JP@Donleavy’s

The three lads were seated in their usual location at the bar counter in Donleavy’s. The atmosphere was calm and casual. There was a quiet hum of voices in the pub. That was as loud as it ever got in Donleavy’s. Not a decibel higher. Donleavy was never going to allow piped music or TVs or gaming fruit machines into his bar. Over his dead body. And it would be easy to imagine Donleavy in gangster fashion at the pub doorway with a slanting sunlight glistening off one of those big cylinder machine guns – fighting the good fight against anything that didn’t represent conversation in the pub. You could imagine him chewing on a cigar saying ‘call me old-fashioned’ as he pumped lead into a fruit machine salesperson.

 It was good to have all the Covid restrictions gone. Endemic was so much nicer than pandemic. So much calmer, so much less hype. You could talk without wearing a mask and without wondering whether your droplets contained spikey coronas floating into the airways of your compatriots. Or worse – still – floating into your own airways.

The three – JP, Rasher and Mono – had subconsciously moved their stools closer to each other. During the pandemic – while they continued to imbibe illicit pints – courtesy of Donleavy’s courage – or criminal intent – whichever way you chose to look at it – the lads had spaced out their stools as a token gesture to good pandemic practise. Now they were back together again. Safer – shoulders too close to be within easy punching distance. All was good with the world. At least it seemed that way.

              “It really feckin’ annoys me.”

The outburst belonged to Rasher. The blood had even risen in his cheeks. JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. Neither had much clue as to the lead-up or origin or substance of this annoyance.  They shrugged their shoulders.

              “Qué?”

Mono threw this question in – he had been watching re-runs of ‘Fawlty Towers’, and everything these days was qué-this and qué-that.

Rasher took a long swig of his pint, wiped his chin, and began:

              “I was down the Main Street in the car this mornin’. And you guys know the score. There’s zebra crossin’s every few hundred metres. Place is crawlin’ with them. More feckin’ zebras there than on the Serengetti.”

They nodded.

              “Couple of bleedin’ hyenas too. Some of them shopkeepers would take your cash and feed off your carcass.”

They nodded.

              “Well – drivin’ the Main Street now is worse than being a fighter pilot in World War Two. People crossin’ feckin’ everywhere. Ya just don’t know where the next attack is gonna come from.”

              “Jaysus – yer right there, Rasher. I’ve seen some of them use prams and kids out in front of them – like infantry cannon fodder. It’s a bleedin’ disgrace.”

              “Lazy as feck.”

              “Yeah. And at least the Wubblu Wubblu Two pilots had a guy with 360 views knowin’ where the next attack was comin’ from. I’m on me own. Me nerve ends are frazzled.”

They considered this. Pints were again synchronously revisited. Donleavy had time to do a few tours of duty up and down behind the bar like a sentry protecting the territory. The pints were only half consumed so there was no need for further incoming just yet. The replenishment of the Black Magic was a concentrated study which should never be taken for granted. It’s not ale. It’s not lager. It can’t be poured in an instant like any old swill. It needs time and care and settling periods to achieve its majesty. So, the re-order point must be at a judicious stage before the current pint glasses are emptied. Being left with an empty glass in front of you at the bar is up there in respect of mortal sins. No self-respecting drinker should ever let that happen. There is too much left to chance as to the timeframe of its replacement. Much better to exchange the empty glass at the exact moment the incoming arrives. That’s class. That’s skill. That’s years of experience. And JP, Mono and Rasher had experience to burn. We’re talking mastery here.

JP refocused the conversation.

              “Maybe it’s a good thing really.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Eyebrows were raised. Facial muscles of incredulity were brought into play.

              “Ah Jaysus, JP. How could it be good? It’s bleedin’ cat malogen. That’s what it is.”

JP took a considered swig of his pint and settled his buttocks for an equally considered response.

              “We’re not Germans.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher threw his eyes up to where heaven allegedly was domiciled.

              “Ah. Sweet Mother of the Divine. What are ya witherin’ on about now JP?”

JP looked at them both – slowly – one by one.

              “We’re not Russian.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Mono covered his face with hands that should have been caressing his pint glass at that moment. He removed them for a moment to vent some pent-up gases.

              “We bleedin’ know the design on our passport, JP. Ya don’t need to remind us who we’re not.”

JP was in full flow. He didn’t bother looking at the amigos but stared directly into the big bar mirror that ran the whole length behind the bar counter.

              “And we’re definitely not Americans and in particular not those of MAGA variety.”

Rasher was losing the plot at this point. A blood pressure monitor would have run for its life rather than attach itself to Rasher’s arm. If he were a nuclear reactor – we’d have long since passed the point where the emergency manual was out on the desk – we were at the point where there was more chance of being killed in the rush out the door than by a uranium by-product

              “What in the name of all that is good and wholesome has any of this to do with crossin’ the bleedin’ road away from the zebra crossin’. Have ya completely lost the run of yerself. Yer actin’ like someone a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“Earth to JP. Come in JP. You are clear to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere. Ya can even come back to Donleavy’s pub if ya can find yer bleedin’ way.”

JP put a delicate finger in the air, catching Donleavy’s eye with consummate ease. Pints were now at a critical level. It was time for the supply chain to accelerate again.

“It’s simple really.”

“Maybe to you, in yer brain, it is. But not in our world”

Rasher looked at Mono to get some form of acknowledgment that it was OK to speak for him as well. A nod confirmed this.

              “I was talking to someone recently about the Nazi’s.”

              “Ah Jaysus. Zebra crossin’s on the Main Street, and JP is back with the Nazis. Sweet sufferin’ Jaysus. Help me. I’ll put more money in the donation box. Just help me out here.”

JP watched Donleavy as the master craftsman finished out the levelling of the last pint. What a warrior. It was so good to watch someone at the peak of his prowess. Life affirming.

              “Its simple really. This guy reckoned that the Nazi movement happened cause the Germans are so good at followin’ instruction. Now….the Russian thing is happenin’ today because the Reds are afraid not to follow instructions. And the MAGA thing…….well there could be complicated genetics involved here. Do ya see where I’m goin’?”

Rasher thought about this. He had calmed down at this stage. His reactor core had settled back passed the critical level and all the staff had returned to the control room.

              “Jaysus JP. I think I have it.”

Mono shot him a look.

              “Well, it better not be contagious. I’ve spent a couple of years beatin’ ‘Rona Virus.”

Rasher suitably ignored the interruption.

              “We’re not good at followin’ instructions where we don’t think they suit us or make sense. There can be shit parts to that but at least we’re not like the bull with a ring in his nose.”

              “Excellent summary, my dear Rasher.”

Rasher’s face lit up. He beamed. He always liked JP’s validation. Made him thirst for more pints. Speaking of which – he picked the fresh one up and raised it in a mock toast.

              “To all the jaywalkers – I’ll salute ye in future – You’ve saved our country.”

              “Amen.”

              “I’ll drink to tha’.”

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

JP, Rasher and Mono were comfortably installed on their stools at Donleavy’s. Three creamy pints settling nicely in front of them. Their stools were separated from each other just a tad extra than how they normally would have been arranged. I mean to say – the lads had to make sure that they gave off the correct socially distanced signals as they drank their illicit pints in the pub way past the curfew time mandated by Government. It was the least that they could do to show some good behaviours and act like good role models for some of the younger punters who made up part of the elite imbibers whom Donleavy allowed to drink outside of the restriction times.

With Christmas on the horizon the three amigos were beginning to settle in to a more relaxed frame of mind. A casual observer would be able to see that shoulders were loose; muscles were slackened and if one were to be able to achieve magical invisibility superhero power and check each man out with a blood pressure monitor – well – the results would probably challenge those of an elite marathon runner. These boys were chilled. In fact, the pints had settled and there was no urgency to lift and slug. It seemed that the outside Covid infested world had been kept outside the sanctuary of Donleavy’s Drinking Emporium and all was OK with the inside world.

After what seemed like a monumental silence, Rasher broke in.

               “Well. Will we just leave the feckin’ pints there as an art form? Like one of those bleedin’ modern art sculptures.”

               “Why not? What’ll we call it?”

               “Three pints.”

               “Jaysus Mono, I can see now why ya scored top marks at school for lateral thinkin’.”

               “Eternal drinkin’ more like.”

The three amigos looked at each other. Communication took place. No words were spoken but if the looks that passed between them had to be translated into words, then probably – ‘feck that modern art for a game of toy soldiers let’s just lorry into the pints’ – would be as near as one could possibly come to an accurate translation. In any event, whatever message was communicated ocularly – the pints were picked up and the first slug of the day was completed in a very satisfying way. Well, the ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ would bear witness to the level of satisfaction.

