JP@Donleavy’s

The atmosphere in Doneavy’s was relaxed. The days were getting longer and warmer. The daylight was still streaming through any windows that Donleavy hadn’t curtained off. Everyone’s spirits were lifted a little with the advent of Summer. The daffodils had announced their arrival and then been dead-headed weeks ago. Early crops of potatoes were giving air to their dark green leaves and giving the weeds a good run for their money. The first tomato flowers were appearing and promising to turn into a nice juicy fruit in a short time. Promise was in the air.

None of these horticultural items occupied the minds of our famous three as they occupied their usual barstools at Donleavy’s counter. Much more pertinent was the slow convection taking place with the creamy waves finding their way atop of the black volumes in their pint glasses. Each had his own thoughts as they waited for that line of settlement between black and white to be razor sharp. Each would show time-honoured patience to arrive at the pint where optimum separation had occurred. This was the moment of perfect relaxation, and each took the opportunity to allow life’s gears to drop down and coast to a near standstill. JP gave an almost imperceptible nod and Rasher and Mono took the signal that resulted in the most perfect harmony and synchronous pint-drinking that you are ever likely to witness.

Pint glasses were replaced on beer mats and relaxed sighs were emitted. All was good with the world. A contented silence rested between them. There was no immediate need for conversation to be initiated. Maybe not even on this pint. JP stared ahead into the big mirror behind the array of spirit bottles that were on display behind the bar counter. Somewhere in that mirror was typically a focal point that got his neurons dancing. Tonight was no exception.

              “Lads. Isn’t bureaucracy killing the world as we know it?”

It was fired out as a rhetorical question. Rasher and Mono let it echo around their heads for a while to see whether they’d bother with a response. It didn’t matter. If they didn’t, JP would just granulate his argument to another level. Truth be known – if neither talked – JP would entertain his audience with a monologue. But friends needed to help each other. So that’s exactly what Rasher did.

              “Jayzus, JP. Wha’ kind of a bleedin’ question is that? Sure everyone feckin’ knows bureaucracy is there to grind ya down so tha’ all tha’s left of ya is a worthless stump.”

Mono helped as well.

              “Too bleedin’ right. Most bleedin’ pencil pushers weren’t breast fed or no-one returned their toy when they flung it outta the pram, or they were bullied in school. It’s a lifelong revenge thing. I’m bleedin’ sure of it.”

They nodded their heads and let that sink in. It was good that they found a focal point of agreement. It was such a nice day it wouldn’t have made sense to take a controversial topic that might involve taking sides. Less risk here. Much improved chance of departing the pub each of them on the same smiling page.

JP initiated another cycle of pint drinking which was accompanied by Rasher posting a finger in the air allowing Donleavy to interpret a request for further libations. JP took to the stage again.

              “Bleedin’ drones.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. One of them needed to take the bait for this fishing exercise to continue. JP went back to cradling his pint and finding his preferred focal point in the bar mirror. He was the quintessential relaxed fisherman who had put out the lure and had all the time in the world to wait for a reaction. Eventually it was Rasher who, after circling the statement for as long as he could hold out, snapped at the tempting soundbite.

              “What the feck have you got against drones, JP? You havin’ problems with the paparazzi now? Eh? Did the paps film ya skinny dippin’ in the ‘Forty Foot’? Is tha’ it? Have yer fans now realised that ya suffer with the cripplin’ challenge of penile inferiority?”

Mono gave a healthy guffaw in support of the response. JP issued a withering look both left and right.

              “I won’t let ya drag this conversation down. I’m above all tha’.”

The two lads did some mock ‘oohs’.

              “What I’m referrin’ to is how the airport was shut down a number of times recently due to ludramons flyin’ bleedin’ drones around the airport runway. I mean wha’ are they like?”

The two lads nodded in assent.

              “Oh…and by the way, my tool is a thing of beauty, sculpted like some of those Italian statues of Eros.”

The two lads guffawed in stereo. Mono took up the response this time.

              “Yer dead right JP. Have ya seen how small the mickeys are on those Roman statues. And remember – we’ve seen ya in the shower after soccer. Ya needed a tweezers to wash under it.”

JP indignantly tries to steer the conversation away from his private parts and back to the serious nature of the subject.

              “D’ya not get where I’m goin’ with the drones and the bureaucracy thing?”

              “Naw.”

              “Me neither.”

              “Not unless there’s a new EU rule ‘bout minimum todger length if swimmin’ in the nip.”

              “Jayzus, lads. It’s bleedin’ hard to have a serious conversation.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. This was too good to be true. Like playing tennis and someone throws up a lob that you’re standing under right at the net. Or playing soccer with the ball coming to you in front of an open goal. This was too easy. So easy that the two boys couldn’t decide which one would take it further.

              “JP. I’m sayin’ this to ya as – I’d like to think – as one of yer closest friends. But if yer gettin’ a hard-on when you’re havin’ a serious conversation – or worse still – that ya need a hard-on to have a serious conversation – ya need to go see someone that can help ya. Cause it’s not normal.”

The two lads nearly lost themselves in convulsions of laughter. It was going to rank as one of the all-time great responses. Perhaps to be dragged out multiple times in the future – ‘are ya OK with the conversation, JP. Givin’ ya a good stiffy? Yeah’. Oh yeah. This was future gold.

JP sighed in despair. He decided the best course of action was to just keep going on with his train of thought. Though he had a foreboding sense that he may have lost the dressing room. It was time to drive on regardless.

              “So here’s the bureaucracy thing. The airport is shut down for periods. Yeah?”

“Jayzus, JP. Don’t start talkin’ about periods, will ya. Bad enough wha’ ye’ve come up with so far.”

              “Feck sake, Rasher. Yer as bad.”

It was true. The dressing room was lost. All JP could do now was make the summary point and exit quickly.

              “The government, even with closed airports, said they needed to enact legislation to deal with the drones.”

The lads didn’t look like interrupting so JP quickly piped up with his next thoughts.

              “The Ryanair fella, direct as ever, said shoot the feckin’ things outta the sky. There and then. Wha’ were the drone owners goin’ do? Sue? And even if they did, the Government’d still win.”

Rasher and Mono still seemed to be listening.

              “There’s a time to do somethin’ and a time to flute abou’, thinkin’ of the next thing.”

Rasher and Mono were deep in thought.

Rasher spoke.

              “I think we should do somethin’.”

The two others looked towards him with anticipation.

              “I think we should go for a cod and chips.”

There were signs of agreement.

              “Give Donleavy the nod there.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

JP, Mono and Rasher sat in their time-honoured positions at the bar counter. It was midweek. The bar was quiet. The three amigos were quiet. Each looked down into the creamy surface of their pint. Each in his own way waiting for that catalyst to materialise out of the pint glass and infuse the conversation. Their glaze was momentarily distracted to the Velux roof windows where the rain was now pounding the glass surface and demanding attention.

‘ That’s a bleedin’ wet one.’

‘Ya can whistle that.’

‘Yeah. Only rained twice this week so far. Once on Sunday for two days and then again on Monday for another two days.’

They guffawed. An old joke. Half joking. Half in earnest. The gallows laugh.

They comforted themselves with a synchronous visit to their pints. Mono saw that the glasses, when returned to their beer mat resting places, were getting perilously close to critical low volumes. He immediately raised a finger in the air to catch Donleavy’s attention. No words were required to exchange but the message was received loud and clear. Donleavy set about his task to efficiently replace what currently rested in front of the three lads. A really satisfying outcome was achieved when a last drain of the current volume was executed at the exact moment the incoming pints were placed on the existing beer mats. That’s experience. That would happen here. The pub was quiet, and the changeover would happen quickly. The call had been put in at just the right time. On another night, with a busier crowd, then there could have been some anxiety. The only time a glass should be accompanied in an empty state is those seconds before final draining and pub exit. Anything else represents anxiety and can ruin an entire evening.

The silence between our three amigos was not unusual. Sometimes they would sit there for long extended periods of time, each with his own private reflections, bonded together by only that almost imperceptible signal to reach for their respective glass and execute another synchronous cycle of pint drinking. On this occasion, it was JP who threw in a conversation opener.

              “Sometimes the law is an ass.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They shrugged. Mono volunteered to take the bait.

              “What is it this time, JP? Speedin’ tickets? Parkin’ fine? Didn’t pay yer TV license?”

Rasher had that extra time to think.       

              “Feck it, JP. The taxman has finally caught up with ya. I knew he would eventually.”

Mono tossed in another curve to the conversation.

              “Jayzus Rasher. It could be a taxwoman. Gender balance and all tha’. Is tha’ it, JP? Has a taxwoman finally caught ya out and done ya over?”

JP looked down the full length of his nose at his two drinking partners. It was ‘disdainful look’ number thirty-six from his playbook of unimpressed looks. Such looks, however, never stopped the two boys from seeking out a sensitive spot to hammer home a friendly advantage. JP made sure to clarify:

              “It’s nothing to do wit’ me. You pair are worse than a couple of smirkin’ hyenas or circlin’ vultures. Remind me not to rely on ye for unconditional support.”

