out of Gaza the world is watching you now. I can do whatever I want now in Ukraine.”           

              “You’re welcome, Vlad. Order another round there like a good man.”

              “What is this round thing? Anyway, I don’t do what anyone says. I am Putin.”

Mono was in quickly.

              “Hey, guys, hey. I know how this drinks round works. It’s a tremendous system. We each take turns with paying for the drinks.  I’ll get the order. You are both just tremendous guys. Tremendous. Tremendous. Make Russia Great Again. Make Israel Great Again. MRGA. MIGA. Doesn’t really have the nice letters as MAGA. But still – tremendous, tremendous. I’m a big fan. A big fan.”

They waited while the pints were served and settled. After all – it doesn’t really matter if you are a world leader (or wannabe leader) – certain traditions need to maintain their priority.

              “What do you mean? Make Russia great again. Russia has always been great. Russia is great. I do not like the way you speak. If you are not careful with me, I will take the 2025 election away from you.”

Rasher/Netanyahu laughed.

              “That will teach you Donald. Vlad will cut your votes if you don’t behave.”

              “Hey Benji. Don’t be so smart. When I’ve kicked Sleepy Joe out of the White House, you’ll need me to support you for all the killing of women and children. Don’t forget that. And to keep the International Court of Justice so tied up in knots that you’ll be well dead before they rule on you committing genocide.”

              “Hey. Now I don’t like the way you speak.”

JP/Vlad decided that he needed to cut it.

              “You think we care what you think Netanyahu? And what kind of a name is Netanyahu? It has no strength. And you complain about everything. Even if someone complained about the coffee in Tel Aviv airport, you’d be accusing them of antisemitism. But still – I appreciate you making such an atrocious mess of Gaza and the whole Middle East – I can literally bomb anything now – powerplants, schools, hospitals – and still the world press will be on your case.”

This was tiring stuff for the three guys having to concentrate on their characters. They sought sustenance in another swig of their pints. It gave them time to contemplate the next scene and how it might play out. Mono/Donald decided to go for it.

              “You know we are all very alike. You are both doing such a tremendous job with immigrants. Tremendous job. Bombing them. I should think of that. Maybe forget the wall. I’ve probably milked that wall for all I could get out of it anyway. But yes. Tremendous. Bomb them. Don’t even need missile launchers or tanks anymore. Just drones all along the border. Tremendous. I must talk to my people.”

              “You know nothing. Ukrainians are part of Russia. They are not immigrants.”

              “You know nothing. Gazans are nothing to do with Israel. They are not immigrants.”

              “Details. Gentlemen. Details. MAGA. MRGA. MIGA. We can do tremendous things. Tremendous.”

It almost seemed like Netanyahu and Putin had been ‘tremendoused-out’. There were no immediate responses.  It seemed time to summarise.

              “OK. Donald. My people will get you the election in 2025.”

              “Thank you, Vlad. I’ll make sure to stymie the EU, the ICJ and NATO for you guys every chance I get.”

              “I know you will.”

              “And Benji – you bomb whoever you want. The US people have already turned off. It’s just the Primaries, the Election, and the NFL from here. And remember – if I can get away with storming the capital, there ain’t nothing off limits.”

Putin did his own summary.

              “We will meet again in six months’ time in the Donleavy place. No-one would ever suspect us choosing this venue. But vodka next time. Not this black muck. Agreed?”

              “Agreed.”

              “Agreed.”

The three lads stood up from the barstools in a ceremonious way and then sat down again.

              “Jayzuz its thirsty work being a world leader.”

              “Too shaggin’ right.”

              “Catch Donleavy’s eye there – quick – in case we become a target for a drone strike.”

A finger went in the air. Donleavy acknowledged same. Pints were prepared. Just another night in Donleavy’s.

