JP@Donleavy’s

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

JP broke into the serenity after a while

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

He left this to sit there for a while.

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

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

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

“Harsh, JP.”

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

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

“What’s tha’?”

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

“Adores the aroma of his own flatulence.

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

“Harsh. Cuttin’. Bit bitchy even?”

JP looked at them each in turn.

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

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

“Windfullness more like.”

“Hey – Nice one.”

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

              “Anyway. What about him?”

“Who?”

“The bleedin’ nephew, for feck sake.”

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

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

Rasher kicked in with a telling assessment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feck me. That’d be interestin’.”

“What’s you say to him JP?”

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

“Ah JP. You were windin’ him.”

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

“Yer pullin’ the piss?”

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

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

JP got the conversation going again.

“Makes ya think thou’, doesn’t it?”

“Think about wha’?”

“The women.”

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

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

“Boring.”

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

“Yeah – her golf swing!”

“What else?”

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

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

“Sorry JP.”

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

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

“And available again!”

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

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

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

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

The two lads were suitably chastened.

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

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

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

Mono scratched his head.

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

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

Mono took the clarification in his stride.

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

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

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

“Sorry JP.”

“Yeah, sorry JP. All ears.”

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

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

“Do you think they’ll care JP?”

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

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

“Wahoo!“

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

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

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

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

Rasher was first to react.

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

              “That’s a good feeling.”

They drained their glasses.

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s

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

JP wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Too right.”

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

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

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

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

              “Jayzus!”

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

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

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

“Yeah – bleedin’ disgrace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Are we all right lads?”

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

              “D’ya think our jobs are secure?”

There was a momentary pause. Mono piped up.

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

              “Yeah – we’ll be grand.”

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

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

JP looked at Mono.  Mono looked at JP.

              “Yeah. What about ‘em?”

Rasher got further into the flow.

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

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

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

              “Yeah – they’d sicken ya.

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

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

              “Where you goin’ with all this?”

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

Mono couldn’t take the confusion any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Brilliant idea.”

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s.

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

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

‘Slainte’

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

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

He motioned to Donleavy with a finger in the air.

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

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

JP moved his head from side to side

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

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

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

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

Mono chipped in lightning fast

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

Rasher was ready to rifle off another round

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

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

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

They all had a good smile around that one.

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

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

The three boys sat there with their mouths wide open.

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

‘Who knows what works anymore?’

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

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

‘Disruptive Technologies’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Taxis!’

‘Yeah?’

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

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

‘Nice one!’

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

‘Spare parts!’

The other two wrinkled their faces

‘Huh?’

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

The wrinkles smoothened out.

‘I like that one!’

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

‘Offices’

‘Yeah’

‘Covid and WFH did for them. ‘

The pace was starting to quicken.

‘GPs.’

‘Ya’re jokin’ aren’t you?’

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

The bull sperm thing?’

‘No ya ludramon. Artificial intelligence. ‘

A slight reddening.

‘Lawnmowers’

Quizzical looks.

‘The little automatic lads?’

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

They nodded.

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

‘Hmmm!’

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

They called Donleavy over and looked for fresh ideas.

‘Sex!’, he threw in immediately.

‘Sex?’

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

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

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

‘Wha’ ?, a trio echoed.

‘A pint!’

They raised their glasses to that.

Rasher called for silence.

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

‘Wha?’, they were all ears.

‘A smoked cod and chips!’

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s

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

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

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

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

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

              “Feckin’ Ukraine thing is poxy, innnit?”

              “Cat malogen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They absorbed this additional piece of information.

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

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

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

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

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

JP finally made his entry mark on the conversation.

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

              “Reflux? Neuralgia? Herpes….?”

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

JP gave them a withering look.

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

              “Feck it. She is thou.’”

              “But seriously Mono.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Ya read our minds.”

              “As always, lads. As always.”

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.