              “No bother, JP.”

              “Here for ya all the way.”

They each took another gulp. The conversation was open. The field was wide.

              “I’m sayin’….”, JP paused for extra effect, “I’m sayin’ that the bleedin’ law shags things up sometimes.”

              “Wouldn’t doubt it. But – what’s on yer mind.”

              “Bloody criminals who get off on technicalities. The warrant wasn’t right. The mobile phone stuff shouldn’t have been used. It was entrapment. This thing about ‘inadmissible’ – whatever the hell that means.”

Rasher and Mono let this sink in for a while. There was a lot to absorb here in one sitting. Clearly JP had given some thought to this and they were only playing catch up. Neither of them responded. They looked at each other. JP took this as permission to expound further.

              “I mean to say – Jayzus – I’d be givin’ the detective lads….or girls…”

Mono smiled at this.

              “….I’d be givin’ them a bonus if they were clever enough to think up and execute an entrapment. Fair dues and all tha’.”

Rasher and Mono gave some further thought to that and Rasher signaled another cycle of imbibing to make sure the neurons were well enough oiled to take all of this in their cranial stride. When the glasses were returned to their beer mats and any wiping of lips had been completed, JP got back on the soapbox.

              “It’s all fecked up, i’n’it?”

No reply required.

              “It’s all fecked up because the only thing that should happen is that the detective boys and girls should get a little slap on the wrist for being less than perfect. Johnny Criminal….or Jane Criminal….”

Mono couldn’t help smiling.

              “….Johnny and Jane have had another piece of evidence showing that they are low-down, malevolent, foul-smellin’, guttersnipes of questionable parentage. So that is what should stick.”

JP took time to see how this was going down. The boys were still coming up to speed.

“Let’s say, Rasher, that I get a warrant to search yer house and find all sorts of guilty stuff. Shergar’s head. The knife you used with the blood still on it and yer fingerprints still on it. Yer bloody fingerprints on the wall. All sorts of guilty stuff. Why would all that be thrown out because the wrong date was on the warrant? Doesn’t make sense. I mean – dock me a day’s pay for me makin’ an arse of the warrant – but you should still go down.”

Mono looked at Rasher with piercing eyes.

              “You’re a complete bastard, Rasher. I loved that horse. Won some lovely bets on him. And you – ya heartless swine. Ya not only killed him. Ya bleedin’ decapitated him as well. Yer bang on JP. Rasher needs to go down. Feck the warrant.”

Rasher pushed his two hands out in front of him. This was all getting a bit out of hand.

              “Hey. Hey. Hey. I’m innocent. I have an alibi. I was away on a fishing holiday with Lord Lucan. He can vouch for me.”

              “Ah well. That’s OK so.”

They went back to their pints. A period of silence and calm descended again. Donleavy was called into action and like the efficient bar owner that he is – he delivered the incoming like as if he floated on a cushion of air behind the bar counter. JP scratched his chin. He wasn’t finished with his crusade. There needed to be another phase, another level of discussion. The itch on his chin was one thing but he had another itch that needed vigorous scratching.

              “It’s a clusterfuck, lads. That’s wha’ it is.”

              “Ah Jayzus, JP, it’s as good as any other pint that Donleavy has served.”

              “Yeah. That’s bleedin’ harsh JP, very bleedin’ harsh.”

JP looked from one to the other. JP always sat in the middle stool flanked by his lieutenants. It also made the scanning process that bit slower and sharper as JP moved his head from side to side. The message was transmitted. They were discounting his serious points. He was less than pleased. He decided to ignore their foolishness.

              “So let me take you as an example, Mono.”

              “Ah for feck sake, JP. Don’t be making an example of me, will ya?”

              “You killed my wife…”

              “What the….”

              “The detectives take your phone and are able to confirm that you were in my house at the time and that ya sent a text to Rasher to help you move the body.”

              “Hey. Don’t drag me into this. I’m already coppin’ enough stick for killin’ Shergar.”

              “Are you tellin’ me that this shouldn’t be used to lock you up for life.”

They all thought about this for a while. JP would be feeling quare sick if Mono was to get off because of some European Court technicality of storing and using mobile phone stuff. There was another period of quiet and reflection. There were a few cycles of synchronous pint drinking. Eventually Mono broke in.

              “Look JP, I’m sorry about your wife. Honest I am. And I would never kill her. And in my defence – you said lots of times you’d murder her yerself if she stopped you from comin’ out to Donleavy’s.”

Rasher interrupted sharply.

“Hey – that’s your legal team deflectin’ blame. Bleedin’ great strategy. I’ve heard JP say hundreds of times he’d murder her.”

This time both JP and Mono shot dirty looks. Rasher held his hands up in defence.

              “Only sayin’….”

Mono continued.

              “But if we let the police look into everythin’ we’re doin’ – isn’t that goin’ to be like a 1964 thing?”

              “1984.”

              “Whatever.”

They went back to their pints. There might be more pints in this discussion than just one trip to Donleavy’s. This could be a multi-pint, many visit topic. With every respect to our three amigos – they knew when they should shift their priority of thought.

              “Should be go for chips and a battered cod?”

              “Think that might be the best option on the table.”

              “No table. Take-away.”

              “Figure of speech.”

              “Loose talk costs lives.”

              “Button it there and give Donleavy the nod.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

JP, Rasher and Mono settled themselves on their bar stools. The drinks had already been signalled to Donleavy who was midway through that magical exercise of filling pint glasses with the black stuff. Any anxiety of a delay in the receipt of incoming was therefore dispelled and the three lads could content themselves with buttock shifting until they found that optimum spread of support versus comfort. JP was probably the first of the three to reach that state. At least if you interpret the contented sigh that arose from him as a positive indicator. With equilibrium established, each of the three looked ahead into the bar counter mirror while they awaited the first of the night. This was no establishment for vanishing into mobile phones screens. Neither for TVs nor piped music. Come to mention it – no vending machines, no jukeboxes, no games, or gaming machines. Donleavy ran a proper pub. And he was proud of it. JP, Rasher and Mono would support Donleavy to the edge of the world and then over the side.

Three creamy pints appeared. Already settled. There was no need for any delay to admire the eddies of the settling process. It was done. JP gave an almost imperceptible movement of his head and the synchronous pint drinking of our three amigos commenced. After a suitable and almost exactly equal volume was swallowed – and glasses were returned to the beer mat on the counter – contented sounds emanated from all three. There was then a brief moment of silence where each was absorbed in their own private thoughts.

Finally, JP broke the silence.

              “If ya had yer chance again would ya do it all differently?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at JP.

              “Don’t think so, JP. Think I’d drink the same amount. Kinda have it down to a fine art at this stage.”

Mono piped in as quick as a spit hopping off a hot shovel.

              “Nah, JP. These are our barstools. Have been – like – forever. People expect us to sit here. Nah. Can’t see what good it’d be to sit somewhere else.”

JP looked from left to right and back again and scowled at them. The two boys ignored him. Then they laid into him

              “Jayzus JP, lighten up, will ya. We’ve just arrived. What ‘bout some sex or politics or religion as an easy opener two-marker question?”

              “Yeah, JP. The philosopher of the ages. Ya stone ya. That’s a bleedin’ question for after a third pint or maybe even a night full of whiskey chasers. What are ya thinkin’ of?”

              “Well, that’s the bleedin’ night ruined.”

              “Yeah – I’d just got so comfortable I’d let out a sneaky fart. Now me sphincter is as tight as a cat’s arse in a vice.”

              “Jayzus, JP. We might have to go out and come in and start again.”

None of this took an ounce out of JP. He was well used to the exaggerated dramatics of his drinking partners. It ran off him like water off a duck’s back. They each went to the well of the pint glasses for more hydration and alcohol absorption. Equilibrium was re-established.

              “But I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout this. Now – who are the guys who think ya come back?”

              “Donleavy. He knows we’ll be back.”

“Our wifes? Maybe? But then again – maybe they pray each night that we won’t come back. Fecked if I’m sure on that one.”

“Me bookie. He loves to see me back. Only short of huggin’ me each time he sees me. I must have funded a villa in Provence for him at this stage.”

              “Don’t know who else after that.”

JP looked to the heavens. He made a point of letting out a very long breath.

              “D’ya actually bleedin’ know or not?”

Rasher looked contrite.

“Actually, JP. I think there’s a few of them. Buddhists, Sikhs, Hindus. I think all of them think they’re goin’ come back as world class cricketers.”

JP let out another long breath.

“Was that so beedin’ hard? Ya knew the answer all the time. I hope ya’r goin’ mind that chain now that ya yanked it off me.”

“I was actually aimin’ to pull yer wire JP, so I fecked up. Yer bloody chain is no use to me. Here – have the bloody thing.”

Volumes were getting dangerously low. It was Mono who first noticed it and took the responsibility and with a finger in the air, a clear signal was given to Donleavy that swift replenishment was required.  Donleavy went about his task with his customary gusto. There is no greater anxiety than empty glass anxiety. It can cripple an evening. Mono had averted a potential catastrophe. He needed no thanks. It was all part of friendship.