No words were exchanged for a while. That wasn’t unusual at this stage of the night. This was mindfulness – Donleavy’s Pub style. Getting into that relaxed breathing zone that slowed the world down and forced the satellites to momentarily readjust. Sometimes it even involved some lateral shoulder movement of the three amigos until the optimum relaxed shoulder co-ordinates had been fixed. The moment of perfection was being approached. Brain neurons were ticking over likes a mouse’s heart and were approaching optimum creativity. It was time for another slug of the black stuff just to ensure that lubrication of the senses was not an impediment to reaching the peak of the zone. Synchronous glass lifting occurred. All was good with the world. At least within the hallowed walls of Donleavy’s. Outside was different. Outside was banjaxed.

JP led off.

               “Feck me. It is a bleedin’ pandemic, isn’t it?”

Rashed and Mono clarified the situation with a vigorous nod. There was a moment’s silence.

               “Why d’ya ask?”

JP looked in turn at the two lads spanned either side of him.

               “’Cause sometimes ya’d wonder.”

               “Yeah? Why dat?”

JP didn’t answer the question directly. His mind was already three steps further into the game.

               “I like that Mike Ryan fella.”

               “Who? Mike Ryan who plays midfield for Clover United?”

               “No – ya feckin’ ludramon. The guy in the WHO.”

               “Did he replace Keith Moon on drums?”

JP was as close to fuming as he had ever been. He gave each one a stare that would have withered the bark on an oak tree.

               “World Feckin’ Health Organisation Mike Feckin’ Ryan.”

               “Ohhhh”

It was time for another drink of the pint. This was clear. The Zen Buddhist state had been well lost, and some necessary calm needed to be reinstated. This was a comfort drinking moment. The pints were synchronously drained. This was also a risk moment. Never a good strategy to have drained the glass without the safe knowledge that incoming were expected. Who knew what could happen when an empty glass presented itself in front of you? Donleavy could get distracted. A barrel might need to be changed. There could be an influx of people into the bar at just the wrong moment. There could be a global pandemic (unlikely that last one!). Mono raised a finger in the air with a small sense of panic. Only when it was acknowledged with an almost imperceptible nod of Donleavy’s head, did the three lads revert to any form of inner peace.  Once Donleavy had the order not even a virulent attack from a spikey coronavirus would impede the brave bar owner from fulfilling this delivery of three fresh pints. Some things in this topsy-turvy world could still be relied upon. Even so – the three amigos were momentarily at a loose end without the comfort of pints in front of them. It wasn’t so much uncharted territory as dangerous terrain. Bit like walking through Ballyfermot after dark without a shotgun rider. You couldn’t really fully relax until you were home. You couldn’t really fully relax until the dark magic had arrived.

Pints did arrive. The tension dissipated. JP went back to his line of thought.

               “What I really like about the W.H.O., non-drummer, non-footballer, Ryan is that he tells people to get their finger out of their hole and get on with it.”

               “Eh…JP….I think what he actually said was that ‘perfection is the enemy of speed’”

               “Yeah – well – same thing.”

They took a glug of their pints to settle themselves back into the rhythm.

               “….and he tells it as it is. It’s a moving target. Whichever head pops up out of the box – you have to be prepared to hit that head with the hammer.”

“Eh…JP….I think what he actually said was that ‘science will follows the data’”

               “Yeah – well – same thing.”

               “Anyway – are we all agreed? Even if he can’t play the drums and he’d be a brutal midfielder – he’s still a good un?”

               “With ya there.”

               “10-4 good buddy.”

They went back to pint drinking for a while. It was good that harmony had been re-established and that the newly restored good vibes created harmonics that soothed this small portion of the world. JP suddenly straightened his spine and looked from one to the other.

               “I nearly got distracted from me point.”

               “Nah.”

               “Never could happen.”

JP collected his thoughts into a laser focus before engaging his brain which meshed into his larynx and started his mouth opening and closing.

               “Them feckin’ politicians….and I mean the opposition ones. What a shower of shits. Middle of a global pandemic and they want a committee or a commission, or whatever they call it, to review how the Government is handlin’ the pandemic. I’m mean. Feck it. It’d be the same as someone following a fireman’s hose into a burnin’ buildin’ and sayin’ – ‘hey lads, we should review how yer doin’ this’ – or gettin’ in the way of the ambulance person as he or she tries to breathe life into a dyin’ body – and ask them for some time to review how the ambulance service is workin’. Are they fer real?”

It was a long soapbox speech from JP. Longer than his normal outbursts. There was clearly a passion and depth of feeling here. Mono and Rasher nodded vigorously. Rasher joined in.

               “And fer feck sake – them union people, spokespeople, lobbyists – whatever they are called. When there’s a new wave of restrictions or recommendations – and they come on the TV and radio saying that their members would have trouble understandin’ or workin’ with what’s being put forward.”

Mono took up the line.

               “True fer ya Rasher. I always understand it. They must be quare thick if they can’t get it.”

JP was left with the final say.

               “I agree with the both of ye. And the bleedin’ teachers. When they come on and say they don’t understand it, or they can’t work it – well ya’d have to be thinkin’ – well ask one of yer bleedin’ students – they’ll feckin’ explain it to ya and come up with ways to work it. Amadans.”

The boys settled back down. It was getting close to time to visit the chipper. They gave Donleavy the nod. They drained their pints.

 Just another night in Donleavy’s.

It was getting a bit déjà vu in Donleavy’s pub. Another one of those restriction moves to combat the ‘Rona Virus. Donleavy had continued to serve illicit pints to his chosen customers all the way through the pandemic and this restriction – nearly two years later – sure as hell wasn’t going to change anything. Donleavy was a bit like Churchill….we will imbibe through the lockdown, we will imbibe through the curfews, we will imbibe if it’s only outside….we shall never surrender. Didn’t matter what Greek letter they were putting in front of the nasty spikey virus – Donleavy continued, under cover of black-out and secret approaches – to provide pints to the good people.  It was Sunday night. Sunday December 19^th to be precise. As a token concession to the spikey ‘Rona our amigos spread themselves at the bar counter a little bit more than usual. Not two meters, but an arm’s length. They felt it was the least they could do to set some good role model actions for the younger imbibers. Sunday December 19^th, 2021 was the last day before the 8pm curfew. Our three amigos weren’t in the least bit bothered but they needed to find out from Donleavy what should be the strategy for the next wave of the war. Operation 8pm Curfew. I mean – how should it be played out? The lads assumed that Donleavy would lock up as directed by Government restriction at 8pm. What they needed to know was what was the earliest they should sneak into the pub through the covert circuitous route agreed with the loyal few. Was it 8.30pm? Was it 9pm? Was it later? Mono was dispatched to have a quiet word with Donleavy.

Three pints settled in front of them. JP and Rasher stared at them – seeing all the mysteries of life become simplified as the flowing eddies of the liquid finally settled into the crisp separation of black and white. What a dance? What a flow? What complexity and simplicity captured in a glass? How could anyone drink that lager shite? Inconceivable. When the final creamy eddy had been captured by the black magic, they still did not pick up their glasses. That would have been so far out of order as to represent the worst possible excesses of bad taste. They waited for Mono to return and then, and only then, with a barely perceptible nod, they raised their glasses. First of the day.

               “Slainte.”

Nods.

               “Aaaah.”

Harmony in that appreciation.

“Well – what’d he say?”

“9pm. No earlier. He’ll review the route and let us know. He’s thinkin’ of takin’ a different pathway through the storeroom. Make it easier to hide if there were ever a raid.”

“That’s Donleavy for ya. Commander-in-Chief. Always thinkin’ ahead. Master tactician. Brilliant strategist.”

“Yeah. Not bad at pullin’ a pint either.”

They had a smile at that and treated themselves to another synchronous mouthful of the black nectar.

JP stared at the spirit bottles and the bar mirror. It was where he often received his conversational inspiration. Nothing was jumping to him at this point. Mono broke the silence.

               “8pm curfew. So, it’s supposed to be matinees now?”

               “Yeah – afternoon delight.”

Rasher jumped in.

               “Hey Mono – why d’ya always have to turn the conversation to sex?

               “Harumph – chance would be a fine thing – haven’t had a matinee since I was a teenager.”

               “And that’s not today nor yesterday.”

               “Ya can whistle that – let me give ya a tune.”

They went back to their individual reveries. JP continued to stare at the massive collection of spirit bottles behind the counter. Donleavy collected them like some people would collect stamps or Matchbox cars. Most of them had never been opened. As like most times – one in particular would take his attention. This time it was ‘Unicorn Tears Gin’. Feck. Where did they get the names from?