COVERING IT UP

The three lads – JP, Mono and Rasher – were seated at the bar counter and awaiting the first delivery of the night. Donleavy was finishing off the pints with all the attention, skill, and care of a master craftsman. Each of our three amigos had their heads angled in his direction following every delicate movement of glass and tap. After a suitable settling time, Donleavy applied the last finishing touch and delivered the glasses. No silly shamrocks in the cream. No crazy designs. Just simple perfection in a glass. The three guys watched those last magical eddies make their final choice and disappear into white or black. When separation was complete, they did what they do best – they absorbed a subliminal message to each other to reach out at exactly the same moment and take that first taste of the night.

As much to follow the pattern of the pints, JP Mono and Rasher had their own settling period. Buttocks were oscillated from left to right on the barstools; elbows had to find an equilibrium resting place on the bar counter; pints and coasters were moved and twisted until everything was just so. Some sounds were emitted. There was definitely an oooh and maybe a couple of aaahs. It certainly seemed to the casual observer that all was right with the world before the next aliquot of pints was consumed. After that, a request was transmitted to Donleavy by the acknowledged ritual of a finger raised in the air to prepare further supply. The first pint never lasted as long as the subsequent followers. It was as if a thirst needed to be quenched before some level of balance and stability was reached. Subsequent pints could then be afforded a greater level of attention and patience.

Were there any words exchanged before the second pint arrived? If there had have been any CCTV in the bar it would definitely have confirmed that silence had been the winner. But let’s be absolutely clear here. There is no CCTV in Donleavy’s bar. No piped music. No jukebox. No gaming machines. No pool table. No dartboard. Donleavy just about acknowledges the right to bring mobile phones into the bar. And….he had to think long and hard about allowing a condom machine in the Jacks. Donleavy has values and standards that he is unwillingly to trade for custom. It’s a matter of principle.

JP, as was so often the case, was the first to offer a conversational opener.

              “Have ya ever done somethin’ and covered it up and lied through yer teeth to preserve the lie?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. As if to say WTF, where did that come from?

Rasher kept his tongue for a while and then couldn’t keep it for any longer.

              “Jayzus. JP. What the fuck. Where did tha’ come from?”

JP just shrugged. Mono added his piece.

              “What kind of a bleedin’ question is tha’? Wha’ would be the point of coverin’ somethin’ up and then sayin’ tha’ you covered somethin’ up? Are you losin’ yer marbles JP to ask a question like tha’?”

They went back to synchronised pint drinking for a while. Eyes were directed towards the reflection of the spirit bottles in the bar counter mirror. The topic seemed to become submerged in their individual reveries until JP went back to the well one more time.

              “We’ve all done it. I don’t want to know if ya had an erotic affair or if ya killed yer granny ‘cause she said you were in her will. But ya had small stuff – didn’t ya?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Clearly JP wasn’t letting this lie.

              “Well – you bleedin’ say somethin’ JP. What lie have ya been livin’ with? Purge yerself to yer pals.”

Rasher smiled at Mono. Definitely a small success here. A turning of the tables.

JP thought for a while and then after a low whistle through his teeth he began.

              “We’re all friends here?”

              “Yep.”

              “Yep.”

              “What’s said in the bar stays in the bar.”

              “Yep.”

              “Yep.”

              “Well – I scraped the side of the car when I was parkin’ it one day. Nice bit of cosmetic damage. Both doors. Sad lookin’.  What was worse was that I was lookin’ at some young one’s arse passin’ by at the time. I told ‘her indoors’ that some little bastards did it in the supermarket car park. Even told her I chased ‘em until me lungs gave up. Gave her descriptions of the little hounds. Where I even guessed they lived. Maybe even too detailed. She reckoned we’d enough info to go to the guards. Nearly a bigger job to persuade her it wasn’t worth it. Such a great performance that I could never go back and tell the truth.”

The two lads took this in for a period of time while they all went back to their pints for inspiration and reflection. Now, Rasher whistled through his teeth.

              “Jayzus, JP. Still lookin’ at the menu, eh? Serves ya bleedin’ right.”

              “Yeah, JP. I can understand why ya wouldn’t ‘fess up to that one.”

