USA – A SHORT STORY

The three lads weren’t sure whether they were out or whether they were out out. The pints were tasting really good, and Donleavy was excelling himself behind the bar in ensuring that service was hyper-efficient and levels in the pint glass never fell below the critical reorder point before inventory was restocked. Pints kept flowing. It was just one of those nights where everything seemed alright with the world. The fact that the world was well on its way to going to hell in a handbag was irrelevant. And maybe it was because the world had completely fallen arse over tit that catalysed JP, Mono and Rasher to take additional pleasure from the joys of relaxed company and superior pints.

Nobody had actually said anything, made no attempt to force conversation over the last extended period. Well – that is – if you exclude ooohs and aaahs of satisfaction and maybe the odd sneaky fart. But this monastic silence couldn’t last forever. Eventually it was JP who split the silence atom.

‘Can I tell a story, lads?’

‘All ears’.

‘Yer clear for takeoff’.

JP reached out for his pint glass, no doubt to oil the larynx before he began. The other two lads fired their arms out and made up the milliseconds of reaction difference so that all three pint glasses arced into the air at the same time, same trajectory and same duration. Oh, if only synchronous pint drinking was an Olympic event!

Pint glasses re-engaged with beer mats and even with a slow screen video replay it would been impossible to discern any difference or time lag between the touchdowns. This was mastery at the most amazing level. JP wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath.

‘It’s a true story, lads’. I promise ya that.

‘Mighty’.

‘Better again.’

JP looked from right to left. From Mono to Rasher.

‘It’s about America’.

Nobody said anything.

‘Well, that’s not strictly right. It’s about Americans’.

Nobody said anything.

JP harrumphed and got himself into his stride.

‘True story, guys’.

‘Ya said that’.

‘Got it the first time’.

JP looked up the bar counter.

‘Maybe I’ll wait until Donleavy isn’t busy and bring him in for the story’.

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

‘Jayzus, get on with it – will ya’.

‘Yeah, we’ll be doing Bed and Breakfast, if ya don’t get a move on’.

JP decided on the basis of the feedback that he could enlighten Donleavy at some future juncture.

He began:

‘I want ya to picture the scene. It’s a ferry comin’ back into the country. We’ve been travellin’ across the sea for 24 hours. We can now see land in the distance’.

‘Jayzus, JP, yer not shaggin’ Christopher Columbus’.

‘….or bleedin’ Scott of the Antarctic’.

JP didn’t let them rattle him. He kept his composure and continued in a calm voice.

‘When ya’ve been on a ferry for that long it’s only natural to gravitate to the decks and watch the land get closer’.

The two boys nodded in agreement. They’d both done these type of ferry trips and knew what JP was talking about.

JP watched the nodding head validation and went on to the next level of the story.

‘So behind me are these two big Yanks. They’re not travellin’ together but Yanks seem to have this radar system where they pick up a similar species without ever havin’ to hear each other speak’.

More nodding.

‘So, they start talkin’ to each other swappin’ zip codes’.

‘Yeah, well, in fairness, we’d be like that too. Tryin’ to figure out where yer from, what’s yer seed, breed and generation and does anyone in yer family owe us any money’.

They had a bit of a guffaw over that one.

‘But this is where it gets good. We’re gettin’ ever closer to land and there is an announcement on the speaker thing, on the Tannoy’.

JP talks through his nose and does his best impersonation of a speaker announcement.

‘Would all non-EU citizens please ensure that they fill in a disembarkation card before landing’.

Rasher and Mono shared another guffaw.

‘Jayzus, JP, ya’d make a great little announcer’.

‘Yeah. I could just imagine ya in the supermarket. Non anal leakage Beans on aisle 9 are on special today. Diet Cola has been relocated to the battery acid shelves’.

They clinked glasses. That was worth another synchronous, equi-volume imbibing.

‘So where was I. Oh, yeah. The non-EU citizens to fill out their cards. So – and I shit you not – one Yank turns around to the other and he says ‘Gee, are we a member of the EU?’’