As they settled into the replenished beverages an air of serenity descended once more. Nothing like a fresh pint to calm a troubled soul. The bar counter mirror went back to it’s job of absorbing the stares of our heroes. Direct stares. Reflected stares. Stares deflected off spirit bottles. This mirror had seen it all and was ready for any optics. This time it was Rasher who interjected into the silence.

“I’m guessin’ I wouldn’t change much. It’s been OK. I mean a bit of extra moolah never goes astray. If I could change it around the edges that there’d be more shekels, yo-yos, dosh – yeah – that wouldn’t go astray.”

They all ruminated on this for a while.

              “What ‘bout you Mono?”

Mono felt he needed another shot from the pint before he could articulate a response. They all joined in the additional aliquot to give him support. He changed his head position multiple times before he gave it air.

“It’s been OK. I had a decent childhood. I remember fun. Teachers hit me. But no abuse. Nobody messed with me willy or me head. I got some education. I gotta job. I have a wife and children. Good friends. Except you two reprobates. Apart from you two – me life’s not bad.”

They all smiled at other. There was a lapse in the conversation. Mono and Rasher almost aired in stereo.

              “….and wha’ ‘bout you JP? What’s the story, Rory?”

JP took a long time before answering. He loved the dramatic pause. Loved to create the sense of anticipation. Even with an audience of only two, he liked to milk it for all that it was worth. He eventually gave forth – getting it out in that millisecond just before the delay would fester into abuse.

“Feck – yes. I’d do it all completely different. Every last little, tiny, drop. Every shaggin’ thing.”

The two lads sat bolt upright in their seats. This was as unexpected as if Donleavy had arrived with three pints of lager.

              “Wha’ the feck?”

              “I don’t believe ya JP.”

JP had their attention.

“What the hell’s the point in goin’ thru this one and not learnin’ enough to make it different. Change and grow – isn’t that what the feckers say. Well then – in another future me wouldn’t be here skullin’ pints. I’d be quaffin’ fine wines and brandy and spirits in some upmarket waterin’ hole.”

              “Jayzus, don’t let Donleavy hear ya. We’ll be barred.”

The two lads thought some more.

              “But we’d all still be mates, yeah? That wouldn’t change. Yeah?”

JP thought for a while.

“I doubt if we’d be hoofin’ around in the same circles. So – we’d probably never even meet. So – I guess not.”

Looks of incredulity and then darkness waved over the faces of Mono and Rasher.

“What the actual feck, JP? You’re saying we wouldn’t be good enough for ya in the next life. Well maybe we’re not even good enough for ya now? Is that what yer drivin’ at? Dickhead.”

“Hey. Hey. Hey. Stall the digger. Hold the pony. Hold on. Hold on. I never said an’thin’ like tha’. You said ya weren’t changin’ in the next world. Yer were goin’ to be exactly the same. I said I’d probably be elsewhere. That’s it. You decided. Don’t lay it all on me.”

The two lads were not mollified. They were still seething. Some active volcanos probably had less pent-up lava.

              “Feck it JP, I never saw ya for one that’d turn on us.”

             “Yeah. JP. Turncoat. Traitor. Never saw ya as one to take the shillin’.”

JP let out a heavily exasperated sigh. One that seemed to go on and on past what a normal lungful would generate. His chin dropped to his chest.

“Jayzuz, lads. Feck sake. We’ll always be friends. Tight as a zebra’s buttocks lookin’ into the jaws of a lion.”

The two lads looked less than convinced.

“I’m sorry I even brought up the subject. And….Jayzus….it’s not even this life.  We’re talkin’ about the next life. Give a chap a bleedin’ break will ya?”

The two lads still didn’t look to be softening in their stance to any degree.

              “What can I say to convince ya?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. There were a few moments of quiet. It was Rasher who broke the silence.

              “It might help the situation if ya stand for a fresh cod and chips for us both.”

              “Jayzus. Yeah. Whatever.”

              “And onion rings.”

              “Feck. Yeah. Whatever.”

              “And a Club Orange.”

              “Yeah. Yeah.”

              “And a deep-fried Mars bar.”

“Ah….here….you’re tearin’ the arse out of it now. Ya can feckin’ rot in the next life for all I care.”

“OK. Hold the Mars bar.”

They drained their drink.

              “Give Donleavy the nod there. We’ll get to the chipper before the crowd.”

Just another night in Donleavys.

Middle of December in Donleavy’s. The place was jointed with people. The purse strings were obviously beginning to loosen. The pub was rocking. You could hardly hear yourself think. Donleavy was up and down behind the bar like a man on roller skates. You would have expected the man – even with his bulk – to do a pirouette at the mid bar counter point. JP, Mono and Rasher were well into the spirit of things. Though they would always say that their preference was for a quiet Donleavy’s – the upbeat atmosphere was positively overwhelming. The lads were ensconced on their bar stools and the part of the bar counter which was their natural right was being respected. It was almost like they were holding court with the number of people who lined up to wish them all the very best for the festive season. There was very little time for our three amigos to discuss the important items of the day or the bigger aspects of life as hands were shook, backs were clapped, shoulders were grasped – and all in the most good humoured and cheerful way. Sometimes the well wishers were known to all three of our heroes and proceeded to greet from one to the other. Sometimes the greetings were specific to only one of the triumvirate. The net effect was that three-way conversation at these bar stools was almost impossible. But that was OK. Donleavy was keeping on top of the incoming provision of drink orders and they were never left in any feeling of insecurity of the continuity of supply. That was what was most important in ensuring a comfortable relaxed night out.

A gap in the line of well wishers appeared out of nowhere. The trio relaxed their shoulders, and all pointed their gaze towards the bar mirror and the array of spirit bottles in front of it. Only when they did this was there a realisation that their shoulders had been permanently angled away from the counter for the last while. It took a minute or two to relax them back into their natural positions. Shoulders were flexed individually and together. A natural equilibrium was restored.  JP opened the conversation account with a pertinent observation.

“Well, lads. Looks like Christmas season has well an’ truly started.”

“Yeah. Forget ‘bout Christmas trees as a sign of Christmas. Donleavy’s throbbin’ with bodies – that’s the real indicator.”

“Too right. None of this turnin’ on the town lights stuff. When Donleavy puts his twinkly lights along the bar mirror. That’s the signal.”

They nodded in agreement. For this moment of harmony there was an ease with the world. Hardly likely to last. One or other or other would typically throw a grenade over the wall if the going got too good. Usually – it was JP. On this occasion it was Rasher. He already had that mischievous look in his eye.

              “The real meanin’ of Christmas has been lost. Gone. Kaput. Dead.”

Rasher pursed his lips and issued a defiant stare to each in turn. Just lobbing the ball up in the air waiting for the smash return.

              “Ah Jaysuz. Don’t start that craic.”

              “Yeah. Feck it. That T-shirt is well worn out. Bin it.”

Rasher looked away, sucked in his cheeks, and stared into the middle distance.

              “Ah now lads. That wasn’t the reaction I expected. D’ya not think we’ve embraced too much commercialism and that Christianity has been the loser.”

              “Feck sake Rasher…. ‘Embraced too much commercialism’.”

              “Jaysuz…’Christianity has been the loser’.”

              “Have you feckin’ been listenin’ to too many podcasts again?”

              “What the hell.”

Rasher put on a hurt luck on his face. But it was too feigned. He’d lost the dressing room at this stage. The two other lads just ignored him. But only momentarily. JP took up the baton and continued the relay.

              “I will say somethin’.”

              “Well – that will be unusual.”

              “Yeah – like yer the quiet one.”

It was JP’s turn to now put on the feigned hurt expression.

              “I will say somethin’.”

He said it again with menacing emphasis. Inviting Rasher and Mono to stop him in his tracks.

              “I wish ya a Happy Christmas.”

The two lads were momentarily taken off balance. Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Mono felt he needed to make some response.

              “Eh…yeah….like….Happy Christmas.”

Rasher still had a quizzical look on his face. Trying to regain some context. JP looked at them both again and replied even more determinedly.        

              “Have you go tha’? I wish ya a Happy bleedin’ Christmas.”

There were wavelengths crossing here. Rasher and Mono were picking up serious static. Rasher felt he need to pitch in at this point.

              “OK. OK. A Happy shaggin’ Christmas to you too. Season’s feckin’ greetin’s. Yuletide bleedin’ joy. What the feck.”

              There was a momentary silence. JP raised a finger in the air to secure more incoming from the Dancing Donleavy. Best to not take any chances with the supply chain. He looked at each of his drinking compatriots in turn. He allowed himself a smile. He picked up his glass and raised it in the air in a toast-like fashion.

              “Cheers, gentlemen. I’m proud of ya. So very proud of ya both.”

The two lads had automatically raised their glasses without appreciation of what was actually going on. Glasses clinked. Mystery prevailed. Eyebrows were raised.