There was silence for a while.

              “Well lads? What are yer guilty secrets?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They both broke out in a laugh.

              “No shaggin’ way, JP.”

              “Ya were stupid once, well now ya’ve been stupid again.”

              “Yeah. No way we’re tellin’.”

              “And wait ‘til I’m talkin’ to yer wife again.”

              “Some young one’s arse…!”

              “What a bleedin’ plonker.”

              “Ah, lads. Fair is fair.”

              “Nothin’s fair in this life.”

JP went back to his pint. Rasher and Mono took this as the signal to synchronise another swallow of the black magic. When the bar world equilibrated again, JP took to the sound waves once more.

              “What made me think of this was two recent cases goin’ through the courts.”

              “Yeah. What are they?”

              “In one – the fecker who killed his wife. They eventually found her in concrete under the stairs. But for years he vehemently denied anythin’. Said she’d disappeared. Pleaded for her to return or for whoever knew anythin’ to get in touch.”

              “Yeah. The towrag. What was the other one?”

              “The other fecker who violently stabbed the girl in broad daylight. They caught him. He admitted he did it. The found his DNA under the girl’s fingernails. Open and shut – you’d think. But the fecker is now pleadin’ not guilty.”

              “Yeah. What the bleedin’ hell is goin’ on there?”

It was time for another moment of reflection – i.e., more pint. Then JP took the lead again.

              “What I was thinkin’ in both cases was how much money has and would be spent. Police and detective work. Diggin’ up different places in the first case lookin’ for the body. Court cases with legal bods, witnesses, experts, jury people. The cost must be enormous.”

              “Yeah. And we’re payin’ for it, JP.”

              “That was exactly my thought, Rasher.”

              “And all because the feckers who were goin’ to be caught anyway – just wouldn’t put their hands up.”

More drink was taken. It was getting to that critical decision point in the night. Do they order another one or do they finish up? In actuality, there was a non-visible volume line on the glass which made the decision automatically. If the glass volume dropped below this line and one of our three amigos had not called for replenishments, then the evening was over. The alternative – sitting in front of an empty glass waiting for new pints – was never going to happen. This was totally against pint drinking etiquette. A mortal sin in the world of pint drinkers. The line was drawn and in this case the line had been passed. It was wrap-up time.

              “So what’s yer real point JP? Yer goin’ to tell yer wife about the young one’s arse and the car damage? Yer goin’ to make a full confession and take the punishment and get it all off yer conscience.”

              “I am in me hoop.”

              “If I was yer legal eagle, I would support that approach. Keep yer sphincter tight and yer defence even tighter.”

              “Yeah. I’m joining Mono on yer legal team and I’m good with that. Believe the lie. Visualise it. Them bleedin’ hooligans in the car park. Bastards.”

              “Guess that’s the way of the world.”

The pint glasses were drained in a statement of joint agreement and solidarity.

              “D’ya wanna visualise a battered cod and chips?”

              “I can already see it, smell it, taste it.”

              “Off we go so – give Donleavy the nod.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

ADVANCED SOCIETY.

There was no need to pull the curtains in Donleavy’s Pub. The evenings had drawn in on themselves and the darkness had wrapped around another layer so much earlier than before. It seemed incredible how it had been bright up to 10:30pm only a few short weeks ago and now it was pitch black at 8pm. And the next few weeks would even advance that darkness onset further. Only for the fact that our three amigos were among the most forward looking, optimistic and positive people on the planet – well – they could have felt down in themselves. But no – they were perched contentedly on their habitual barstools – eyeing their settling pints – gently moving from buttock to buttock to establish the perfect equilibrium position – and allowing their minds to open to the next wonderful topic of conversation. You could call it ‘Mindfulness for the Public Drinking Emporium’.