               “Hoy. Lads.”

               “Wha’?”

               “D’ya ever wonder? Like…Omicron? Where in the name of feck did they get that shaggin’ name from? I mean it’s bleedin’ sinister by itself. Makes ya squirm just hearin’ it. Why didn’t they call it John or Mary or George? Bleedin’ Omicron. What’s behind that? I’m shiverin’ just sayin’ it. And I’m sure I’m not even pronouncin’ it properly. I always start it with Omni and it doesn’t come out soundin’ anythin’ right after that. I mean – what the feck?”

The lads nodded and went back to their drinks. Silence reigned for a while. Rasher braved the clarification.

               “It’s bleedin’ Greek’”

The two others looked at each other. There had been sufficient dislocation in the conversation that there wasn’t an immediate joining of the dots.

               “Bleedin’ Greek to me – what ya talkin’ about Rasher?”

               “Omicron. Its one of the letters in the Greek alphabet. Just like beta and delta.”

Mono looked at JP. JP looked at Mono. Big broad smiles grew across their faces.

               “Well feck me backwards with a wet kipper. Our own little classical scholar. Where the feck did ya pick that one up?”

Rasher blushed slightly

               “Don’t know to feck. When yer good, yer good. Isn’t that wha’ ya always say JP?”

               “True fer ya. True fer ya. And yer good this time Rasher. We might need to re-christen ya. Aristotle Rasher of Donleavy’s. How does that sound?”

Rasher raised his pint. A subliminal message for all three to sup once more – and the decreasing volume became a catalyst for JP to raise a finger in the air – which message cascaded down the bar resulting in three empty glasses being plucked from their tray – and the magic of pint pouring to commence yet another lifecycle.

               “Yeah. Aristotle Rasher of Donleavy’s. I can live with that.”

Rasher did a brief shake of his shoulders and straightened his spine to match his new-found status. Donleavy busied himself with preparing three pints. JP had a concentrated look across his brow.

               “No but seriously. The storm last week. Storm Barra. And – Storm Emma in 2018.”

               “Yeah – Jaysus I remember Emma. Now she was a rough ride.”

               “Ya still talkin’ ‘bout the storm?”

               “But seriously. If they can call storms with everyday names that people can pronounce and understand – why the feck do they need to get all high-falutin’ with a shaggin’ virus? Why couldn’t they just call it ‘Rona like we do?”

               “Fair shaggin’ point.”

               “True fer ya.”

They new pints had arrived and with this level of agreement, accord and harmony it definitely merited a good initial swig. Pint glasses were replaced on the counter and mouths wiped with the back of a hand. A sense of calm descended once more and enveloped our three amigos. It wasn’t to last. Mono was in.

               “And feckin’ double barrel names for kids. Well, that pisses me off.”

               “Yeah. Yer dead right.”

               “So, Murphy shacks up with Ryan and produce a sprog and before ya know it, the poor bastard has been labelled as Ryan-Murphy or Murphy-Ryan. Like a boy named Sue. Poor mite.”

               “Ya think that’s bad. I came across a quadrupler recently.”

               “Yer jokin’ now.”

               “No – I swear it. It was like a Ryan-Murphy ridin’ a Byrne-O’Connell and producing a Ryan-Murphy-Byrne-O’Connell.”

               “Yer pullin’ the piss.”

               “Yer definitely tryin’ to extract the Michael.”

               “I swear it on me pint.”

The two boys had to respect this – any man swearing on his pint had to be taken seriously. But it was hard to credit. Like a boy being called MaryAnn Sue. It was very sad.

JP stared at the bar counter mirror once more. Then he switched his vision to all the liquor bottle labels and the various names. The answer came to him in a lightning flash.

               “I have it lads.”

There was an air of excitement even though the other two had no clue as to what their excitement should be all about.

               “Wha’?”, they stereo-ed.

               “We’re all in favour of equality in this pub, aren’t we?”

               “Yep.”

               “Full respect for any woman who can hold her pint.”

               “I have the answer.”

               “That’s feckin’ brilliant JP. I didn’t even think we had a question.”

               “Shush now. Hold yer whisst. You know Little Larry down the road?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Wha’ about him?”

               “What’s the name of his house?”

               “What the feck has this to do with anythin’? It’s ‘Larmar’.”

               “And where does the name come from?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. They had no idea where this had come from, where it was at, and where it was going. But, from decades of experience of drinking at Donleavy’s, it was always best to just go with JP’s flow – rivers of confusion often reached ports of clarity. It was Mono who spoke up.

               “Larry and Mary. Mary and Larry. House name – ‘Larmar’.”

               “Spot on.”

               “Ehh. Yeah. So what?”

               “Don’t ya get it?”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Whatever there was to be got here, it was easily evading both of them.

               “D’ya not see. When people get hitched – just combine the names into one shortened one – we’ll set a limit on the number of characters – like they do with a password – give them both the new combination. And then there’ll be no confusion – sprogs will have the same name as Mammy Bear and Daddy Bear – and then when the sprog grows up and velcros himself to his chosen fabric – you just repeat the exercise. Everybody gets a max of eight characters and the world is simpler.”

The two lads went quiet, and the silence was only filled when the three amigos took a long, hard, contemplative slug of their pints. After what seemed like an eternity, Mono entered the fray.

               “I think you might be on to something JP, but we may need to think more about it over chips and a battered cod.”

               “You could be right.”

               “Give Donleavy the nod there.” They drained their pints. Just another night in Donleavy’s

It was a momentous day in Donleavy’s pub. Another one of those iconic days that one would write into the history of this wonderful establishment. Donleavy had continued to serve illicit pints to his chosen customers all the way through the pandemic. Didn’t matter what Greek letter they were putting in front of the nasty spikey virus – Donleavy continued, under cover of black-out and secret approaches – to provide pints to the good people.  Then there had been the pub reopening but only with tables outside. Now. Now. Now finally – with a reasonable few environmental and administrative controls – the punters were back in the bar. It was supposed to be seating only at tables and no service at the bar, but there wasn’t a wild horse in the land which could keep JP, Mono and Rasher away from their seats at the bar. It would be inconceivable to picture them anywhere else within the sacred ground of Donleavy’s bar. Donleavy didn’t even bother suggesting it. After all – the wood in those particular bar stools had been moulded over time to reflect the perfectly matched contours of the buttocks of our three warriors. The only concession to the spikey ‘Rona was that our amigos spread themselves at the bar counter a little bit more than usual. Not two meters, but an arm’s length. They felt it was the least they could do to set some good role model actions for the younger imbibers.

Three pints settled in front of them. They stared at them with a look that approached reverence. When the final creamy eddy had been captured by the black magic, they picked up their glasses in well-practised synchronicity and wished each other a healthy life.

                “Slainte.”

Nods.

                “Aaaah. It’s a great day. July 26^th 2021. Remember the date lads. Its historic. Its like Independence Day. The day we officially got our pub back to us. No more hiding and creeping in shadows. We can walk in the front door, sit at the counter, give the nod to Donleavy and drink a legal pint.”

                “Jaysus, ya can whistle all that JP. I’ll give ya a tune.”

The boys went back to their own private happy, contented thoughts. All was right with the world. The ‘Delta lad’ was still lurking around every corner like the cowardly spikey sleeveen that he was – but for this moment all was good with the world. JP looked in turn to his right and to his left – taking in the vista of his trusted lieutenants. He was so glad to be back looking into the bar counter mirror in front of him. The mirror and all those bottles. The catalysts for years of endless conversational inspiration.

                “Hey lad, I forgot to tell yez.”

                “Oh yeah?”

                “Me and the doll were out for dinner on Monday night.”

                “Jaysus, ya didn’t wait long. Covid regulations are lifted and yer like horses under starters orders. And they’re off!”

                “So where’d ya go? What was it like?”

JP took another large swallow of his pint to ready himself.

                “Naw. Naw. Never mind that. A little story for ya.”

                “Go on.”

                “We were all sitting down, and everything seemed to be working like clockwork. Show the ol’ Covid vaccination cert on the phone, give the contact details and we’re sitting down looking at the menu. Almost like old times. Restaurant is filling up at this stage. People having a pre-dinner gargle and the chicken wing starters.”

                “Jaysus, JP – yer putting a longing on me.”

JP took advantage of the interruption to take another large swig. He rested his pint back on the bar and raised a finger in the air to signal Donleavy towards a requirement for more incoming. One can never be too careful in respect of minding the inventory of available fresh pints. Experienced players like the three amigos make sure never to be caught out.