The two lads lift their eyes to heaven.

‘….and then – wait for it – it gets better – the other Yank turns around and says ‘Sure are. We’re the biggest member of it’’.

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher

‘And I promise you as sure as I sitting here with me arse perfectly balanced on this barstool – that’s a true story’.

‘For feck sake’.

‘That’s fecked up on so many levels’.

JP had a smug grin of satisfaction on his face.

Rasher was all for decisive action.

‘Wha’ ‘bout we finish the pint and go for a battered cod and chips before the world collapses into a black hole’.

‘Sound idea’.

‘Give Donleavy the nod there’.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

CAN’T IDENTIFY THE CRAZIES

A February night in Donleavy’s. Neither one thing nor the other. Not Christmas Holiday time. Too far away from Easter. Not really winter. No daffodils peaking their heads up to say it is Spring. Cold but not Arctic. A bit of a meaah really. And the meaah seemed to permeate into the conversation, or lack of it, at the bar counter. JP, Rasher and Mono were seated at their usual stools, at their usual bar counter, nursing their usual pints – but there was something missing. No spark. No mojo. Not even a lot of buttock equilibrating motion. Each stared at the mirror behind the bar seemingly lost in their own individual thoughts. Or maybe just lost. Even the timeframe between synchronous visits to their pint glasses seemed to be getting longer and longer. Donleavy, who would normally be gliding up and down the counter, either fulfilling orders or encouraging banter, was leaning with his back to the register seemingly examining the length, texture and structure of his fingernails. At this moment in time there was probably more noise and activity in the local morgue.

A couple of visits to the pint glasses and it was time for renewal. Mono put his finger in the air, Donleavy stopped nail gazing and fresh glasses were assembled under the tap. There was a fresh air of comfort when our three amigos could see the new inventory being worked upon by Donleavy. Confidence in the supply chain is all important for that continued feeling of well- being. Conversely, only stress and discomfort can result from a fear of an empty glass. And that would be so counter-productive to a relaxed evening out at the bar counter.

The pints arrived. There was just a small timeframe required while the final eddies of cream made their way into their proper home above that sharp black line. Each of the three guys – as per normal – focussed on this piece of beverage magic and followed each small eddy until it found it’s way home. Once separation was confidently complete, the subliminal signal was simultaneously received and synchronous pint drinking ensued. Glasses were returned to beer mats and satisfied sounds emanated from each of the three. Another phase of equilibrium had been achieved.

JP gazed at the rows of spirit bottles in front of the bar mirror from where he typically drew inspiration for conversation content. Tonight, the bottles were not giving up their stimulation easily. If there was a catalyst in there – it was well stoppered. JP sighed. Then, as if from nowhere, a question jumped out.

              “Lads – how many phrases do ya know for being a little bit crazy?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. The look said, ‘where did JP get this from?’, but they were well used to their friend flying solo on various tangents, so it never even occurred them to ask the question regarding the origin of the thought. Just easier to go with the flow.

              “Wha’ d’ya mean? Give us an example.”

              “Ya know – like ‘a sandwich short of a picnic’ or ‘a few slates missin’ off the roof’”

The two lads were immediately in the groove. This was simple territory.

              “A screw loose.”

              “Not the sharpest tool in the box.”

They smiled because they knew there was lots more phrases just sitting on the frontal lobe waiting for warp speed travel to the tongue.

              “Gone off the reservation.”

              “Doolally.”

              “A few cards short of a full deck.”

They went back to a synchronous visit to their pint glasses. Good to lubricate the vocal cords – this could be fertile ground for another few rounds of brainstorming.

There was a slight pause while they savoured the different taste elements of what they had just consumed. Then it was full action again.

              “Bonkers.”

              “Bungalow.”

              “Batty.”

They had a little laugh that the last round were all ‘B’s. They briefly toyed with going through the alphabet and seeing could they populate the whole alphabet, but they quickly agreed that the exercise could develop into force-fitting and destroy the quality of the outcome. Off they went again.