When the settling between the black and the creamy head was now as sharp as a razor blade and the contrasting colours were a feast to the eyes, the three lads – with an almost imperceptible nod of the head – took their first synchronous mouthful of the night. Over years of practise the net result was an equi-volume consumed and a return of three glasses to the beer mats on the counter at the exact same time. The most exacting volume measurement device would have confirmed that the remaining quantity in each glass was equal. An athletics grade stopwatch would have confirmed that there was no time gap between any of the three glasses meeting the bar counter. These three were experts and their expertise had been fine-tuned through hours and hours, years and years of repetition and practise. Truly to be in Donleavy’s Pub was to be in the presence of greatness.

Tonight, the conversation took a while to get going.  There had been a second aliquot consumed before Mono opened it up to the floor.

              “Piss poor day.”

              “Yep.”

              “Seemed to just rain between the showers.”

              “Yep.”

Sometimes it took a while before the deep and meaningful could envelop, penetrate, and overcome the blindingly mundane. So – they did what they did best – they had another swig of drink. And…. Donleavy was signalled to prepare additional incoming. An empty glass would be catastrophic to the Mindfulness state.

JP did a bit of throat clearing and harumphing before finally introducing his ideas.

              “D’ya know what I was thinkin’ of d’other day?”

              “Sex?”

              “Drugs?”

              “Rock and Roll?”

              “Women’s undergarments?”

JP looked slowly from left to right engaging his most malevolent expression. Grist to the mill to the two other lads. Let it be said – this was not a sympathetic environment. This was where you graduated from the University of Hard Knocks.

JP began again – slowly and deliberately.

              “I was thinkin’ ‘’out all the things that have made us into an advanced society.”

              “Feck”, Rasher immediately responded. “I was thinkin’ how quickly me nasal hair had begun to grow”.

Mono was also quick on the response.

              “Well, I had time to ponder, and I was tryin’ to figure out how I have so many odd socks. It just isn’t fair, is it? I’m thinkin’ of only buyin’ one type in the future. Hah. That’d stymy the bleedin’ Sock Gremlin. Sock it to im’, eh ?”

This drew smiles and laughs from Rasher and Mono, but JP only had a far distant, vacant look. There was a distraction to proceedings while Donleavy delivered fresh pints onto fresh beer mats. Fervent gratitude was expressed.

              “Sound man.”

              “Yer the GOAT, Donleavy.”

              “Couldn’t be delivered to a better home.”

A period of silence ensued. JP had extra time to clarify his thoughts.

              “D’ya know what lads. I don’t think its about automation or A.I. or 4.0 or 5.0 or whatever bleedin’ number they’re up to now. No. I don’t think so.”

He let it lie. It was begging for a response, for an engagement. Mono and Rasher held out in silence for as long as was humanly possible but then Rasher broke ranks.

              “Alright. So, wha’ the hell is this bleedin’ advanced society all ‘bout?”

Like an expert angler, JP had sent out the bait, firmly embedded the hook and was now in a position to reel in at whatever pace he wanted.

              “Inside toilets.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Inside toilets?”, they chimed in stereo.

JP rotated the pint glass around the beer mat.

              “Yeah. Inside toilets. Can’t ya just see what an incredible leap inside toilets have been to our world.”

Both Rasher and Mono scratched their chins. You couldn’t argue with what JP was saying but, like many times now and before, it wasn’t what they were expecting from JP. Inside toilets – yeah. And Rashed added ‘bathroom showers’ to that. Replacing baths with showers had probably done more for personal hygiene than any other single thing. They had gone from the ritual bath once a week (or maybe even once a month) to having a shower pretty much every day. One small step – one giant leap for the smell of mankind.

JP knew he had them well hooked at this stage. They were waiting expectantly for his next layer of revelation. He luxuriated in this with a couple of visits to the pint glass before ushering forth once more.

              “Bottled water.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Jayzus, yer right JP.”

              “Absolutely on the money. I ‘member the first night a guy came on TV and said he was settin’ up a bottled water company. We thought he was stir crazy. I mean this country is full of water. It comes right out of the taps for free. Even then we were drinkin’ from streams and springs. We were never more convinced that some eejit was going to lose all his money on somethin’ that no one would buy.”