              “It’s Christmas.”

Eyebrows were raised further.

              “We feckin’ know tha’.”

              “No. It’s Christmas. It’s not holidays. It’s feckin’ Christmas.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Yes – it was Christmas – but there was a certain Christmas penny that didn’t seem to have dropped. That, and it seemed like JP was on FM whereas the two boys were on long wave. Dots were screaming against being joined.

              The pints arrived which provided a favourable distraction. Dregs were drained, glasses rearranged, beer mat locations optimised. The sense of incompleteness would still not go away. Rasher couldn’t take in anymore.

              “OK, JP. Wha’ the feck. Wha’ are ya witherin’ on abou’?”

JP gave a subliminal signal that initiated another round of synchronous drinking before he replied.

              “Happy Holidays”, he said slowly and with a sneer on his face. “If any fecker even tries to wish me Happy Holidays – I swear – I’ll swing for him. It’s bleedin’ Christmas. Holidays are what ya do when you go to the coast or the campsite or the mountains or the hotel by the beach. This is shaggin’ Christmas.”

The two boys looked at each other and you could see the light bulb illuminate above each of their heads.    

              “You are so bleedin’ right.”

              “Course I’m shaggin’ right.”

              “World has gone mad.”

              “Yeah. Next – it’ll be Happy Holidays that occur at the start of the year.”

              “….or Happy Festival that we won’t call Yom Kippur.”

              “….or Happy Not Eatin’ Sun Up to Sun Down that we won’t call Ramadan.”

They clinked their glasses in violent agreement and took another good slug.

              A period of calm followed where the background noise of pub revelry was unbroken by our heroes. They were happy with their company and the contents of their pint glasses. Mono eased a question in.

              “Will we go for chips after this?”

              “Why break the habits of a lifetime.”

              “Yeah – we’ll spoil ourselves with a battered sausage.”

              “Better make sure to wish Donleavy a Happy Holiday in case we don’t see him again.”

              “Watch it!”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

It was a Wednesday night in Donleavy’s at the start of December. The pub was quiet. People were clearly hoarding their money for a pre-Christmas splurge. Pennies were being piled up to commit to excessive drinking, shouting, contrived good humor and general innocent misbehavior blamed on the speedy journey of ethanol to the brain. One could imagine the neurons in the prefrontal cortex putting up brave flood defenses in the forehead, keeping the eyes focused for as long as possible. But then ultimately, they would get swamped and drowned as wave after wave of alcohol took them out one by one. The last few neurons could probably be heard gagging on their final breath as they vainly tried to maintain the personality of their owner and warn of the consequences – only to be finally swept away with their cautions drowned out by the tsunami alcohol rush. Donleavy’s pub would be heaving with sweaty and noisy bodies then.

But this was only the beginning of December. It was quiet. That was the way JP, Mono and Rasher preferred it to be. They could relax and take life slowly. In truth – Donleavy preferred it this was as well. Although he would never object to the cash register filling up with those hoarded pennies. He’d also never object to the credit card machine nearly melting from the heat of excessive use and a symphony of ‘taps’. But it was nicer this way. Donleavy’s wasn’t Weatherspoon’s after all. Donleavy’s was Donleavy’s.

Our three heroes applied Physics and shifted buttocks on their respective bar stools to find that optimum arrangement where pressure was spread in as near perfect equal distribution as was humanly possible. Donleavy engaged Chemistry as he allowed the diffusion of layers in the three, pint glasses to reach a critical mixing before applying the remaining volume, resulting in an almost magical separation of black and cream liquid. He presented his work to JP, Rasher, and Mono onto strategically positioned beer mats.

               “Pints, gentlemen”, he announced with the understatement of a confident master craftsman.

               “Cheers, Donleavy.”

“Black magic.”

“The choice of champions.”

They each took a minute to enjoy the moment of their pints. To defer the satisfaction. Then with an almost invisible and imperceptible motion of the head from JP, the signal for synchronous pint drinking had been sent. Hands reached out. Highly trained reflexes each imbibed an exactly equal aliquot across the three glasses. Glasses were then returned to original starting places. Each allowed himself an elongated exhalation of breath. All was good with the world. The fact that it was midweek, before the Christmas rush, and the pub was sparsely populated made the world an even better place. Nothing was said for a while. That was normal. Each man was luxuriating in his own thoughts. His own view of the world. Sharing would happen in its own good time.

Finally, JP broke the reveries.

“I got annoyed today.”

The two lads were in with supersonic speed.

               “Wha’?”

               “Nah. Couldn’t happen.”

JP shot a withering look from left to right to each of them in turn.

               “I got pissed off with a J-walker.”

The two lads chimed in behind him.

               “Feckin’ only right.”

               “Pure gobshites – some of ‘em.”

JP gave an uncharacteristic sigh.

               “I gave him everythin’. All I had. I stood on the horn. Opened the window and gave him the finger….and questioned his parentage.”

With lips forming an ‘O’, the two boys blew out long and hard.

               “He pissed me off. I hate feckin’ J-walkers. Particularly the ones who don’t look left nor right. Just walk out starin’ straight ahead.”

               “Yer dead right. They’re bastards.”

               “And the ones who do that – and put their hand in the air as if you’ve given them permission. Not only are they bastards. Their bleedin’ adoptive parents gave them back.”

               They mused on this violent agreement for at least another synchronous mouthful. JP intoned again.

               “Then I felt sorry.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

               “For wha’?”

               “You weren’t the one who bleedin’ stepped out in front of a killin’ machine.”

It seemed like an eternity before JP framed his next set of words. A couple of aborted attempts were initiated but amounted to very little. This was totally unlike a usually direct and concise JP. He pursed his lips and went for it again.

               “Why did I feel sorry?”

The question didn’t need a verbal response, just some encouraging body language from the other two amigos.

               “Well, it’s because we haven’t a bleedin’ breeze wha’s goin’ on in other lad’s lives. He could be hurryin’ home to a sick child. He could ‘ave been late for a funeral. He might ‘ave been rushin’ for cancer treatment.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

               “Jayzus, JP. Roll on shaggin’ Christmas. You’re some man to put a big, black, soggy blanket over a sunny day.”

               “Yeah. More likely the fecker parked in a handicapped space and was rushin’ back before he got clamped.”

               “….Or he was on his way to the court house – facing charges of cheating old people out of their life savings.”

               “….or he was ridin’ some other fellas moth and just saw him down the street.”

               “….or he’d just pick pocketed a teenager’s mobile phone.”

JP considered it all. He even rubbed his chin which was a sure sign he was taking everything seriously.

               “Jayzus, lads. I don’t know.”

               “You’re too bleedin’ sensitive today, JP. It must be Christmas comin’ up. I’d say the fecker was pure evil, myself.”

               “Yeah, JP. Probably a paedo.”

               “Jayzus, lads. I don’t know.”

Rasher and Mono exchanged glances. There were unwritten rules in the accepted behaviour of drinking at Donleavy’s and becoming over-personal was right at the top. Sex, politics, sports, religion, slagging – all fair game – but personal stuff – verboten. Sometimes it was difficult to stay on the right side of the line. But you had to be very sure it was worth straying even near to the line. Rasher agonised. Mono could even see the anguish in the lines on Rasher’s face. He knew something ground-breaking in the context of their conversations was about to happen.

               “JP. Are you sure yer OK?”

Mono felt the need to pitch in with Rasher. A line had definitely been crossed. One of those occasions where you may as well both go down together.

               “Yeah. JP. Definitely not like you. Normally you’d be all for pikin’ it in to the fecker. Are you feelin’ yerself today”

JP looked at them for a prolonged moment and then smiled.

               “Nah. Dirty rotten habit. Had to give it up. Makin’ me blind.”

They all guffawed. They atmosphere was broken and back to normal. Phew. That was a close one. Closest one in a long time. Who knew where you’d end up if you started getting into personal stuff. Could be Friendship Armageddon. Could be Donleavy’s Apocalypse.  Could be the Three Amigo Day of Reckoning. Far too much risk involved there. Way too dicey. Lucky – they had been saved and pulled back from the brink of the abyss. When you look down into the abyss there is no knowing what demons could be released. ‘Stranger Things’ meets ‘Donleavy’s Pub’. The Demogorgon on a route march. Doesn’t bear thinking about. A cold breeze and collective shudder ran through the bar. The three lads went for the comfort of the known. They took another synchronous gulp from their pints. The waves in the air around them settled down again. Nothing was further said. A peacefulness descended again.

After returning his pint glass to the beer mat, JP looked deeply down into the glass. The volume was reaching a critical point. Action was required.

               “Rasher. Give Donleavy the nod there. Yer round.”

Rasher prodded a finger into the air. The unspoken message was received loud and clear by Donleavy.

               “Jayzus. Thanks JP”, Rasher replied once the order had been received. “Too much going on. We could have ended up with empty glasses there.”