              “Touched.”

              “Wacko.”

              “Cracked.”

This was almost too easy. There was no delay or let up with the contributions.

              “Off the rails.”

              “Gone off the deep end.”

              “Round the bend.”

They needed to get back to a synchronous imbibing cycle. This was thirsty work. The break also allowed for a continuity of suggestions.

              “Loony Tunes.”

              “A few fries short of a Happy Meal.”

              “Out to lunch.”

While they could have kept going like this until Donleavy called ‘Time’, Rasher became insanely curious as to why they ended up on this path and put his oar in to stem the flow.

              “What’s all yer interest in nutjob phrases anyway, JP? Where’s all this comin’ from?”

JP gave out another subliminal signal for a return to the pint glass. He often did this when asked a pointed question. It was his way of both preparing the question and preparing the audience for the response. A practise honed over thousands of pint glass contents. He paused after the glasses had been returned to the counter.

              “Well lads, it’s as simple as this. Ya can’t identify the crazies anymore.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. It was clear that JP was going to expound further so they felt no requirement for a clarification question.

              “D’ya ‘member how ya used to know if someone was a bit doolally? They’d be goin’ ‘round talkin’ to themselves. And when mobile phones came out first, ya used to get a bit confused but then ya saw the phone and ya took the person back out of the batshit crazy category.”

They nodded. They were with him on this one. JP kept going.

              “But now. The phone is in the pocket. The ear pods aren’t even visible without ya being close enough to kiss ‘em on the cheek. And there they all are – hundreds of them – walking around talkin’ to themselves. Sometimes ya even think they’re talkin’ to you. I mean – what shaggin’ chance have ya got to pick out the ones who are livin’ in another dimension. Not bleedin’ possible.”

Time for another visit to the pint glass and let all this ring around the neurons. Modern living certainly had its challenges. Do doubt about that.

Mono thought long and hard about all this before he offered his contribution.

              “Hey. I bet ya anything. Anything ya want. I bet ya Donleavy could spot a Loony Tune at a thousand paces.”

They guffawed at that one.

              “Whatever ya do – don’t ask him.”

              “Why not?”

              “Because he’d say tonight, he doesn’t need a thousand paces. He’d say the three of us are right in front of him.”

Another round of guffaws.

              “Why don’t we give Donleavy the nod and go get a battered cod and chips?”

              “Sounds like a plan.”

“Let’s see how many wackos we meet on the way to the chipper.”

They made their way to the exit.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

ANTI HIBERNETIC.

Those days between Christmas and New Year were always good times in Donleavy’s Pub. The fire burned cheerily in the grate. The outside world was shut out behind blackout curtains and doors. There was always a critical mass of warm bodies populating stools and chairs. There was the temporary return of the ex-pats. Even though tradition required people to spend that one public holiday day known as Christmas Day with their families – by the following day it was like a release of the hostages. There was still money being made available – however that happened – to spend on alcohol. Maybe people stopped caring about their delicate financial positions? May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Throw another goldfish to the cat. Whatever the myriad of reasons that found the punters in the warm glow that represented Donleavy’s pub, the clientele were all in good humour – and that made for a good atmosphere all around the pub.

Three bar stools were not available to the casual visitor. These three bar stools were never available to any drinker. That was another accepted tradition. JP, Mono and Rasher had an unwritten but universally accepted lifetime lease on these three bar stools in question. On this particular evening the buttocks of our three amigos were in various states of equilibrium as they occupied the said bar stools and had every intention of maintaining that occupation for a considerable length of time. They too had been released with other hostages and they had every intention of sharing this freedom until Donleavy would later lie about the fact that the police were at the door and enquire whether they actually had any homes to return to. Buttocks equilibrated – the lads were all set for a session. They were ‘out out’.