              “Jayzus, ya got that one right for sure JP.”

              “At the start I wouldn’t buy bottled water on principle. I just refused to spend the money. Now it’s a question of flavoured water or no flavour water.”

              “True for ya.”

JP had a long list in his head. It was a question for him as to whether he would deluge them all out or drip feed and wait for another future opportunity. There was an intermission where pints were revisited, replacement inventory was secured, and glasses were drained before he went with the next instalment.

He looked around to see that the audience of Rasher and Mono were optimally primed to absorb his next offering. Then he went for it.

              “Public Transport.”

Mono looked at Rasher, Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Wha? Ya mean buses and trams and trains?”

              “I thought ya’d be going for Rockets, Satellites and Space Stations?

              “Wha’ the….”

JP let it percolate for a while. Then he began to explain that in his father’s time you could set out for the city and wait for a truck or even a cart to go by. You didn’t know when you arrive, and you didn’t know when you’d get back. It might not even be the same day.

              “Jayzus, JP. Yer right. How quickly we forget these things.”

              “Yeah. Lucky we have an ol’ codger like you to remind us.”

              “Hey – I’ve got another example of an advanced society.”

              “Yeah – wha’s tha’”

              “The Chipper.”

              “Will be go for a one and one?”

              “Are there bears in the woods?”

              “Give Donleavy the nod there.”

They drained their drinks. Just another night in Donleavy’s.

ITS NOT THAT HARD. REALLY.

It was one of those very unlike summer evenings where the rain was belting off the windows in Donleavy’s pub. The clientele was quite relaxed on their barstools and in their chairs. There was something about being in a pub when the weather was inclement. Perhaps it tended towards a less guilty mind. I mean – when the rain is the dominant player – one can’t ‘do’ the garden, or paint the house, or fix that creaking gate, or even the gate that’s hanging off. No hedge cutting; no strimming; no car washing; no mowing. One might as well be in the pub. Which is exactly where JP, Mono and Rasher had found themselves for the last while. Although to be totally transparent – our three lads didn’t need foul weather to give them an easy mind in the pub – they could raise that state of mind even if the sun was splitting the stones.

JP was our hero in stating the obvious.

              “Aint it just feckin’ shite weather out there lads.”

              “Ya can whistle that. I’ll give ya a bleedin’ tune.”

              “Yeah. Better off being in here where it’s dry. Ya could catch yer death in weather like that.”

They clinked glasses in saluting their superior decision making. A long synchronous swallow ensued. This in turn was followed by a perfectly timed return of the glasses to their respective beermats. If only Synchronous Pint Drinking was added to the Olympic card. They would score top marks for equal volume consumed, in-time lifting of glasses, similar trajectory and arc, time of consumption, and artistic merit. Don’t laugh. There is many an Olympic event today that would have been scoffed at in previous years. These guys are the global leaders. And it hasn’t come easily. Hours, nay years, of practise had brought them to this superior performance level. Athletes.

Our three amigos sat contentedly back on their stools and took their individual focal points behind the spirit bottles on the long bar counter mirror. This mirror and these bottles had often represented a rich source of conversational catalysts. Tonight, was no exception.

              “I was on a train to the city a few days ago”, Mono interjected and then let the comment hang there in the pub ether.

              “Well bully for you.”

              “Happy for ya.”

There was a high threshold for intellectual content in the lad’s conversation and anything that didn’t reach those heady height was typically treated with immediate derision. All part of keeping standards.

              “I went into the jacks.”

              “Thank ya for sharin’”

              “Are we perhaps headin’ for too much information?”

Mono ploughed on regardless. A dogged performer.

              “There was a baby changin’ shelf in the jacks.”

The two other lads looked at each other. There was a tacit and unspoken agreement to cease and desist with the derision. After all – a baby had been mentioned – no notion as to where Mono was going with this. Best to stay on the safe side. Act in haste, regret in leisure and all that.

              “Yep.”

              “Go on.”

