JP@Donleavy’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JP just shrugged. Mono added his piece.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “We’re all friends here?”

              “Yep.”

              “Yep.”

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

              “Yep.”

              “Yep.”

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

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

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

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

There was silence for a while.

              “Well lads? What are yer guilty secrets?”

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

              “No shaggin’ way, JP.”

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

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

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

              “Some young one’s arse…!”

              “What a bleedin’ plonker.”

              “Ah, lads. Fair is fair.”

              “Nothin’s fair in this life.”

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

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

              “Yeah. What are they?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “That was exactly my thought, Rasher.”

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

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

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

              “I am in me hoop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

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

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

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

              “Piss poor day.”

              “Yep.”

              “Seemed to just rain between the showers.”

              “Yep.”

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

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

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

              “Sex?”

              “Drugs?”

              “Rock and Roll?”

              “Women’s undergarments?”

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

JP began again – slowly and deliberately.

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

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

Mono was also quick on the response.

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

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

              “Sound man.”

              “Yer the GOAT, Donleavy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Inside toilets.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Inside toilets?”, they chimed in stereo.

JP rotated the pint glass around the beer mat.

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

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

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

              “Bottled water.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

              “Jayzus, yer right JP.”

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

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

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

              “True for ya.”

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

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

              “Public Transport.”

Mono looked at Rasher, Rasher looked at Mono.

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

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

              “Wha’ the….”

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

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

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

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

              “Yeah – wha’s tha’”

              “The Chipper.”

              “Will be go for a one and one?”

              “Are there bears in the woods?”

              “Give Donleavy the nod there.”

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

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

JP was our hero in stating the obvious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Well bully for you.”

              “Happy for ya.”

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

              “I went into the jacks.”

              “Thank ya for sharin’”

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

Mono ploughed on regardless. A dogged performer.

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

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

              “Yep.”

              “Go on.”

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

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

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

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

              “That’s what I was thinkin’.”

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

              “Not with ya.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lads all directed their attention to their barman.

              “Ya have the floor Donleavy.”

Donleavy took a deep breath.

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

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

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

They all meekly nodded.

              “This”, and Donleavy mimicked smoking a cigarette.

The three lads exchanged looks again.

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

Now the lads nodded more forcibly.

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

They shrugged.

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

Again, they shrugged.

              “….a large bag of chicken pieces?”

They still had to shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Yar on the money.”

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

Well – a little bit different.

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

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

              JP broke the radio silence in an uncharacteristically early fashion.

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

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

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

              “Or yer stripey tank top?”

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

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

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

              JP brought things on another notch.

              “Smokin’.”

              “Yeah?”

              “What abou’ it?”

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

              “Who remembers the ‘Rothmans’ ad?”

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

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

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

There was a small lull in the conversation.

              “Did ya ever smoke lads?”

There was a slow and guilty nodding of heads.

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

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

JP broke the waiting silence as he often did.

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

              “Jump on their own head?”

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

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

              “Cancer is an interestin’ topic.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Cancer?”

              “Since when did cancer become interestin’?”

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

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

              “Asbestos.”

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

              “True. Good insulator though.”

They all nodded.

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

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

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

They all nodded again.

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

              “Jayzus, yeah.”

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

              “Cancer candidate now.”

              “Feckin’ mad.”

They all nodded at the seeming absurdity of it.

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

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

              “Red shaggin’ meat!”

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

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

              “Mental.”

They all shook their head on this one.

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

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

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

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

Mono looked a bit downbeat.

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

There was some shared tut-tutting.

              “Bleedin’ ridiculous.”

              “Should be sacked.”

              “Feckin’ publicity seekin’”

              “Gobshite.”

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

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

They nodded in disillusioned agreement.

A short silence prevailed.

              “Will we go for a cod and chips.”

              “Are they on the list.”

              “Don’t think so. Not yet.”

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

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

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!”