They each looked at the other with earnestness. Another potential crisis had been narrowly avoided. What if their glasses had run to empty? And what if there had been a power cut and Donleavy had not been able to pull further pints. Or what if there had been a crowd of punters all entering the bar together? And Donleavy couldn’t get to them. The only point at which a glass should be allowed to run empty was at the end of the evening and even then, only just before departing the bar. Any other scenario didn’t bear thinking about.

JP scratched his chin.

               “Will we go for a cod and chips after this one?”

               “Yeah. Why not. Makes sense.”

               “Sounds good to me”.

It had been a slightly different night in Donleavy’s.

It was a Saturday night in Donleavy’s. The crowd was beginning to thicken. JP, Mono and Rasher always had a virtual corridor of space around them at the bar. The majority of Donleavy’s clientele were regulars and – as such they knew that a fate worse than death awaited anyone who might sit on one of the three stools – and – they knew that there was an exclusion zone around the stools that needed to be respected.

A hum of voices pervaded the atmosphere but was not displeasing to the ear. The dying art of conversation was still strong in this societal oasis. Donleavy- the bar owner – had often said that it would take his decaying dead body before – TV, vending machines, piped or live music, jukeboxes, gaming or gambling machines or any other device that didn’t have a live beating heart – would find its way through the door. Guess you could say that Donleavy held firm to certain values and principles.

JP, Mono or Rasher had no qualms with this approach They liked a pub to be a place of convivial conversation. In fact, Mono would often tell the story of one occasion where they were away for a weekend in a rural village in the west of the country. The pints and the talk and the craic were great. But the ambiance was threatened by a pub band starting to tune up. Mono – quick as a flash – took up a whip round from the punters and was able to offer the band a bigger sum than they were getting from the bar owner if they’d just feck off. The band members were delighted. The bar owner was perplexed. He thought the drummer’s granny was already dead. Sometimes you have to be creative if you want to stick with your beliefs.

Back to the present. The three amigos were once again at their happiest. Three creamy pints magically settling in front of them. Eddies of black and cream swirling in random patterns until each found a home either side of the razor-sharp divide. When separation was absolutely confirmed there was an almost imperceptible nod of the head, and the ritual synchronised drinking began. Glasses were then returned to beermats and contented sighs came in triple harmony. Then a period of silence. All was good with the world. For this moment.

JP broke the moment.

“This country is a bleedin’ basket case”.

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. JP was prone to the big dramatic pronouncement, so neither was too surprised by the outburst. Clearly the statement was just begging for a request for clarification but neither wanted to be the first to capitulate. After what seemed like an eternity, Mono couldn’t take anymore. He exhaled noisily as he gave in.

“Don’t bleedin’ disagree there. But what in particular is currently pissin’ ya off about the Banana Republic?”

JP reached his hand out towards his pint and the other two instinctively followed his movements, making up a few milliseconds of lag, to allow all three individual hands to encircle the pint glasses at the same time.

After some moments of pause, JP reclaimed his soapbox.

“Ya know what everyone says the biggest problem is in the Banana Republic?”

“Yep , the two lads replied in stereo, ‘homelessness. Not enough houses.”

“No marks for that answer. Too easy. Yep. It’s a bleedin’ universal truth. No-one disagrees.”

JP threw his two arms in the air in an exhibition of exhaustion, defeat, and exasperation.

“And guess wha’?”

“Wha’?”

“There’s a big development delayed for six months because of needin’ to do an environmental study around a family of toads, of frogs, of croakers. The ribit lads.”

“Jayzus”, stereo response again.

“I’m all for animals and the environment and all tha’….but imagine being told that a frogs home is more important that your home.”

“Jayzus. Feck sake.”

“Nero fiddling with himself while his toes were getting warmer.”

The three amigos stared straight ahead into the bar mirror while they contemplated this topic. It was too soon since the last visit to the glasses to go back to the pints. Conversation had momentarily stalled which was usually a trigger to reach for the pints but in this case, there was an almost subliminal agreement that such a move would be too trigger happy. So, they stared into the bar mirror where all the goods forms of inspiration lurked tantalisingly behind the reflective surface. Mono broke the silence.

              “Feck it. There’s a time in life where ya just gotta say – ‘Feck the frogs this once’”

              “Bleedin’ pencil pushers have no brain sometimes.”

              “No feckin’ pencils anymore. We’ll have to call ‘em keyboard clackers.”

              “Too bleedin’ right.”

Back to the mirror. Sufficient time elapsed that there was no ill ease about reaching for the pint glasses. They each extended their forearms. Like slow moving pistons the travel was uniform and effective. After a satisfactory period of imbibing, they went back to their musings.

              “Do people know how to use their noggins anymore?”

              “Nah. Hide behind feckin’ policies and bleedin’ procedures.”

              “Yer on the money there. Nobody can – or wants – to make a shaggin’ decision.”

“Brain dead. Don’t have to think. Don’t want to think. A robot’d work it out better. Have more bleedin’ cop-on.”

              “I’m all for procedures. Don’t get me wrong. But there’s a time and a place.”

Donleavy was hovering up and down behind the bar. For a big heavy man, he seemed to glide along the bar counter like he was a human hovercraft. Rasher did a quick volume check of the glasses as Donleavy came into range and made a swift executive decision that an increase in inventory was called for. With a swift raising of Rasher’s finger, the signal was immediately interpreted cleanly by Donleavy and the barman reached for three new pint glasses as he floated past that section of the bar counter. All was therefore good with the world. The risk of glasses reaching empty before fresh incoming had been totally eliminated. Rasher felt good with his decision. A huge contribution to the feeling of security and comfort had been made. They could all relax a little further.

Maybe it was that additional step into that more laid-back world that prompted the next idea for the conversation – because Mono very quietly looked from one to the other of his drinking colleagues.

              “I have it.”

It was almost a whisper.

              “Well good thing yer whisperin’ it – because if it got out – ya’d be shunned.”

              “Nah. Seriously.”

              “I am serious. It could be contagious.”

JP called for a bit of order.

              “Let the man speak. He could be on to somethin’.”

              “On a bus to the doctor’s by the sound of it.”

JP’s brow became sterner, and his voice lowered an octave.

              “Rasher…”

Rasher put his hands up in the air but moved his bar stool a little bit away from the other two.

              “Don’t care. I don’t wanna catch it.”

JP stared at him.

              “Go on. Mono. You have the floor.”

              “….and a bit more besides by the sound of it.”

              “Jayzuz, Rasher. Leave it off, will ya?”

Rasher put his hands in the air again.

Mono collected his thoughts before he began.

              “Here’s the idea. Cut all the officials pay by fifty percent and make the rest, and even a bit more, dependent on them reachin’ a target. Like houses. Or homelessness. If it doesn’t happen. No moolah. No shekels. No yo-yos.”

Mono looked pleased with himself. The other two gave this a bit of thought. Eventually JP made a response.

              “Nice idea Mono. Not sure it’d work though.”

              “Why the hell not, JP?”

“Feckers would organise sheds for people. We’d end up with shanty towns worse than Mumbai.”

The lads digested this one.

              “Ya know wha’? Yer right. That’s exactly what’d happen.”

              “Yeah. Sometimes the frogs just need to take one for the team.”

              “Too right.”

They clinked their glasses.

              “To the frogs!”

The three lads – JP, Mono and Rasher – were seated comfortably at the bar counter in Donleavy’s. The weather had equilibrated back to normal after the searing heat of the previous week. Our three amigos had also settled back to a rhythm that suited them. Certainly, their buttocks had relaxed on the bar stools in their time-honoured fashion. All was good with the world. Nothing was pressing the conversation. Pints could be drunk in a leisurely fashion. Buttocks were spread, breathing was even, eyes stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. Synchronised pint drinking was based around small aliquots of liquid. Life moved along.

JP broke into the serenity after a while

“I was talkin’ to the nephew last week.”

He left this to sit there for a while.

“Is this the pharma executive one?”, Mono enquired for clarification.

JP inhaled long and hard and then let it all out through restricted lips. The breath came out like a noisy gale.

“Pharma executive me hole. Young fella was probably told to hang onto a clipboard for a minute while some other guy or gal tied their shoelaces. That’s probably as close as he’s got to executive status.”

“Harsh, JP.”

JP brought his lips back to where they were designed to rest.

“Maybe I am a bit harsh? He does have the fundamental quality of all executives.”

“What’s tha’?”

The question came back in stereo. Clearly both Rasher and Mono were interested in this piece of clarity. JP wasted no time in satisfying their curiosity.

“Adores the aroma of his own flatulence.

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. It was Rasher who chipped in at this point.

“Harsh. Cuttin’. Bit bitchy even?”

JP looked at them each in turn.

“No. I swear. I bet he hates the demise of phone boxes. I’m sure he used to go into a box, blow off a few and stay there doin’ his version of breathin’ mindfulness.”

That got a guffaw from the two boys. Rasher was in as quick as a fly on a shite.

“Windfullness more like.”

“Hey – Nice one.”

That wonderful addition to the Donleavy lexicon deserved another visit to the pint glass. And that’s exactly what happened. A re-establishment of relaxed breathing pattern was required and executed before the conversation proceeded once more. Mono led the charge.