Mono gave that subliminal message that maybe another slug of pint would be good before proceeding. Synchronous drinking again was executed sublimely. Mouths were wiped and satisfied ‘aaahs’ were produced. Buttocks were re-equilibrated on the barstools and Mono got back into his stride.

              “There was a sign on the baby changin’ shelf. It said – and I quote exactly – “Warning – do not leave baby unattended.””

Mono let the aforementioned warning absorb and percolate the attention of his two drinking partners. There was a respectful silence for a while. Eventually JP broke it.

              “Jayzus. If this is where we’ve come to. That people need to be reminded to keep their attention to a baby on a changin’ shelf – then maybe they shouldn’t be left in charge of babies.”

              “That’s what I was thinkin’.”

              “Is this all to do with that hot coffee cup insurance payout?”

              “Not with ya.”

              “D’ya’member. The millions that McDonalds lost when someone spilled hot coffee on themselves and then everythin’ needs a reminder of everthin’ on it afterwards.”

              “Yeah. This is hot. Of course its shaggin’ hot. Its coffee. This is cold. Of course it’s shaggin’ cold. Its ice. For feck sake.”

              “Yeah. This is a baby. It can roll off and crack its head.”

              “Maybe babies will have to have a sticker like that on their foreheads leavin’ the hospital in future?”

They mused upon this for a while. Quite a while really. Long enough for them to return to their pints. Long enough for Rasher to point a finger in the air that attracted Donleavy’s attention and set in train the replenishment cycle. It would never do that they could arrive at a situation of empty glasses in front of them. Well – not before they were due to depart home at least. The incoming pints arrived with a flourish and with Donleavy’s acknowledged efficiency. The bar wasn’t exploding with renewed orders, so Donleavy took an extra time with his most loyal customers to chew the cud.

              “Well gentlemen. What’s the topics that are keepin’ ye exercised this evenin’?”

JP did a good synopsis of their conversation with Donleavy doing lots of nodding and empathy oozing from every part of his considerable frame. He drew himself up to his full height and then added his own pet hate.

              “Well gentlemen. Can I tell ye what really pisses me off?”

The lads all directed their attention to their barman.

              “Ya have the floor Donleavy.”

Donleavy took a deep breath.

              “What really pisses me off is those parents who say they are living on the breadline and can’t afford to feed their children. No. Worse than that. They say they are in the poverty basket and can’t keep their children in food or clothes.”

The lads looked at each other. This seemed like an unusual outburst from Donleavy. He was typically laid back and very tolerant and strong social feelings weren’t part of his barman modus operandi.  Donleavy looked at each one in turn. JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher strained his head to see what JP’s reaction was. There was an uncomfortable silence. Donleavy fired up his cylinders again.

              “Will I tell ya why it pisses me off so much?”

They all meekly nodded.

              “This”, and Donleavy mimicked smoking a cigarette.

The three lads exchanged looks again.

              “While they are tellin’ ya how hard things are, and how they can’t feed their children, they are puffin’ away on two packs a day.”

Now the lads nodded more forcibly.

              “Let me ask ya lads….how much is a bag of oat flakes?”

They shrugged.

              “Well how much is a big tray of eggs?”

Again, they shrugged.

              “….a large bag of chicken pieces?”

They still had to shrug.

              “Well I don’t bleedin’ know either. But I can guarantee ya somethin’. It’s less than a day’s fags. And it would probably go a long way towards feeding the family for a week.”

The lads had to agree with this and muttered noises of assent.

              “….and if anyone ever challenges them, they go on about how the cigarettes are their only little comfort. Well let me tell ‘em – feck their comfort. Feck their comfort. Feed their bleedin’ children first. Feed them and clothe them and look after them. The whole thing gets on me goat.”

Donleavy turned away – his anger showing in red patches on his neck and face. He was halfway up the bar counter when he swivelled on his heel. The three lads put their pints back on the counter in an instinctive reaction. Donleavy strode back to his previous soapbox.