                “So where was I? Oh yeah. Everything seems to be going swimmingly – as I said – almost like old times. Then there seems to be a kerfuffle at the restaurant door. Raised voices. Some shouting. We’re all straining to see what’s going on.”

                “And what was it?”

                “Let me keep going, will ya.”

Donleavy arrived with three pint glasses. The answers to the mysteries of life in liquid form. The soul of darkness topped by the cream of light. The boys, even after all these years, stopped their conversation to acknowledge the reverence of the settling period. When the black and white had found their respective rightful homes, conversation recommenced.

                “Turns out we had one of those anti-vaxers at the restaurant door. Shouting about his democratic rights. Squealing about discrimination.”

                “So what happened?”

                “Well the poor young lad the owner had placed at the restaurant door didn’t know what to do. He had a reddener on his face that would have lit a whole street. He was out of his depth. If he’d been in a swimming pool, he’d have been gasping for air.”

                “Poor lad.”

                “Yeah. Well – he got some help. Nearly every single one of the punters in the restaurant drowned out the anti-vaxer. Very diplomatic stuff. Lots of F’s and B’s and C’s and P’s. Colourful stuff, mind. Not really UN diplomacy language.”

                “Then what happened?”

                “Well of course the anti-vaxer had a feckin’ audience now. Just what they love. He was holding his ground and giving it all back.”

                “Mexican stand off?”

They went to their new pints. There was synchronised pint drinking that would have taken gold by a street at the Tokyo Olympics. Satisfying sounds of aaah and oooh punctuated the general hum of the Donleavy pub ambience. Lips were wiped and dried on trouser legs. The boys sat further back on their stools once more.

                “He came out of nowhere.”

                “Who.”

                “I could only describe him as a biker type. Big ZZ Top beard on him. Straggly hair. Biceps the size of my thighs and black with tatoos. But more important – he was built like a brick shithouse door. Almost blocked out any natural light. He just stood in front of the anti-vaxer. Says he…’I’ll give you a choice, leave now and live or…’ He didn’t even get to finish the sentence. Yer man was gone like a scalded cat. Like cold snot off a hot stick. And such a cheer went up in the restaurant. Ya’d think we’d won the World Cup.”

                “Fecking great when the people stand together.”

                “Too right.”

                “Will we stand together for a battered cod and chips.”

“Sound as a brown trout. Give Donleavy the nod there.”

They made their way out the front door. Even that felt great. Going out the front door.

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

Well – maybe a slightly different night.

JP, Mono and Rasher were again to be found in the back yard of Donleavy’s pub seated in garden chairs around massive electrical cable drums acting as tables. Three creamy pints settled in front of them. Donleavy waltzed through the various cable drums dispensing good humour and pints in equal measure. He was like a publican reborn now that the Covid regulations had relaxed. Relaxed was the appropriate word to describe the atmosphere. Donleavy’s mood had always been the barometer for the ambience of the imbibers – when he was relaxed, they were all relaxed – when he was moody it was difficult to lift the spirits of the customers beyond a certain threshold.

              “Well – Sláinte – here’s to the death of many more Covid rules.”

              “Yeah – it’s good to be drinkin’ legal pints at last.”

“Hopefully we get back inside soon. This outdoor drinkin’ is fine when the sun is shinin’ but this weather can never last.”

              “Yeah – ya never said a truer word. We’ll soon be back to all four seasons in the one day.”

They raised their glasses and drank. Ooohs and aaahs of satisfied contentment followed. It was good to be alive – and given ‘Rona and UK and Brazilian and South African and Indian ‘Rona flying around in invisible droplets – it was good on so many levels to be alive and healthy.

JP was staring into the middle distance. He still missed the bar counter and the bar mirror as a focal point for his attention. He also couldn’t really get used to the three of them sitting at sixty-degree angles to one another. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be done. Pint drinkers should be in a line beside each other – perched on proper stools at the bar counter – with a suitably located foot rail for balance. Not these bloody garden chairs. Mono was dead on. They needed to get back inside. His gaze was momentarily drawn to one of the Covid posters. Usual stuff. 2-meters. Masks. Social distancing. Wash hands. The last bit sparked a conversation opener.

              “Pears Soap.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Eh, yeah. Pears make soap. What of it?”

“I bought some last week. I had it on me to-do list for a while. I finally got around to buyin’ a bar.”

The two boys again looked at each other and then at JP. Rasher took the follow up.

              “Eh, yeah. Well, fair play to ya. Spirit of covid handwashin’ and all tha’.”

Mono then took the reins.

              “Yeah. Fair dues….and let me say on behalf of meself and Rasher…. we’re really glad you shared tha’ with us.”

They went back to synchronised drinking. It was necessary to intersperse the conversation with frequent lubrication. JP put his pint glass back on the electrical cable drum and mimicked washing his hands.

              “It was important to me lads.”

The two boys looked more quizzically at each other – this was getting a bit weird. Do they wait for JP to further hold court? Do they ask what the big deal was? In the absence of further clarification ensuing Rasher couldn’t wait any longer.

              “Wha’ the feck was so important about buyin’ a bar of bleedin’ soap?”

JP looked at them both in turn.

              “It’s a sign.”

              “A sign?”

              “Yeah – a sign.”

“A sign of bleedin’ wha’? Tha’ with all the bleedin’ handwashin’ going on, tha’ we haven’t run out of bleedin’ soap? What are you witherin’ on about JP?”

JP took his thoughts for a run out into the open.

“When I was young, we had bars of soap”

“Oh, glad to hear it. Definitely.”

“We had these bars of soap and I’d swear you could still smell the cow fat from it. Or the potash not fully washed out of it. And it came in a block the size of a buildin’ brick.”

“Jaysus – yeah JP – I remember now. Ya’d never get the better of it.”

“Jaysus – I remember too – now that ya say it. Ya’d never get a sud from it either. Ya’d wonder how the feck we actually cleaned ourselves.”

They each had another swig from their glasses and momentarily stayed with their own individual thoughts for a while. From soap to silver, from sophistication to stupidity, from silly to sublime – all the spectrum was savoured in Donleavys. Every thought was sacred. Every feeling was open to scrutiny (and ridicule!). JP took up the discussion again.

“I didn’t have a happy childhood.”

The two boys nearly coughed their pint back into its glass.

“Feck sake JP – that’s a bit of a statement.”

“Yeah. Think ya’ve crossed a line there. JP.”

“That could constitute – what do they call it? Vulnerability?”

“Yeah JP….and whatever they call it ….we don’t do that personal shit in this pub.”

“Yeah JP – save that kind of shite for the dentist or the physiotherapist or the optician or whoever the feck has the most comfortable chair.”

“Bang out of order, JP.”

JP took it all in his stride. He was used to these outbursts. Like ‘Old Faithful’, the lads needed to vent steam on a regular basis. He examined the volume left in the glasses and raised a supply chain finger as Donleavy made another delicate swirling move through the chicane of some of the cable drum tables.

“A bar of Pears soap”, was all that he replied.

“JP, yer satellite has just been shot out of our earth’s orbit. What the feck are ya gettin’ at?”

Donleavy landed more pints. Truly this publican was a legend. How he served such glorious pints with such world record speed would always remain a mystery. The three amigos luxuriated in the vision of that final settling process – where the eddies of white disappeared, and the black mystery took control. A textbook separation. JP never ceased to be amazed by the mesmerising physics that was at play in the art of the pint.

“I remember visiting a friend’s house one time. I’d made friends with this girl and her parents had their nest fairly feathered at the bank.”

“Fair play JP. If ya’d played yer cards well, ya could now be sippin’ cocktails in the Horseshoe Bar of the Shelbourne hotel, rather than skullin’ pints with yours truly.”

“Naw. No chance. I know now – she was just rebellin’ against her parents and I was just a bit of tough to annoy them. Never gonna last. But it was interestin’ while it did last.”

“Jaysus JP – so you’ve actually seen how the other half live? Yeah? Yachts and racehorses and caviar and champagne? Yeah?”

“Oh, and Pims during Wimbledon week, for sure.”

JP looked back in the middle-distance reliving a past experience. A smile grew across his face.

“I got to drive her Father’s Jag. Can’t remember what size it was but the engine had way more litres than we could put away in a night.”

“Jaysus.”

“Yeah – in the beginning she roared at me to slow down. I couldn’t figure out what she was on about. But I was looking at the rev counter rather than the speedo.”

They all had a good chuckle over that one.

“Jaysus JP, you were probably getting clearance from Houston.”

JP was still smiling.

“So, what was it really like.”

“Oh, a lovely car right enough.”

“Naw. Naw. Hanging out with the swanks?”

JP inhaled deeply and let out his breath really steadily and really slowly. He thought for a few minutes before he spoke. The two boys were urging him on.