              “Anyway. What about him?”

“Who?”

“The bleedin’ nephew, for feck sake.”

JP straightened himself on the bar stool, squared his shoulders and let them drift back to a more relaxed position.

“Oh yeah. Knocked off me game there for a second. In a rare moment of anythin’ less than supreme confidence and ego inflatin’ news items – the nephew told me he didn’t get a promotion he went for.”

Rasher kicked in with a telling assessment.

“Hey – given all you’ve shared ‘bout him – he musta applied for Global Commander in Chief?”

JP felt a need to elaborate the analysis towards a more granular detail.

“Yeah. Too right. Reality is probably that the vacancy was for ‘senior git’ or ‘associate go-for’ or ‘junior pencil pusher’ or even ‘trainee photocopier’. But you’re spot on. From his description – and I have to admit, me eyes glazed over after a minute – it sounded like ‘mentor to the CEO’. But whatever it was he didn’t get it.”

The two other lads shook their heads and felt that, at the very least, despite JP’s clear lack of affinity towards his nephew, that the decent thing to do was to utter a tut-tut in a humanitarian recognition of the nephew’s disappointment. So. That’s what they did – all credit to them – they uttered a tut-tut.

However – JP seemed to have any benevolent approach towards the nephew filtered out. He seemed oblivious to any tutting. Or if he wasn’t oblivious, he did a mighty job of letting it float right above his head. He continued as if he hadn’t heard a sound.

“Nah. But this was the bit that stuck in me mind. He said that he was suckin’ the hind tit in the promotion stakes. Literally. He reckoned with positive discrimination these days he’d need to be a person of colour, a female person of colour and preferably a female person of colour with a hump on his back to get promoted.”

              “Hey – Nice one. At least the nephew has a sense of humour. Takin’ it well.”

JP looked at them. Slowly and each in turn. As if they hadn’t yet mastered Ladybird Books.

“Not at all. He’s thinkin’ of taking legal action. Reckon his right to equality has been infringed.”

It was now the turn of the two boys to exhale out loud.

“Feck me. That’d be interestin’.”

“What’s you say to him JP?”

“Ah, I encouraged him all the way. Sure he’s such a dickhead , the only way is to agree with him. I even suggested he organise a global class action suit to bring in all the other brutally disadvantaged males.”

“Ah JP. You were windin’ him.”

“Didn’t take much. Knobhead thought it was a mighty idea. Rang some big law firm in the city directly then – from my feckin’ kitchen!”

“Yer pullin’ the piss?”

“Nah. Scout’s bleedin’ honour. They’re interested. He’s got a meetin’ with ‘em next Monday. He thinks I’m the dog’s bollocks for givin’ him the idea.”

The lads imbibed further. A long draught this time – because of all the talking that had gone on. The volume to be swallowed was shared subliminally and each glass returned to its beer mat with a comparable volume. Mastery of synchronised pint drinking displayed yet again.

JP got the conversation going again.

“Makes ya think thou’, doesn’t it?”

“Think about wha’?”

“The women.”

“Jayzus JP. Ya don’t have to encourage me. I think about ‘em all the time. Probably too much if the truth were told. And rarely does ‘Her Indoors’ feature in those thoughts. Too much competition.”

“Well thank you Rasher for sharin’ that insight into yer intimate dreams – but I was more thinkin’ of women promoted in their jobs.”

“Boring.”

“Well – I was more thinkin’ of Paige Spiranac.”

“Yeah – her golf swing!”

“What else?”

JP started to get a bit spikey. He looked at each of Rasher and Mono in turn.

“A bit of order gentleman. Some respect for the speaker.”

“Sorry JP.”

“Yeah. What the hell were you talkin’ ‘bout again. Good lookin’ women? Yeah.”

“Jayzus, that Mandy O’Meara that lives down the road from you is a fine half.”

“And available again!”

“I’d say she’d push yer Paige all the way to the 18th.”

“I’ll give ya that. Concede That’s a gimme.”

JP was getting more than spikey now. His red in his face was more than sunburn.

“Gentlemen. I’m sure I asked ya for a bit of bleedin’ order for the speaker. And you lads are bang out of order.”

The two lads were suitably chastened.

“Now as I was sayin’….”, and he paused for dramatic emphasis, “I think the lads are lookin’ up through the glass ceiling now rather than the lasses.”

“Jayzus JP, is that not a crime? Don’t they call it up-skirtin’?”

“Ah for feck sake. It’s a figurative glass ceilin’ not a bleedin’ literal one.”

Mono scratched his head.

“JP I always had a mental block to this figurative/literal thing. Which is what?”

“Oh, mother of the divine. You can’t see the glass ceilin’. All right? Do ya get it now?”

Mono took the clarification in his stride.

“Just as well – too much temptation to be lookin’ up. Get yerself arrested.”

JP was now fuming. We’re talking nuclear technicians running round his brain trying to avoid a Defcon 1 scenario and a JP nuclear release.

“I’m tryin’ to make an important point here. Can we have a bit of bleedin’ focus. Like – just for a second. Is that bleedin’ possible?”

“Sorry JP.”

“Yeah, sorry JP. All ears.”

“I was just thinkin’ how many promoted females will be always wonderin’ did they get the job because they deserve it – or because of being lassies.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They both looked at JP. A time for letting this sink in was allowed to pass.

“Do you think they’ll care JP?”

“Yeah. Who cares? They’ll have the extra yo-yos and the fancy title.”

“Talkin’ of fancy words. The legal eagles the nephew was talkin’ to suggested that the legal action should be advertised as – ‘loss of equality rights due to inappropriate positive discrimination towards diversity candidates’.” 

“Wahoo!“

Rasher put fingers into imaginary braces and pushed back a non-existent Stetson hat from his head like he was in The Silver Dollar Saloon.

“They talkin’ prettier than a twenty dollar whore.”

JP felt it was time for another drink. They all reached for glasses together. JP looked straight ahead into the bar counter mirror.

              “I get a feeling in me waters that this might actually be somethin’.”

Rasher was first to react.

              “I’ve got a feelin’ in me waters that its time for a battered cod and chips.”

              “That’s a good feeling.”

They drained their glasses.

              “Come on. We’re gone. Give Donleavy the nod.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s

The three lads were lined up at the bar counter in the usual fashion. JP in the middle flanked by Rasher and Mono. They were weathered looking and their shoulders were more hunched than was normal. Each of them looked intently at Donleavy with a serious stare. It was as if the ritual art of pint pulling had taken on an increased significance this evening. After what seemed like eons had passed, Donleavy placed three creamy pints in front of them. The last eddies were just beginning to come to rest when JP gave the nod. They couldn’t wait. The standard practise was to wait, not only until the separation of the pint was absolutely confirmed, but to admire this wonder of science for a period before imbibing. Today was different. Each of them attacked their drink with gusto and more than half the pint passed trembling Adam’s apples in an instant.

JP wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

              “Set ‘em up again there, Donleavy, if ya please.”

Donleavy floated down behind the bar counter and began pulling again.

              “Jayzus. I needed tha’. I’m like a withered plant.”

              “Ya can whistle tha’. I’ve a throat on me that feels like the floor of a budgie’s cage.”

They settled on their stools for a bit and then killed the remainders of their pints. Usually pints were treated with supreme reverence but this evening was different. This was – ‘needs must’.

Rasher thanked Donleavy for the efficient substitution as the empty glasses were replaced by fresh incoming. The three amigos became more settled. Buttocks were metronomed until they found their sweet spot in these well worked bar stools. The world went back to its usual orbit.

              “Jayzuz lads. This is turnin’ out to be some July.”

              “Yeah – the weather babe was sayin’ the temperatures could break the all-time record.”

              “I know we keep wishin’ for sunshine – but when it comes, we can’t handle it.”

              “Too right.”

They went back to drinking their pints. In the way pints should be drank. With respect and reverence. They had long ago conquered the secrets and body language and subliminal messaging and silent communication and rapid responsiveness and neural mirroring that made them masters of synchronised pint drinking. If only this were an Olympic event – well why not? – pool divers and ice skaters get their synchronicity rewarded. And it didn’t matter who led – JP, Mono or Rasher – in fact you could spend all night watching them and try to distinguish who made the first move – and you’d come up short.  In the end all that you would end up doing would be mesmerised as to how three sets of hands, arms and elbows reacted in unison. Equally you would be fascinated by how each pint glass would be depleted by exactly the same amount. If University measurement teams came with graduated cylinders to accurately measure the residue on each swallow – they would have to attest to the volume similarities to a few millilitres. This was prowess that only years of experience and understanding could deliver. 

The boys were now well into their second pint. Soon one of them would have to signal for further incoming. Unwritten cardinal rule – never be left with an empty glass (except when you are ready to leave). Life is too unpredictable, and Donleavy could get distracted by any number of life’s vagaries (or an influx of new customers). Mono set the conversation into action again.