Donleavy was pirouetting up and down at the back of the bar counter like a man half his size and half his age. The athletic bartender. He was also handling about six orders all together at any one time. The genius bartender. He even had time to engage in some ritual small talk and banter. The social bartender. What a legend. A complete legend.

JP, Mono and Rasher were waiting for that final current of settling to take place in their respective pints. Waiting for that sharp line to appear between the black and the white. When it was the appropriate time, a subliminal message was exchanged that resulted in our three amigos lifting pints at exactly the same time, drinking the same quantities and returning the glasses to beermats at precisely the same moment. Supreme synchronous drinking legends. Complete legends.

There had been very little exchange of words between the lads over the past number of minutes. It was all about comfortable companionship without any rush or urgency. Their silence was very much out of trend with the rest of the pub, but this was of no consequence to them. Eventually JP threw in a starter….

              “I think I may have just invented a new phrase.”

The two other lads looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

              “Wouldn’t be the bleedin’ first time.”

              “Won’t be the bleedin’ last.”

They went back to their pints for another synchronous visit. Clearly in any normal dynamic the next most obvious line of communication would have been for Rasher or Mono to enquire what was the substance of this new phrase. This would then have been followed by an explanation and a discussion or relative merits and acceptance. However, this engagement did not follow any usual format or custom. More likely Mono and Rasher subconsciously didn’t want to encourage this direction of conversation for fear it would lead to some boring, over-philosophical and mind-numbing places where only JP could find some amusement. Thus, they ignored him.

What was obviously required was some quick diversionary tactic. Rasher was first in.

              “I think we should raise a toast to ‘Donleavy’s’. I mean the rest of the known world has gone batshit crazy and here we are in the only sane dominion left on the globe.”

              “Too right.”

              “To ‘Donleavy’s’. Utopia with kegs and a bleedin’ counter.”

They clinked glasses and reduced the glass volume to precariously close to the re-order point. Mono took up the responsibility and raised a finger in the air to signal to Donleavy that incoming was required. With the pub this busy, the reorder was possibly a bit late for comfort. Heaven forbid that they should be left with an empty glass except at exit time. However, Donleavy was keenly aware of their anxiety and put their order on fill ahead of some other requests. Panic averted. The benefits of a superior barman-customer relationship honed over many years.

While they awaited their fresh pints JP looked first to Mono on his right and then to Rasher on his left.

              “It’s funny that ya should mention the catastrophic state of the world.”

The two lads exchanged a glance.

              “Because in a way that is wha’ has inspired me new phrase.”

The two lads exchanged a groan. Diversionary tactic unsuccessful.

              “It’s a brave new world, isn’t it lads?”

The stereo of groans was meant to work as an answer.

              “….and we need new ways of dealin’ with all the madness. Am I right or am I right?”

Reluctant nods of assent. Who knew where this was going to end up?

By this stage pints had arrived and settled, and the subliminal messaging went out that it was appropriate to visit the pint glasses for another exhibition of legendary synchronous pint drinking. Glasses were returned to beer mats and mouths felt the movement of back of hand caress. The world may have been mad outside the confines of Donleavy’s but it was very sane inside. In fact, if only the governments and politicians of the world would just give the nod – there could be most of the problems of that world solved at this very bar counter. JP had settled back and was ready to go again.

              “Anti Hibernetic.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Nothing exchanged between the two of them that registered as any form of understanding. The thing now was which of the two would be willing to poke the bear. As it turned out there was no need. JP was going to keep going regardless.

              “Tha’s me new phrase.”

Rasher could hold back no longer.

              “Jayzus, JP. I have no clue wha’ the hell yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

JP looked at them both in turn.

              “It’s bleedin’ brilliant in its simplicity. It’s the magic bleedin’ response to anything. To everyone. In any situation.”

              “No idea still wha’ yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

              “Yer definitely witherin’ now JP. Y’ave fallen off the edge.”

JP had that contented look on his face that might even be described as an aura. He was positively glowing in their lack of clarity. He gave another subliminal signal to return to the pints. He clearly wanted to drive this moment to a crescendo.