“Everyone smelled nice. Everything smelled nice.”

“What the feck do you mean by that?”

“It’s like the Pears Lifebuoy thing. No big bar of fat soap still smelling of a cows udder or a horses arse. It’s what I’m telling you. Everyone…Everything…and I bought the bar of Pears soap because I wanted to get away from that unhappy Lifebouy time. I wanted to get that Pears feeling.”

They all had a think about that. Rasher was still not fully pleased that they may have entered the personal stadium here and it had always been agreed that games involving deep feelings were banned. Maybe if he wasn’t courting displeasure he might not have responded as coldly as he did.

“I think ya may have overplayed this one JP.”

JP turned in surprise.

“What happens if yer washing yer mitts and instead of remindin’ ya of nice-smellin’ rich byors, it just brings back yer lifebuoy unhappy memories?”

JPs face went a little vague for a while. Clearly, he was having to work overtime to process this. He finally cleared the fog.

“Tell ya what. Let’s go the chipper van for a nice smoked cod and chips.”

“That’s more like it, JP.”

“Sound as a brown trout. Give Donleavy the nod there.”

They made their way out the back gate

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

Well – maybe a slightly different night.

JP, Mono and Rasher were seated in garden chairs around massive electrical cable drums acting as tables in the back yard of Donleavy’s pub. Mid-afternoon June 7^th. Three creamy pints settled in traditional fashion with a halo of white looking majestic against the black darkness of the body. They each licked their lips.

              “Well – Sláinte.”

              “Yeah – here’s to our first legal pint in God knows how long.”

              “Hope it tastes alright – ya know what they say about forbidden fruit tastin’ sweeter.”

              “Yeah – well this isn’t bleedin’ fruit and it’s not meant to taste sweet.”

              “Touché.”

              “Here’s to very many more legal pints.”

They synchronistically raised their glasses and drank equal volumes before returning their glasses to the cable drum. Months of covert, illegal drinking at Donleavy’s bar – under cover of darkness – secret knocks – sophisticated ingress and egress strategies – blacked out windows – hushed tones – had now all come into the light. Literally. The sun was shining and seemed to be in harmony with welcoming Donleavy to the fold of legal publicans once more. And it showed in his step. The man was like a slalom skier twisting and turning around electrical cable drums like a lithe teenager rather than a bulky barman.

“Bejaysus. Did ya ever think ya’d see the day where Donleavy’s bar would have a beer garden?”

“Never. And in fairness to Donleavy – he’s tried his best to make a backyard storage area into somewhere where a man could sup a pint.”

              “Needs must.”

They went back for another communal drinking effort accompanied by satisfied sounds and the wiping of mouths with the back of hands. They did feel a little strange out here in the open. Pint drinking was better accommodated by dark bar counters where the light only struggled to enter. It was a more appropriate atmospheric accompaniment. Dark with dark. Maybe direct shafts of sunlight were OK for those lager or ale drinkers, but for real pint drinkers it only felt right when removed from natural light. Still – we are still in pandemic territory and sacrifices continually need to be made. Being in a triangle around this cable drum was equally odd. This wasn’t a natural layout for our three amigos. For eternity the drinking layout had been JP at the bar counter flanked by his two outriders. Years of this set-up had resulted in neck muscles developing in a certain way. Now here they were offset at sixty degrees to each other. It felt unnatural and for a long time they weren’t sure where to look. I mean – they were looking at each other. That’s what lovers did. But these were pint drinkers. And often they only looked at the reflection of the other in the bar counter mirror. This would take some getting used to. Hopefully this is temporary. Again, sacrifices were acceptable to the three lads.

JP probably had the most acclimatising to do. Those spirit bottles along the bar counter and that imperfection in the bar counter mirror were often a source of great conversational inspiration to him. In this back yard – some trailing plants on the cavity block wall, a few kegs in the corner and the sun umbrellas didn’t encourage him to the same degree. And definitely – looking across at his fellow conspirators did not put him at his ease. This was another example of virgin territory to be adsorbed as part of the pandemic. His thought processes seemed to be strangely woolly, muddled and confused as he looked around straining for conversational openers. As it happened – Mono took the lead.

              “Funny this.”

              “Wha’? Us in a beer garden?”

              “Or more like a beer yard.”

              “Naw – the whole thing. Like stuff that people have been tryin’ to get us to do for years and now the bleedin’ ‘Rona has suddenly turned it all on.”

They each took another aliquot of the black stuff culminating in a raised finger in the direction of Donleavy to ensure adequate supply and zero risk of temporary dehydration. With the levels topped up, each gave reign to their own musing.

              “Cashless society.”

              “Yep. Who would have bleedin’ thought that you’d go into a shop and swipe yer card for buyin’ something as small as a packet of Tayto?”

              “True fer ya.”

More musing.

              “…and of course, WFH. Before ‘Rona everybody who did WFH was a lazy bollocks stretched out on the sofa watchin’ old black and white films.”

              “Yeah. Now there’s the on-site heroes and the WFH heroes.”

              “Fair play. Everyone is a bloody hero. Fair play to us all.”

              “I’ll drink to tha’.”

              “You’d bleedin’ drink to anythin’.”

Donleavy returned with more incoming. They settled themselves in harmony with the pints settling. Like a ceremonial ritual they paused all further conversation until there was a very definite and discrete separation between black and white layers. Then with practised synchronisation, they raised the glasses, drank, confirmed their satisfaction, and relaxed back again.

              “Not sure about the café society.”

              “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe not. The substantial meal in the pub didn’t work for sure.”

They had a good laugh at that one.

              “D’ya’member the lads who refused the food, gave the money and insisted it got diverted to charity?”

              “Yep. Can’t beat the drinkin’ masses for makin’ up their own rules.”

They toasted that one.

              “But in fairness. There’s been a lash of pedestrianisation.”

              “And outsides tables.”

              “That’s all good.”

              “Yeah. Who’d believed it could happen in Ireland?”

JP couldn’t resist a chime in and diversion on this one.

              “D’ya know what lads. The old word for Ireland – Hibernia. That came from the Latin word Hiber. D’ya know what ‘hiber’ means?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. There was a communal shrug of the shoulders. While our three amigos had made Donleavy’s famous for some of the great philosophical debates of our modern times – knowledge of the classics didn’t rank high in respect of chosen specialist subjects. JP took the shrug as permission to proceed.

              “Winter, lads. That’s what the bleedin’ ancients thought of Ireland. Permanent shaggin’ winter. “

              “Bit harsh. Weather’s cat malogen – but Jaysus – it’s not continuous winter.”

              “Guess if ya were a Roman if felt like continuous winter.”

              “Pity the Romans didn’t make it here – they might have left a few decent roads.

              “True fer ya.”

Back to the pints. The atmosphere was thick with the sparks of neurons as each tried to think how this new liberation of society had brought with it some additional good stuff. Like intellectual athletes waiting to explode out of the blocks, each was waiting for their personal starting gun to be fired and to be the first to race ahead in the conversation.

              “The geeks!”, Rasher almost shouted to the assembled masses.

The other two automatically looked to the sky.

              “What geese?”

              “Don’t see no geese.”

Rasher’s breath laboured a response.

              “Geeks. Geeks. The bleedin’ scientists. Bloody immunologists. Statisticians with 80’s spectacles.”

              “What about ‘em?”

              “They’ve found a place in the sun like never before. Bleedin’ celebrities nearly. Nobody listened to them. Ever. Now everybody hangs on their every word. They must be shaggin’ delirious with excitement.”

              “True fer ya.”

              “They better bleedin’ enjoy it. Cause their moment in the sun will end soon in a permanent eclipse once the ol’ herd move in.”

              “Herd? Wha’ ya witherin’ ‘bout.”

              “The herd. The herd immunity. It’s out there grazin’ on the plains but its goin’ move in soon. And then we’ll all be back in paradise.”

The boys went back to their pints. It was time to bring it back to the important stuff that had changed.

              “Ya know this beer garden, beer yard, ain’t bad. Ya could get used to it.”

              “I’ll tell ya somethin’ else. I was savin’ it as a surprise. Donleavy gave me a sneaky heads up.”

The other lads were immediately on curiosity edge. Heads up like meercats looking for the new nugget of information.

              “Wha’, wha’?”

              “The Chippers puttin’ a van at the yard door from 8pm.”

              “Ah, Jaysus. Magic.”

              “Pints and batterburgers. The business.”

              “Some good stuff has come out of this pandemic. I knew it would.”

They went back to their pints.

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

Well – maybe a slightly different night.