              “And another thing. The cigarettes typically gives them a dry throat so they have to keep themselves lubricated with a slab of cheap lager. But I didn’t want to mention that – given my station in life.”

With that he retreated back again to the far end of the bar. The three amigos remained speechless on their barstools. There was a bit of uncomfortable buttock shifting. It was hard to know where to look and how to proceed with the conversation. Eventually Rasher broke the awkward stillness.

              “There’s only one thing one can say at this point gentleman….”

He left it hang there for a while before Mono took up the response.

              “That we should drain the pints and go get a spiceburger and chips?”

              “Yar on the money.”

              “OK. Give Donleavy the nod. We’re away so.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

Well – a little bit different.

POPULAR TODAY

It was a Thursday night in Donleavy’s in the middle of a relatively hot spell of weather. The bar takings would be down. Everyone was off at the beach or the lake or the BBQ in the back garden. Only the faithful were still ‘practising’ at the bar counter. Numbered among those faithful were JP, Rasher and Mono. Consistency is everything. Each of the three was of the unwavering belief that their life would be best served by communicating together, and with Donleavy, through the medium of the most perfectly poured pint. This was not a seasonal charade. This was not some fad. This was not weather dependant. This was consistency. And as far as they were concerned, life needed more principled people like them.

              Each sat in front of their settling pint waiting for that moment of perfection. Waiting for that separation of black and white. Waiting for that almost subliminal signal that synchronised pint drinking could commence. This is a magic moment when all is good with the world. This is the triumph of anticipation. This is when blood pressure relaxes. After each had moved through anticipation and tasted the first of the day, there were some satisfied ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’, followed by some buttock shifting, until the optimum relaxed positions were settled upon.

              JP broke the radio silence in an uncharacteristically early fashion.

              “Isn’t fashion or – popularity – a weird thing lads?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Jayzuz, JP, did ya find yer bell bottoms in the drawer or somethin’?”

              “Or yer stripey tank top?”

JP let it sit for a while. These weren’t questions that needed any consideration, far less – an answer. But, in any event, he did decide that he could weave the enquiries into his response.

              “Ya could be right lads. It generally all comes round in cycles. Wha’s the bettin’ that bell bottoms and tank tops won’t come ‘round again? Maybe even more than once?”

They gave it some consideration. No doubt a few mental pictures were conjured up in the ether above the bar counter. These mental pictures never looked good in their original form so there was absolutely no reason to believe they would benefit with age. JP reached for his pint and within timeframes too quick for the naked eye to segregate, his reach was joined in pint-seeking by our other two amigos. They weren’t the synchronised pink drinking Kings for nothing. There were neural pathways involved here that even the most eminent neuroscientists couldn’t elucidate. Pint glasses were lowered and restored to standing positions on coasters.

              JP brought things on another notch.

              “Smokin’.”

              “Yeah?”

              “What abou’ it?”

JP took a few deep breaths almost as if he was demonstrating the exaggerated cycle of inhalation-exhalation of smokers who are still capable of deep breathing.

              “Who remembers the ‘Rothmans’ ad?”

              “Oh, feck yeah. The airline pilot who chucked the box of ‘Rothmans’ ciggies onto the airplane dashboard.”

              “Oh yeah. We all thought tha’ was mega cool.”

              “I get ya, JP. Now ya’d be callin’ ‘em a gobshite. Wonderin’ why a person intelligent enough to fly a plane would be pollutin’ their lungs so they could die younger and more painfully. The total opposite of cool. Ya look at someone vapin’ or smokin’ now and yer first thought isn’t ‘cool’. Its feckin’ gobshite.”

There was a small lull in the conversation.

              “Did ya ever smoke lads?”

There was a slow and guilty nodding of heads.

              “Guess it’s a case of he who is without sin, eh?”