              “When’s the hot weather goin’ settle down lads? Me system wasn’t designed for this.”

              “The hot lookin’ weather babe said we’d be as hot as her for another week.”

              “Jayzus!”

“Yeah. One of the boffins said this was all part of climate change and we’d have to suck it up and it’d get worse if we didn’t start behavin’ ourselves.

“Never mind us. We’re doin’ shoppin’ with our own bags and trying to stop the cows belchin’ and fartin’ and the bleedin’ Chinks, Yanks and Indians are pollutin’ the bejaysus out of the planet.”

“Yer right. And then they all turn on the Brazilians for not mindin’ the Amazon. Lungs of the world they call it. But it’s like smokin’ 60-a-day yerself and then lecturin’ someone else that they shouldn’t smoke.”

“Yeah – bleedin’ disgrace.”

By now the supply chain was temporarily saved. Fresh pints had arrived which allowed draining of Pint No.2. Once the supply chain pipeline was temporarily filled, everything was relaxed.

JP began to focus on the bottles behind the bar counter. Donleavy was a collector and there were rich sources of conversational inspiration in the various bottles from all over the world. Tonight – the heat and tiredness of the day had taken its toll and he stared at the bottles for what seemed like an eternity, but the dots didn’t join, and the neurons didn’t spark. Rasher took up the lead for the precious discourse on life’s flux.

              “Wha’ ‘bout this inflation an’ recession lads?”

              “Yeah. Shite – that’s wha’ it is.”

“Ya know wha’ they say – a recession is when your neighbour loses his job, a depression is when you lose yours.”

They had a bit of a guffaw on that one, but the kind of laugh where you’re not actually sure that it’s funny. JP became momentarily serious.

              “Are we all right lads?”

              “Wha’ ya mean?”, the reply came in stereo.

              “D’ya think our jobs are secure?”

There was a momentary pause. Mono piped up.

“I’m sure we’re good. I’m sure we’ll be fine. We’ve already weathered at least two previous recessions.”

              “Yeah – we’ll be grand.”

They settled down to their own thoughts again. The mood had definitely turned a tad more serious. They looked at each other in turn – each one urging the other to take them up a notch out of this sombre spiral. Rasher became a bit more animated.

              “Bleedin’ Millenials and them Gen Z’s.”

JP looked at Mono.  Mono looked at JP.

              “Yeah. What about ‘em?”

Rasher got further into the flow.

              “Ya know the way they want everythin’ their way?”

              “Too right. Only work when they want to. Everythin’ has to fit around their plans.”

              “Yeah – only willin’ to think about workin’ if there is nothin’ on their phones or if their nails are finished paintin’.”

              “Yeah – they’d sicken ya.

              “Had it too shaggin’ easy, I’d say.”

Rasher began waving his arms about like he was conducting an orchestra. The other two lads were perplexed. Raising of eyebrows. Again – JP looked at Mono.  Mono looked at JP. This time it was JP who could wait no longer to understand where exactly Rasher was headed.

              “Where you goin’ with all this?”

              “It’s exactly what they need. Don’t ya see?”

Mono couldn’t take the confusion any longer.

              “Who needs it? And what do they need? What are ya witherin’ on ‘bout?”

Rasher straightened himself up. As much as you can straighten yourself upon a barstool.

              “The Gen Z’s. The bleedin’ Millennials. A recession. Its exactly what they need. It’ll be the makin’ of them. Nature’s way of givin’ them a toe up the hoop. It’s all part of the greater scheme of things.”

JP and Mono thought about this for a while. They exchanged looks that suggested the boy might be on to something here. JP patted Rasher on the shoulder.

“I believe you’ve nailed somethin’ here Rasher. I definitely do. Supreme analysis. Top drawer.”

Rasher beamed and if it was possible for his face to become more red – then it did. Praise from JP was always highly valued. Mono offered his conclusions.

              “So bleedin’ good – what do ya say to me buyin’ ya a fresh cod and chips.”

              “Brilliant idea.”

              “We’re gone so. Give Donleavy the nod.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

Tuesday nights were the quietest nights of the week in Donleavy’s. Mondays competed for the title but there were always a few hardy people with some money left over from the weekend – or a few Sunday hangovers that somehow believed that the hair of the dog was the appropriate answer. Anyway – by Tuesday all these had dissipated. By Wednesday there were braver souls creeping back into the fold. None of these parameters effected our three amigos – JP, Rasher and Mono took their personal stools at the bar counter and gave the nod to Donleavy. No words were exchanged or required and in double quick time – no doubt assisted by the absence of punters – three creamy pints were settling in magical fashion in front of our heroes.

JP as always flanked by his two lieutenants took the finally settled pint and held it aloft like a holy grail. Mono and Rasher followed the lead.

‘Slainte’

They nodded, slowly lowered their glasses and in perfect synchronisation took the first mouthful. A series of satisfied sounds followed and then glasses were reverently placed on equidistant beermats. An exercise in symmetry. An exemplar of communication and coordination. If pint drinking were to become an Olympic event – these boys represented the gold standard.

JP spent some time eyeing the bottles behind the bar counter. Donleavy was a collector and there was no shortage of exotic drinks – lots of them foreign to even the most learned alcoholophile. One small bottle riveted his attention.

He motioned to Donleavy with a finger in the air.

As if on an air cushion, Donleavy glided along the bar length and was in front of them.

‘Jayzus, JP. Ya hardly want another round already. My wrist still remembers pulling those pints ‘

JP moved his head from side to side

‘No thanks Mr D. And proper good pints they are. No. I have a question for ya.’

‘Fire away JP – for its a well known fact that a properly trained barman – or – bar person – as the licensed vintners are being encouraged to say – knows the answers to all questions – no matter how complex or trivial’

‘This one is right down your alley or – your counter – really. That bottle of Babycham. How old is it?’

‘Jayzus, JP. I’d say it’s before they were putting ‘best before dates’ on bottles. I’m guessing it must be around forty years.’

Mono chipped in lightning fast

‘I’d say it’s lost most of its bubbles so.‘

Rasher was ready to rifle off another round

‘Well, the young fawn on the label has had time to grow into an old dear or an old deer and join Bambi in the skies.’

Donleavy lowered his head to his chest and placed his hand on his heart.

‘May Bambi and Babycham be frolicking together in the best forest in the sky.’

They all had a good smile around that one.

The lads revisited their pints. Donleavy stayed where he was and opened up again.

‘Seriously though lads. Ya could see the fawn frolickin’ again. The fawn never really died and Babycham is being relaunched. ‘

The three boys sat there with their mouths wide open.

‘Jayzus. I knew it was the leg opener of choice in the 50’s and 60’s but I thought it died then.’

‘Who knows what works anymore?’

‘I can’t see it myself – Champagne Perry and the Millenials? But – as ya say – who knows?’

Donleavy floated on down the counter leaving the lads to their thoughts. JP was left deep in concentration. He seemed to be staring intently at the label on the little Babycham bottle and the jumping fawn. Finally, he spoke.

‘Disruptive Technologies’

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. It was always this kind of standoff as to who was going to ask the question. Mono couldn’t hold out any longer.

‘Eh yeah. What are disruptive technologies when they are home.’

JP straightened his spine, threw out his chest and looked at each of his pals in turn, finishing with a smile towards Mono.

‘I’m glad you asked me that, young Mono. These are important things. Remember CDs?’

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Each shrugged his shoulders.

‘Of course I still remember them, ya clown. I have shelves full of them at home. Hard to forget them when I see them every evening. Are ya all right JP?’

JP raised his glass, and this was the indication for each to take another swig. That done, Rasher raised a finger to Donleavy to ensure continuity of supply.

‘Downloads. Downloads are an example of a destructive technology that has already killed CDs. CDs in turn killed cassettes and records. That’s how it goes.’

The two lads had a think about this for a while. Certainly made sense. Couldn’t fault it. Mono piped up

‘Well if I get ya right JP. Streamin’ has killed DVDs which killed VHS cassettes which strangled Betamax before it could even draw breath. ‘

JP threw his hands up in the air in mock celebration.

‘By George he has it. By George I think he’s got it. Absolutely on the money, Mono. Spot on my friend. Bullseye. ‘

Mono smiled. He also reddened. He knew he shouldn’t, but every time JP said something positive about him, he always got a bit embarrassed. Why? He never knew. There were only the three of them there.

They all quietened again as Donleavy delivered the incoming and gave them an excuse to drain their glasses. The settling process was followed through every eddy of alcoholic current until a razor-sharp separation resulted. As they reached for their pints JP threw out a teaser.

‘What do ya think we have now that will disappear with technology?’

The question was thrown out in a way that didn’t disrupt the initial pint tasting sequence but filled the thought space as the beer mats re welcomed their tenants. There was a silence for what seemed like an interminable time. Finally Mono was on cue again.

‘Taxis!’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. We’ll have self-drive cars on demand.’

They did a round of high fives. Mono reddened again.

‘Nice one!’

The three heads moved in all different directions for a while before the next Eureka moment.