JP took another generous gulp of his pint as he admired himself in the mirror behind the bar counter. His trusty lieutenants – Rasher and Mono – imbibed in synchronous fashion. This was how it was, and this was how it had always been. There was a telepathic avenue between the drinking amigos that resulted in pints being swallowed at the same times and in equal quantities. No doubt scientists and psychologists – if they had a mind – could explore this in wondrous detail and publish many illustrious medical and scientific papers from the outputs. And – no doubt – the effects of decades of drinking in Donleavy’s pub would be better understood for future generations to muse upon and place in the pantheon of scientific discoveries.

Donleavy himself could do with some psychological assistance as we all made our way through this Covid-19 pandemic. The stress of operating the bar illegally for his trusted customers had taken its toll. He was a shrunken version of what he used to be and as grumpy as a pig with a lighted cigar stuck up its hole. Gone was the ballerina bar owner with a friendly word for everyone as he floated up and down the bar. Present was a mumbling, plodding, hangdog whom everyone avoided save for the mechanics of ordering more incoming pints.

              “Is there an end in sight?”

JP threw out the question to the two lads. It required no clarification as to what ‘end’ referred. There were very little other topics of conversation. Everything started and ended with bloody immunology conversation. Death toll. R-number. New cases. ICU numbers. Variants. Lockdown. Restrictions. Easing of restrictions. Tightening of restriction. N-PHET. Politicians doing their best. Politicians making an unholy bollocks of things. Gobshite deniers. Wuhan. Italy. UK. South Africa. Brazil. India. Vaccines. Astra Zeneca shambles. J&J one shot. Pfizer flavour please. Who ever heard of Moderna before? Vector vaccine on a piece of a monkey. Send RNA in with a message and no return address. Learning as we go. In this together – my hole. Stay Strong. Stay Safe. Social Distancing. Two metres. Disposable Facemasks. Fashion Facemasks.

              “Yeah. We’re into the final now. Vaccine FC against Viral Wanderers.”

              “Nice one.”

              “Yeah – I hear Viral have just signed a new striker from India. Supposed to be lethal as fuck anywhere within the penalty area. Prolific is the description he’s coming with. Will take a lot of markin’.”

              “Ah – Vaccine are on a roll thou’. They’ve really been puttin’ themselves out there and it shows. Gettin’ some mighty results – and the word is – their defence will have the measure of the Indian lad.”

              “All or nothin’ game.”

              “Yeah – just like any final.”

JP looked at himself in the mirror again. He couldn’t get over how tidy he looked. That trip to the barber had made a new man out of him. He didn’t like to think about it, but he was pretty sure he missed the last time the barbers were allowed to open between lockdowns. So – it could actually have been a year since his last tonsorial experience…and…a JP with flowing locks was not exactly a romantic profile like a Byron or a Shelly. Bit more akin to an Indigent or a Homeless. He’d treated himself to the full works at the Turkish Barbers – cut, shave, hot towels – the lot. He came out feeling like a new man ready to single-handedly box the shite out of the coronavirus all by himself.

              “D’ya know what lads?”

              “Go on…”

              “One thing this pandemic has done – it’s completely changed me expectations.”

              “How so?”

              “Look at me. I got a few hairs chopped off me noggin and that lovely nurse down in the GP  threw me first jab into me arm – and I feel like all me bleedin’ Christmases have come together.”

              “True for ya.”

They all took another sup on the strength of that. A bit of a shearing and a treble twenty in the arm and the world seemed good. No whinging over a pay rise – just happy to have pay. No bitching about a mortgage – just happy to still have a home. Thanks to Donleavy – no whining about being locked down – pints still flowing every night they want them. Not in ICU. Not working in ICU. Know people who got slapped by the virus but no-one who took a killer punch. Yep – looking at the world through a different lens.

              “Wont last of course”

It was Mono who broke the good feeling.

              “Why d’ya say tha’?”

              “Talkin’ to an old fellow recently. He was a kid durin’ the London Blitz. After VE day there was this pure belief tha’ they’d all live in a different world.”

              “And…?”

              “Well – they’d all been in it together. Where have ya heard that phrase?”

              “Sounds familiar OK.”

              “The spirit of all in it together didn’t last pissin’ time. Every man for himself took over fairly quick.”

              “Yeah. Could see that happenin’.”

              “So – enjoy this team of us while it lasts. In fact, I’d even suggest we should seize the moment and have onion rings with the one and one in the chipper on the way home.”

              “Feck it – that sounds like a plan.”                        

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

The lads made their way through the covert exit of the back room and the store area and out into the darkness of the rear yard.

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

JP nursed the end of his pint and looked up and down the length of the bar counter. Flanked by his trusty lieutenants – Rasher and Mono – it could have been any other Thursday night in Donleavy’s pub. Except it wasn’t. This was an illegal gathering in the middle of Covid-19 lockdown. And ‘gathering’ – well gathering was too big a word for what was going on here. Since the start of ‘Wave 1’ Donleavy had invited his most trusted regulars to continue to drink in the pub within a certain time window every night and under the cover of strict rules. Donleavy nearly had more rules than the Government regulations. But it had worked. And one year later they were still here – a select little group – still acting as if nothing had changed in the imbibing world. Well – lots had changed really. The pub was nearly as silent as a forgotten crypt. Tutankhamen’s tomb probably had more stray light entering with the way Donleavy had sealed the windows. And it was probably easier to navigate into Tut’s final resting place than the circuitous route that Donleavy insisted on entering and exiting the pub.

But clearly something had worked because one year later JP, Rasher and Mono were still supping pints and solving the greatest philosophical conundrums of our time. Donleavy hadn’t fared so well. The pressure of this covert exercise had shrunk and rounded the man. It had also made him grumpy. It was for this reason that JP decided he would choose this time to go to the ‘Jacks’ so that Rasher could have the pleasure of engaging with Donleavy for fresh incoming.

On his return from the relieving room, JP was happy to see that his plan had worked out expertly as evidenced by three fresh pint glasses full of the magic of settling stout. He took his ordained place on the middle stool and delicately pitched from buttock to buttock until his equilibrium was perfectly balanced. When settling was complete (pints and buttocks) the three amigos raised their glasses in the most exquisite example of synchronised harmony and, showing years of practise, swallowed for exactly the same length of time and with the same volume. A weights and measures expert would have attested that the volume remaining in each glass was equal within the tolerance of a few millilitres. The presence of greatness. A living example of the 10,000 hours practise required for perfection.  10,000 pints in this case.

JP straightened up his back, rolled his shoulders and sought inspiration in the rows of spirit bottles behind the bar. His gaze came to rest on a bottle of Tequila with a cork shaped like a Mexican sombrero. In this ‘spit and sawdust’ pub, Donleavy had the most incredible collection of bottles of which the vast majority were still intact and unopened. Within this collection the inspiration for all forms of conversation could be sparked. JP’s neurons were sparking loudly as he perused the Tequila bottle.

              “Cycling helmets”, he announced directly to the bar counter mirror.

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They collectively threw their eyes up to heaven. This was typical of JP’s style. A statement to the Gods and they were supposed to automatically pick up on JP’s train of thought. Rasher bit his tongue – he just wasn’t going to give JP the satisfaction of a follow up. Mono bit down for as long as he could but eventually, he inhaled like a suffocating man and let out a despairing question.

              “Wha’ the bloody hell? We’re suppin’ pints in Donleavy’s. What the feck do ya want a cycling helmet for?”

JP did indeed initiate another synchronised cycle of pint supping before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and evolved the topic.

              “Bad role modellin’. Cyclin’ helmets.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. This time it was Rasher who was incapable of holding back.

              “Sweet sufferin’ Jaysus. What are ya witherin’ on about man. No-one knows where the feck or in what cave yer brain has come to land.”

JP stared into a focus spot in the bar mirror from which only he could extract his creative muse. Then he turned his gaze to the deep inspirational pool of his pint of stout.

              “Tell me this, lads. How many times have ya seen a parent out cyclin’ with their kids?”

The looks on Rasher and Mono’s face was clearer than any words. It screamed – yeah, yeah, get on with it. Somewhere in the deep recess of whatever cave JP was inhabiting – the echoes of this scream bounced off the walls, because he continued his flow.

              “…and when you do see ‘em. How many times have ya seen the kids wearin’ cyclin’ helmets – as is only right and proper and just and Christian – and the parents bareheaded – not a helmet to be seen. Yeah. Tell me that’s not so. I challenge ya.”

The two lads looked across each other and quietly nodded. Clearly JP was on fairly sure ground with this one. He was out of the cave and up to the surface. The dark recesses were replaced by a bright clarity.

              “Yer bang on, JP. Yer on the money.”