This thought was enough to direct them back to their drink and another round of perfectly synchronous pint drinking ensued. The volume remaining in each glass was also so comparable that a volumetric measuring device would unlikely see any differences if the content of each glass was subjected to scientific scrutiny and measurement rigour. But much more important than that – the said volume had dropped below the critical level for re-order. An empty glass can only be tolerated at night’s end. No other time. Mono raised a finger in the air to give Donleavy all the data and information he needed for stock replenishment. It was a slow night in Donleavy’s so, excepting a disaster like a required barrel change, there shood be no issue with replacement pints arriving in a comfortable space of time.

JP broke the waiting silence as he often did.

              “Isn’t it feckin’ strange the way things that are good or cool or fashionable today can jump on their own head tomorrow?”

              “Jump on their own head?”

“Yeah – like be seriously uncool or actually bad.”

They thought about this for a while. Quite a long while. Long enough for there to be a couple of visits to the pint glasses. JP advanced his head further towards the bar counter and steered towards his drinking partners.

              “Cancer is an interestin’ topic.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Cancer?”

              “Since when did cancer become interestin’?”

              “Yeah. Cancer. Look at all the shit aside from smokin’ that’s bad for ya. And – some of it we actually thought was good for ya.”

That provoked another cycle of thought-inducing trips to the pint glasses. So much so that Rasher gave the signal for another round of incoming. They all knew that once one suggestion was thrown out there that there would be a brainstorming tsunami of proposals. And that’s exactly what ensued.

              “Asbestos.”

              “Yeah. Well. Tha’ was never good for ya.”

              “True. Good insulator though.”

They all nodded.

              “What’s the name of tha’ weedkiller stuff?”

              “Yeah. Well. Tha’ wasn’t actually good for ya either.”

              “True. Mighty stuff for killin’ weeds though.”

They all nodded again.

              “Feck it – what’s the name of that artificial sweetener in the Diet Coke?”

              “Jayzus, yeah.”

              “Well – if it wasn’t good for ya, at least that was supposed to be less bad.”

              “Cancer candidate now.”

              “Feckin’ mad.”

They all nodded at the seeming absurdity of it.

              “Mind you – ya’d probably need to drink thirty cans of Diet Coke a day before it would start droppin’ tumours inta ya.”

They all nodded with a laugh. A shared mental picture of tripping over empty Coke cans.

              “Red shaggin’ meat!”

              “Spot on. Now that was supposed to be good for ya. Protein. Build ya up. Red blood cells for sale. Stronger than Popeye on one of his good days.”

              “And now its not just a possible carcino-whatever. It’s a bleedin’ probable one.”

              “Mental.”

They all shook their head on this one.

Donleavy had delivered the next round by this stage. They had drained the previous glass and were each looking forward to the next magical encounter. There was that moment of anticipation again. Would this moment be as good as the last? Would it exceed the last? Donleavy had completed his job with the highest level of skill that only a craftsman barman like him could deliver. The omens were all optimistic. The wizardry of the black and white waited to reveal itself. What Mono said next would however go towards ruining the moment.

              “I have to say it lads. It needs to be said.”

This time it was JP who looked at Rasher and Rasher looked at JP.

              “Don’t go away with a stone in yer shoe, Mono. Ya can share anythin’ here.”

Mono looked a bit downbeat.

              “What’s tha Minister what’s-his-face thinkin’ of – when he’s goin’ put cancer signs on our pint?”

There was some shared tut-tutting.

              “Bleedin’ ridiculous.”

              “Should be sacked.”

              “Feckin’ publicity seekin’”

              “Gobshite.”

Clearly there was a shared sense of disagreement to introduce comprehensive health labelling of alcohol products. Votes would not be garnered for this particular Minister in this particular drinking emporium.

              “It’s all gone way OTT. With a pint in one hand and a mobile phone in the other – I may as well ring for the undertaker on the phone and save some time. Cause I’m obviously fecked.”

They nodded in disillusioned agreement.

A short silence prevailed.

              “Will we go for a cod and chips.”

              “Are they on the list.”

              “Don’t think so. Not yet.”

              “Right. Great idea. Let’s do it while we can still enjoy it.”

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.