They settled again.

              “Like I said. It’s simple lads.  Whoever says anything to ya – ya just accuse them of being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer lyin’ – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer dishonest – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya yer aggressive – – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. They tell ya the dog had pups – – ya tell them they are being Anti Hibernetic. I’m tellin’ ya – it’s the way to go – the way forward – don’t know why it took me so long to realise this. It’s a shaggin’ ‘get out jail free’ card.”

The two lads were still scratching their heads.

              “Trust me on this one lads. Just practise it a few times. I guarantee ya it’ll be like livin’ a Teflon life.”

Mono and Rasher weren’t one hundred percent convinced. JP went to the well again.

              “I tell ya wha’. We’ll go to the chipper and try a few practise runs there.”

              “Hey. Now yer talkin’. Battered cod and chips.”

              “Or maybe a battered sausage?”

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

They slipped off barstools and with a wave of the hand made their way through the still bustling patrons.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

JANUS COULD TELL YOU A THING OR TWO.

It was a typical winter’s midweek night in Donleavy’s. The pub was only lightly populated. The doors and windows were respectively shut tight and curtained to keep in as much heat as possible. The open fire slowly consumed large logs and burned glowingly in the wide hearth. If a winter season was necessary – then Donleavy’s was a good place to wait it out until the daffodils poked their heads up. JP, Rasher and Mono sat at their usual positions at the bar counter. The conversation had been sparse up to this point.  JP scanned the array of bottles across from him on the shelves. Donleavy really liked to collect alcoholic beverages from all over the world. JP often wondered did he actually sell any drink from these bottles or were they just like some sort of collector thing, like stamps or coins or model aircrafts. His scanning picked out Limoncello. Ah yes – Donleavy had shared some of this liqueur with them previously. Italian. Lemony – obviously! Nice refreshing taste. Italian – that sparked something in JP’s eccentric train of thought.

              “Hey lads. D’ya ever hear of Janus?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Genius O’Toole? Yer man who lives down The Avenue. A few sandwiches short of a picnic?”

              “Nah. Janus. A Roman God.”

              “Guess that’s a bit away from Genius O’Toole, so.”

They reached for their pints and indulged themselves in some synchronous pint drinking. Some buttock re-equilibration occurred, and everything settled back into a nice calm place.

              “So wha’ about him?”

              “Who?”

              “Janus!”

              “Oh yeah. He had two heads and could look backwards and forwards at the same time. They often put a bust of his head on doorways.”

              “Good thinkin’. I’d say Donleavy would love to have him as a bouncer on the door on Saturday nights. Very bleedin’ efficient tha’.”

              “True for ya. Donleavy would have ‘im signed up. Janus the bouncer.”

They went back to their pints for another synchronous visit. Same action. Same timing. Same volume. Same return to the bar counter. Poetry in motion.

              “Hey, JP. What of it? What ‘bout this Janus two-headed dude.”

              “Oh yeah. I forgot. I was thinkin’ of this Palestine situation.”

              “You and the rest of the bleedin’ world. How do ya pronounce yer man’s name. The war crimes fella?”

              “Well, there’s a couple of guys already dead, but its Deif on one side and Gallant and Netanyahu on d’other side.”

              “Yeah. The last fella – how do ya pronounce it?”

              “Net – en – ya -who.”

              “Yeah. A right bleedin’ yahoo if ya asked me.”

At this point Donleavy was gliding behind their area of the bar counter. As he slid past Mono threw out a question.

              “Hey Donleavy, how would you like a two headed bouncer. His name is Janus.”

Donleavy, never short of a quick response, was already past them while his words made their way back the counter.

              “Janus. D’ya know. Give me two of them. They can keep an eye on each other as well.”

The boys gave him a recognition guffaw.