              “So, tell me lads. When the parent hits the pothole and smacks his or her noggin square on the kerbstone – clearly a parent skull must be covered in titanium – because there can’t be any other logical explanation. Rasher, Mono – yer both parents – last time ya looked – did ya have a titanium coated skull?”

They shook their heads.

              “What a complete cat malogen example of role modellin’.”

They nodded their heads.

              “Jaysus. Imagine what the kid must think. As soon as I grow up, I don’t need a helmet. We know for sure what goes through the kid’s head but what the feck goes through the adults head?”

JP mimed an inverted comma for the last bit of the sentence. The three amigos absorbed this in their own way. For once in violent agreement. This was incontrovertible. As undeniable as the fact that beans make you fart.

There was a long silence before Rasher kicked on the conversation.

              “Jaysus. When ya think about it. There’s a huge bleedin’ lack of role models for kids today. Thems that should be – are about as far away as bein’ a good influence as the devil from the gates of heaven.”

              “Too right. An’ this bleedin’ pandemic has really exposed some people as the shite artists that they actually are.”

              “Yer on the ball there. For sure.”

Donleavy has making one of his many laps of the bar counter. Pint glasses were lifted and leaned forward in silent respect, recognition, and gratitude. Donleavy was only a shadow of his former enthusiastic self. Covid-19 and the stress of running this illicit watering hole had taken the bounce out of for step.

Rasher almost folded himself into a fractional version of himself and let go of a whisper.

              “Us. We’re hardly role models. Suppin’ here.”

The two other lads looked at him. There was a scolding expression to the appearance.

              “Let it go.”

              “We’ve dealt with that.”

              “Temporary thing.”

              “No more.”

Rasher – suitably chastened – felt the need to immediately ingratiate himself back with his imbibing colleagues.

              “Bleedin’ teachers.”

              “Feck, yeah.”

              “Strike action in the middle of a pandemic?”

              “Who in the name of all that’s good and wholesome do they think they are?”

              “What feckin’ planet do they live on?”

              “Clearly not one with Covid-shaggin’-19.”

              “Bung ‘em all into ICU. Let ‘em see wha’ front line really means.”

“Role models me hole – a lad or lass in the class will go out into the world thinkin’ when all the world is dyin’ it’s OK to whinge about breakin’ a fingernail.”

“Come the revolution, comrade…….”

They drained their glasses.

              “Another…?”

              “I’m hungry after all that.”

              “Yeah – we’ll go for a battered sausage.”

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

The lads made their way through the covert exit of the back room and the store area and out into the darkness of the rear yard. Just another night in Donleavy’s.

JP was in pensive mood as he stared at the Donleavy’s whiskey section behind the bar. He continuously wondered why Donleavy stocked some of these brands of spirits. And where did he even get them? Like – who would be coming into Donleavy’s and saying…‘I’ll have a pint of plain and a Stronachie 10-year-old chaser’. JP presumed that the bottle of ‘Stronachie’ could even mellow into a 20-year-old before the seal would be broken. Donleavy’s just wasn’t that type of pub. Maybe – for Donleavy – it was a bit like collecting bumper stickers, or fridge magnets or foreign currency notes. Maybe it didn’t matter if anyone in Donleavy’s – ever – was to be able to way lyrically about the smoothness and tones of ‘Stronachie’ 10-year old.

JP was carrying around a stone in his shoe. The ‘Stronachie’ was a distraction to his thoughts. But he needed to unburden himself and any amount of wondering about foreign spirits and their supply chain and eventual resting place could not result in his mind finding a soft pillow. He stared at the bottle, nevertheless. It seemed to facilitate him letting go of the weight on his mind.

“Lads”, he said without making eye contact, “it’s not goin’ end well.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Wha’? The six nations?”

              “The U20 hurlin’?”

              “The mini-series you’re watchin’ on Netflix?”

Rasher and Mono shared a grin. Goading JP was always open season, never a closed season for this type of banter.

              “Naw, lads. It’s not goin’ to end up lookin’ good for us. I know it. I feel it in my waters.”

              “Jaysus, JP. First – I’ve no idea what yer witherin’ on about. But second – maybe ya should risk a trip to Donleavy’s luxurious men’s room and get rid of them waters.”

              “Yeah. A god trip to the jacks might settle you right down.”

JP continued to stare at the bottles. His mood was not lightened by his drinking colleagues attempt to inject humour into his worry vein. Maybe a shot of ‘Stronachie’ was what was called for. He reckoned that Donleavy would either give him a taste of this Scotch Whisky for free or that he would charge him a king’s ransom for it. He didn’t risk it. He wasn’t willing to bet on the outcome. He wasn’t feeling at his most optimistic.

              “Rasher. Mono. Look at us.”

The two boys looked around everywhere – unsure of the instruction.

              “We’re here in the middle of a bleedin’ global pandemic. The worst thing to hit the world since the Spanish Flu. A complete devastation for humanity. Doctors and nurses layin’ their lives on the line every day – sometimes all day and night – and here we are suppin’ pints illegally in Donleavy’s – while millions across the world die.”

The two boys now looked at each other. JP continued.

              “When they write the history books – we’re not goin’ to come out of this lookin’ good.”

The two boys now looked at each other again with raised eyebrows.

              “Yaysus JP. Ya really know how to bleedin’ well add to the fun of a Thursday night.”

              “Yeah, JP…and why the feck do ya think they’d be includin’ us in the history of the pandemic. Think ya’r gettin’ a bit ahead of yerself there, sport.”

JP acknowledged their comments with a sage nod of his head.

              “I hear ya. I hear ya. But in our community. In our community. We’ll be hung out to dry. It will leak out that we’ve been spendin’ four nights a week in our local – but our local that has morphed into a shebeen. It won’t end well for us.”

              “Jaysus, JP. Order another round from Donleavy there, will ya.”

              “Yeah, JP. Lighten the feck up. It won’t leak out. It’s one of them secrets that gets taken to the grave because everyone has somethin’ to lose.”

JP considered this. It was point. That was for sure. But what was that saying? ‘Loose tongues sink ships’. Surely there would be some eejit who would break the omerta. Some gobshite who’d want to boast about the fact that he had pub facilities seamlessly through every lockdown and never wanted for a pint. The thought sent a shiver through his spine. Rasher and Mono could almost sense his unease through the medium of shared pint glasses. Rasher felt it was his duty through the bond of friendship to intervene.

              “Jaysus, JP. I agree with ya on one front.”

JP was momentarily startled. Rasher agreeing on any front was not the rhythm of any evening.

              “There are lots of people for whom it won’t end well. History won’t treat a number of gobshites kindly when all this is over. That’s true for ya. Bigger fish than us poor lads distractin’ ourselves from the hardship of this world with a few harmless pints.”

Now both Mono and JP were momentarily stunned. Rasher hadn’t won any prizes at school for eloquence and this was almost poetic for him. Rasher kept going and started the ball rolling.

              “Orange Face and Mad Yellow Hair.”

              “Yeah.”

              “Obviously.”

Rasher had obviously been thinking about this subject because he was right in there with his next suggestions.

              “Bloody teachers.

              “Jaysus, yeah. Proper whingers.”

              “Too right. Great bleedin’ role models to the kids. Ask ‘em to do somethin’ and their immediate reaction is to down tools and threaten strike.”

The lads ruminated on this one for a while. Clearly the school experience for each of them had not been the fulfilment of growing minds. There was no glow from their expressions.

              “Jaysus”, Mono interjected, “imagine if you took up all the teachers in one big block and parachuted them into ICU in place of the nurses.”

              “Feck, yeah…listen to ‘em…I’m not goin’ into that ward…it’s not safe…I want my union official…”

              “…I realise that patient is goin’ blue because she hasn’t been connected to a ventilator…but do you realise that startin’ salaries are unequal…yeah, yeah, I hear you gaspin’ for air…but there’s an important point here…”

The lads raised their glasses and clinked over that little piece of role play. Clearly there was a pandemic history chapter here that got great agreement. Maybe even a few scores to even up that had festered and waited decades to get back to a playing field. They whirled a few more candidates for ‘Gobshites of the Pandemic’ around in their heads while they diligently supped at their drinks.

              “All the feckin’ anti- crowd.”

              “Feck, yeah.”

              “Anti-vaccine, anti-restrictions, anti-pandemic, anti-freeze…”

              “Feck yeah. Maybe Darwin didn’t have all the answers. Some snuck through.”

The boys were looking at their watches now. There was probably only time for one more group. The chipper would be shutting soon, and priorities needed to be drawn. It was fitting that Rasher would fill the final void. He’d been on a roll all night and it was good to have him get a clean sweep.