‘Spare parts!’

The other two wrinkled their faces

‘Huh?’

‘No more spare parts for anythin’. We all 3-D print them at home. ‘

The wrinkles smoothened out.

‘I like that one!’

Quietness was restored. You could hear a pin drop, but you could also smell the neurons burning in the brain accelerator cavity.

‘Offices’

‘Yeah’

‘Covid and WFH did for them. ‘

The pace was starting to quicken.

‘GPs.’

‘Ya’re jokin’ aren’t you?’

‘Nah. I read it somewhere. AI will take over.

The bull sperm thing?’

‘No ya ludramon. Artificial intelligence. ‘

A slight reddening.

‘Lawnmowers’

Quizzical looks.

‘The little automatic lads?’

‘Yeah. Has to happen. What kind of perversion is involved with Joe Soaps who like mowin’ grass?

They nodded.

‘Telephone boxes and public telephones and landlines are already as good as gone. What’ll take to get rid of the mobile?’

‘Hmmm!’

‘Doesn’t look like the watch or the glasses will substitute any time soon?’

They called Donleavy over and looked for fresh ideas.

‘Sex!’, he threw in immediately.

‘Sex?’

‘Yeah – remember Woodie Allen’s orgasmatron? Definitely less complicated.

Donleavy’s domestic situation was less than smooth. Probably no surprise he volunteered this suggestion. He volunteered another.

‘I’ll tell you one thing that yer disruptive bleeding’ technology will never replace?’

‘Wha’ ?, a trio echoed.

‘A pint!’

They raised their glasses to that.

Rasher called for silence.

‘I’ll tell ya another thing disruptive technology will never get near?’

‘Wha?’, they were all ears.

‘A smoked cod and chips!’

That was the signal. They drained their pints and were springing out the bar door like young deer.

Just another night in Donleavy’s

JP was flanked at the bar counter in the usual arrangement by Mono and Rasher. Three bar stools that had the curvature of specific buttocks worn into them over decades of occupation. Three bar stools that no one else in Donleavy’s pub would ever have the temerity to borrow or take up. Donleavy’s was absolutely a place of democracy and meritocracy where every voice was given free airing and respect – however – if there were to be any suggestion of a hierarchy within the structure, then it was very clear – Donleavy was the emperor, and the Three Amigos were next in line. And that kind of subliminal rank put virtual names on those bar stools. All the stools were short of – was a Star Trek type hologram that said – ‘Touch these and you’re feckin’ dead’.

But tonight, in Donleavy’s, it was peaceful. There was no suggestion of any stool coup d’état. Well….it was peaceful to the extent that there were no warring factions…. but there was an excited hum around the bar. It was Friday night. The crowd was swelled with the weekend warriors. JP, Rasher, and Mono never fitted the category of weekend warriors. They were men for all seasons. The three boys would be of the category that would prefer to drink two pints seven nights a week rather than seven pints two nights a week. And that’s not to suggest that they would inhabit Donleavy’s seven nights a week. Well, they would if it was possible, but often those dastardly domestic duties would rear their ugly head for one of them. And it was absolutely verboten to travel out for pints with a reduced cohort. Three amigos or nothing. The ecosystem would implode and collapse if there were to be anything less than a full triumvirate.

The full extent of an excited hum in Donleavy’s constituted conversation – a sense that everyone was talking at once – and much laughter – that sense of the physical impossibility of people laughing and talking at the same time. These were the sounds that energised Donleavy and drove that bar owner up and down behind the counter dispensing various brands of alcohol at warp speed. No other sounds were permitted. It was rumoured that Donleavy employed a permanently placed sniper whose role was to take out any piped music, jukebox, gaming machine or TV salesperson. No matter creed, ethnic origin, or gender – such a sales individual was to be cut down at the perimeter. Donleavy often said that it would be over his dead body that any of the aforementioned would enter the pub and it would be absolutely guaranteed that Donleavy and the sniper would go down fighting as if it were the Alamo of the pub trade.

Three creamy pints were settling on the counter in front of the inhabitants of the sacred bar stools. Until that last eddy of settling fluid had absolutely found a home in either the cream or the dark separation – it would have been a mortaller to even stretch out a hand. Basic etiquette. Pint drinking 101. At a judicious point JP, seated as he always was (and always would be), in the centre of his two companions looked left and right and there was a barely perceptible nod that the pint drinking should begin in the most perfect synchronous fashion. Glasses raised. Slugs taken. Pint returned to the counter. Quantity imbibed from each glass comparable to the nearest millilitre. Poetry in motion. If you stood end-on to the three patrons and looked down the bar – all you would see was one action. Olympic synchronised swimmers or water ballet people would never ever achieve this level of perfection. This can’t be taught. It’s natural talent in the DNA. Maybe if the scientists were to run a full genome investigation on the three lads there would an unravelling of where this expertise originates – but until then it’s simply a mystery to be savoured.

JP scanned all the bottles on the shelf in front of the bar mirror and behind the bar counter. It was where he got a lot of his feedstock for conversation openers. But tonight, it was Rasher that threw in the first salvo….

              “Feckin’ Ukraine thing is poxy, innnit?”

              “Cat malogen.”

              “That Putin is a prick. I hope the devil makes a ladder out of his spine.”

              “Too right. And spends every minute of every day climbin’ up and down.”

              “Motion carried. Let’s drink to that.”

They raised their glasses in a mock toast and repeated another round of thirst-quenching activity. The mood was heading to the relaxed zone that allowed the shoulders to relax, the legs to hang off the stool and the buttocks to spread. All was good in the world of Donleavy’s even if it was heading towards global catastrophe elsewhere. JP was uncharacteristically quiet. It was Mono who injected the next round of enquiry.

              “Hey. Have ya seen any Ukrainians around our neck of the woods yet?”

They all paused for a few seconds to check the memory banks.

              “I haven’t seen sight nor sound. But I hear Mrs. Murphy took in a family last week.”

They absorbed this additional piece of information.

              “Makes sense. They’ll be company for her. Since her Tom died and the kids all in Australia, sure she has space and it’ll give her somethin’ to do.”

              “There’ll be a language problem thou’.”

              “Naw – sure all them Ukrainians have a good smatterin’ of English.”

              “Yeah. But Mrs. Murphy never said anythin’ that sounded like English.”

They all had a good laugh at that one. When the bellies equilibrated again it was a sign to go for another swallow of the black magic. Glasses were replaced on the counter, lips and chins were wiped to remove any residue and contented aaahs were allowed release.

JP finally made his entry mark on the conversation.

              “Lads. There are a few things I’m uncomfortable abou’.”

              “Reflux? Neuralgia? Herpes….?”

              “Or bleedin’ haemorrhoids. Now that would be uncomfortable.”

JP gave them a withering look.

              “No seriously lads. The worlds on the brink of World War Three. There are people literally dyin’ on the streets. That feckin’ maniac in the Kremlin says he’s tryin’ to stop people actin’ like Hilter but he’s doin’ the best impersonation of the economy-moustache man himself….and….the fecker has a red button….and here we are jokin’ about the fact that Mrs Murphy is probably unintelligible to all races and languages of the world.”

              “Feck it. She is thou.’”

              “But seriously Mono.”

The feelgood balloon had the air slowly sucked out of it. It was lying limp and lifeless. None of the three approached their pints for what seemed like an eternity. Even the sights and sounds of Donleavy’s took on another complexion. Nothing was said for what seemed like an eternity. Rasher finally took the nettle in his fist and grasped it tight.

              “Feck it lads. I know what JP is sayin’. But listen up. A wise man once said to me….I think it was one of the homeless lads on Main Street….if ya cant influence it, then there’s feck all use gettin’ overconcerned about it.”

They let that digest. The digestion needed to be aided by following it with some fresh input of liquid. When the glasses were returned to the bar JP was in a position to add to the conversation.

              “And there is truth in that. I grant ya that. But now that ya mention it, if I was one of those homeless lads – a victim of this so-called housin’ crisis that’s been runnin’ for years – I’d be quare pissed off that the country could suddenly swing into overdrive and house all these Ukrainian refugees – yet couldn’t manage to take its finger out of its hole for years to find homes for its own people.”

              “Feck it – you’re right JP. And I was listenin’ to that McVerry chap on the wireless the other day. And him sayin’ that we needed to change our opinion of what a homeless person is. It’s not just druggies and wasters. It’s ordinary people like you and me who can’t afford the rent increase or lose their job and can’t pay the mortgage anymore. It’s you and me by the grace of God.”

They drained their pints. This was a signal in itself. Pints are never drained before incoming replacements are signaled unless departure is the next step. Another nugget of pint drinking wisdom delivered in pint drinking 101. No words required. A message received and understood by everyone – including Donleavy.

              “Early night tonight lads”, Donleavy bellowed as he seemed to float up and down behind the bar counter.

              “Yeah. We have important business we need to attend to.”

              “What’s tha’? Smoked cod and chips at the chipper.”

              “Ya read our minds.”

              “As always, lads. As always.”