It was approaching time for glass volumes to be given extra attention. Re-order triggers needed to be keenly observed if empty glasses (serious transgression!) were to be avoided. Subliminal messaging seemed to favour Rasher as the one to raise that finger in the air (no – not that one) – the universal signal for ‘same again’. While re-order was being taken care of, Mono attempted to get the conversation realigned.

              “Still not tunin’ in to yer frequency JP, what are we even talkin’ ‘bout?

JP looked left to right and pushed out his chest.

              “Ah yes. Janus and Yahoo. Well, if Yahoo would only be a bit more like Janus, he wouldn’t just look back but try lookin’ forward as well. Then he might realise that he’s not wipin’ out his troubles. In fact, he’s makin’ sure that the troubles go on for decades to come.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “How so, JP, sure the bleedin’ country is in ruins. Did ya see the pictures?”

              “Well, the Gaza boys shouldn’t have done what they did, but just you imagine if you were a recruitment bod in the future. Just imagine. A couple of pictures and the mention of 2024. They’ll be signing up in their droves. Ya can’t completely wipe out a nationalist movement. It just doesn’t happen. Ask history. Ask Janus.“

              “Jayzus. Ya could be right, JP. And Yahoo will have moved on. He won’t have to see what happens in the future.”

They went back to their pints. There was quiet contemplation as each, no doubt, conjured up their view of the future. Maybe. Maybe they were only contemplating whether a burger or battered fish would go better with the inevitable visit to the ‘chipper’ at the end of the evening. It was Rasher again who broke the silence and pushed the conversation on.

              “Yahoo won’t see much of what happens in the future.”

It was a bald statement. JP sought some additional clarification.

              “That’s very probably correct. He’s no spring chicken. Is tha’ wha’ ya mean.”

Rasher looked to them both.

              “Yeah. That. But they are all chasin’ him down. Not only on the war crimes gig but do I remember that he’s up on corruption charges as well?”

              “Jayzus yer bang on Rasher. Only thing that stopped him being put in the dock for bribery and fraud was the ‘Rona Virus first and then followed by the war crimes.”

              “Ya’d have to wonder.”

              “Deffo.”

It was getting to that point in the evening where decisions needed to be made. Another pint? Or a trip to the ‘chipper’. Sometimes these decisions followed a democratic process – a proposal was made and then voted upon with majority deciding. Sometimes the communication was at a subliminal level and decisions got made without the need for overt communication. One way by which the latter would occur would be when the reorder level in the pint glass occurred without any of the three beckoning additional incoming. That was a tacit, unspoken agreement that upon draining of the current pint the pub night was at an end. This seemed to be the case in this instance. Critical volume level in the glass was reached and none of our heroes signalled to Donleavy. Therefore – this was it. Last pint of the evening. No words required. Intentions understood.

              “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

              “Wha’?”

              “Yahoo has been declared a criminal and he, no doubt, will be supported by the bullyboy, orange criminal in DC.”

              “Ya couldn’t write this shit.”

              “Yeah. Well, ya could. But no one would believe it. Too far-fetched.”

They mused on this for a while. Each in their own thoughts regarding this new world order. One which they would not, or could not, have ever predicted. One which their parents would have tut-tutted as being outlandish daydreaming. One which their children would have to clean up to get the world back to some reasonable semblance of normality and maturity.  JP took them into the next level of conversation.

              “I think in these days we all have to be open to different approaches.”

There was no take up to progressing this idea until Mono made the enquiry.

              “So, are ya suggestin’ somethin’, JP?”

              “I am indeed Mono. I’m suggestin’ we try somethin’ different this evenin’. “

              “Wha’?”

              “How ‘bout a battered sausage? Ya’d get fed up with the burgers or fish.”

              “Sounds like a mighty idea.”

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

The pundits would have completely backed a choice of either fish or burger. But the ‘chipper’ actually did a superb battered sausage. This would become evident later when the three amigos chased some battered sausages down with wonderfully fried chips lathered with salt and vinegar. All it took was a little bit of out-of-the-box thinking to open up new vistas and better outcomes.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

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.