              “Some of the bleedin’ journalists and media.”

              “I hear ya, but why so?”

              “Feck sake. The way this pandemic has unfolded – the poor shaggin’ scientists and politicians – and ya know I’m not usually easy on the political bods – but those guys and gals have been playin’ blind man’s buff. Only gettin’ to know bits and pieces along the way and tryin’ to make the best hand out of it without even knowin’ what cards are in their deck. And wha’ do some of the journalists do – rip into them. How would the bleedin’ journalists feel if someone took all their words away and told them to write an article for the paper.”

The boys nodded sagely.

              “Jaysus, Rasher, yar good tonight. Ya have more passion in ya than a stud locked in with a pack in heat. But we need to leg it if we’re going’ to make the chipper.”

              “True for ya. Give Donleavy the nod.”

The lads drained their glasses and made their way through the covert exit of the back room and the store area and out into the darkness of the rear yard.

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

JP, Rasher and Mono watched as Donleavy moved up and down behind the bar counter. He seemed to be moving like a punch-drunk boxer unaware of his purpose. They were concerned for their bar owner, barman and dare they say it – friend. He had illegally kept Donleavy’s bar ‘open’ to his select customers through each Covid lockdown. He had reopened when briefly allowed. But now he really didn’t seem to know whether he was coming or going. He was even muttering to himself between orders. He had all the looks of a man with a fragile line of mental health. Our three amigos didn’t know what they could do for him other than keep him busy ordering further pints. Maybe that would keep Donleavy on the good side of the line.

Rasher put his finger up. Donleavy raised his head long enough to spot the signal. The ritual of preparing three additional creamy pints began and progressed. This was not a pub where you got any of those silly shamrocks on the top of the pint. No chance. Donleavy interviewed a guy for a barman job on one occasion  – where the prospective employee thought this shamrock thing would be impressive. They all joked later that it resulted in a much-witnessed episode of levitation. The guy’s feet didn’t touch the ground on the way out. No. This is ‘Donleavy’s’. And this is where culture counts. And there are certain behaviours accepted and others despised. Try talking to Donleavy about having a TV in the bar…or piped music…but only if you dare…and only if you have the bravery of a mountain lion. Donleavy has been known to leave clientele walking out of the pub on stumps after he’d cut the legs from under them.

JP was thinking about all this as he worried about this best bar owner in the country. Who else would respect his patrons so much that he would defy the law to keep them in pints and conversation? And clearly it was taking its toll. And it wasn’t for the money.  There was only a very exclusive, hand-picked group of imbibers in the inner, golden circle. And to what extent must Donleavy have had to go, to ensure continuity of supply. JP was sure there must be a few brown envelopes being exchanged. This whole Covid thing was weird. Unreal. Like an out of body experience.

              “Sometimes I think I’m looking down”, JP continued his thoughts into voice.

              “Wha’?”

              “Yar lookin’ down! Yar looking down into the dregs of yer pint until Donleavy arrives with incoming.”

JP stared into the bar counter mirror – just left of the Marsala bottle. What the hell was a bottle of Marsala doing in Donleavy’s pub? JP continued to look intently. He found when he focussed at a point in the mirror his thoughts seemed to clarify in a better way.

              “Naw. I mean sometimes it seems so unreal that I’m lookin’ in from the outside.”

              “Jaysus, JP. Make up yer mind. Are you lookin’ in or lookin’ down?”

              “JP, knowin’ you – you’re probably lookin’ up as well. I’m feelin’ jealous now. Wish I could look up, look down and look in… all at the same time, huh. JP joins the band of superpower brothers. That’s worth drinkin’ to.”

              “Yeah. If we ever get fresh pints. I think Donleavy is gone Covatose.”

JP was trying to remember where he had come across Marsala before. It went into something. But it wasn’t coming to him. Ah well. He’d probably wake up bolt upright in the bed at three o’clock in the morning and it would hit him then. And there was something about what Rasher had just said that was leaving a stone in his shoe. What was it?

              “Aha. Now I’ve got it.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Quizzical eyebrows were raised and shared.

              “Wha’ – the superpower?”

              “No. It was somethin’ you said. It didn’t land right.”

Rasher threw his eyes to heaven and then cupped his hands around his mouth.

              “Flight Rasherwords. Runway one-niner. You’re coming in too fast. Pull up. Pull up. Aaaah. Too late. Emergency services to runway one-niner.”

Mono lifted his glass. Rasher had recorded a strike. Best to recognise it with a raised pint.

JP had his chin tilted upwards and seemed to be searching for life’s meaning.

              “Ya said ya were jealous.”

              “Wha’?”

              “Jealous of wha’?”

              “I dunno. My superpower?”

              “Ah Jaysus, JP. Ya don’t really have superpowers, ya do know that, don’t ya? Have ya turned into a complete Covidiot?”

              “It’s the ‘jealous’ bit. You’re not jealous.”

              “Course I’m not jealous. Ya don’t have superpowers. Now I do think yer a complete Covidiot.”

              “Naw. It’s the word. Ya can’t be ‘jealous’. Ya can only be jealous of somethin’ ya have. What ya are is envious. Ya’re envious of my superpowers.”

              “For feck sake, JP. Ya don’t have superpowers, OK. Ya’ll have to lay off the drink for a while. Try a dry month. Yer brains gone to mush.”

Mono waved his hands. He had been in mid-swallow when the lightbulb moment came on in his head. He desperately wanted Rasher’s attention, but he also didn’t want to inhale his pint rather than swallow it. He’d tried that before and the outcome isn’t pleasant for anyone. Finally, he managed to divert the drink from his windpipe into its rightful path down his gullet. He allowed himself a lungful of air.

              “Hang on Rasher. JP’s right you know.”

              “Ah Jaysus Mono. Don’t tell me ya think he got superpowers from Santie Claus?”

              “No. Jealous. Envious. He’s on the money. Ya can’t be jealous of something ya don’t have Doesn’t make sense. Ya can be envious. But not jealous. Makes sense? Doesn’t make sense!”  

Both Mono and JP spent the best part of ten minutes trying to explain it further to Rasher, but it was destined to be a homeless concept – never going to achieve a home in Rasher’s cerebrum. They had to let it go. And Rasher was starting to get a bit sulky – so it was time to move on.

              “What about you Rasher? Do ya have any favourite wrongly used words?”

JP thought this was a good move. Bring him back from the sulky bit. Put him in charge. Rasher seemed to be in pensive mood for an extraordinary length of time and JP was half afraid his approach had backfired. Put then Rasher exploded from the blocks.

              “Brutal!”

              “Come again?”

              “Brutal. If I said to ya that I had been to the cinema last night (d’ya still remember when cinemas were open and you could go to a ‘flick’) and the film was brutal – what would ya think?”

              “That it was shite.”

              “Yeah – shite – wojous – cat melodeon.”

              “Yeah. Exactly. But do ya’member a while ago when one of the Irish magazines did a film review and wrote that a film was ‘brutal’. Next thing there is all these advertising hoardings in the London Underground advertising the film as ‘brutal’. And only the Irish people laughing – the rest all thought it was full of vicious, violent scenes.”

The three had a good laugh at that one. It was always a better laugh when there was a secret that I knew, and you didn’t – and when that included the whole population of London – well it didn’t come much better than that.

              “Anymore?”

They thought hard with furrowed brows. They were concentrating so hard that they almost forgot their pints and to indulge themselves in regular synchronised gulps. Heresy. A heresy not for external publication. Rasher straightened his back and shot his shoulders back.

              “Almost a virgin.”

              “Yeah – that’d work.”

The momentum began to pick up.

              “Pacific. I love that one. All those people who think there is a pacific reason why Donleavy pulls a great pint.”

              “Hey nice one. And I want to pacifically pick you up on your specific contribution.”

              “Oh yeah…and don’t forget ‘360’. He said ‘yes’. And then he did a complete 360 turn. So, WTF…that just means he said ‘yes’ again.”

              “Listen. Listen. Now that I think about it – my all-time favourite. What does unique mean to ye, lads?”

The boys conferred for a while and came back with a confident response. One of a kind. Nothing to compare. A once-off.

              “So how in the name of all that’s good and wholesome can somethin’ be very unique. I mean it’s either bleedin’ unique or it isn’t.”

They nodded. Sagely. The English language was still in good hands once Donleavy’s clientele were in charge.

              “Will we go for a quarter pounder and a large bag.”

              “Sounds like a plan.”

              “Give Donleavy a wave.”

The lads made their way through the covert exit of the back room and the store area and out into the darkness of the rear yard.

Just another night in Donleavy’s.