JP@Donleavy’s

Up and down behind the bar counter, Donleavy seemed to have a new spring in his step. The December easing of restrictions allowed him to open his bar in a legal way for the first time since lockdown in March. The man had kept the pub open illegally and covertly through the entire Covid period thus far and only for the benefit of a small group of his trusted drinkers. Regulars who could be trusted to sneak in and out via unusual entrances and exits and under cover of silence and darkness. But this constant subterfuge had caused Donleavy to suffer unquestionable and unquantifiable stress. The man had been like a bag of rats for the last few months. But he had been working away in the background installing a kitchen and now here he was in December 2020 and he was able to comply with all the legal requirements to keep his pub doors legitimately open. He was like a bar owner regenerated. Literally gliding behind the bar as if there was a cushion of air underneath his barman soles. The transformation was almost biblical. It was as if Arthur Guinness himself had taken him down to the shores of the Sea of Guinnessee and poured porter over his barman head and he then arose reborn into a brighter and fresher vintner community.

Having said all that – JP and Mono were patiently waiting to dive into their pints but were delayed by Rasher who seemed to be having a bit of a shemozzle with Donleavy down at the till. The unspoken rule of Pint Etiquette dictated that they couldn’t start until Rasher returned and that they were all ready to take that synchronised first sup together. But clearly – from what they could see – Rasher and Donleavy were trading sentences that did not seem to meet the definition of pleasantries. Eventually Rashed returned to the fold and with a few delicate movements of his buttocks, settled his arse into the equilibrium position. They raised glasses and took that first sup – nectar to the stout drinking Gods. The curiosity as to what had transpired would have to wait. There were certain priorities that needed to be respected.

JP broke the silence. Well not really. There was a triple exhalation of ‘aaahs’ that first cracked into that silence.

              “You an’ Donleavy were exchangin’ Christmas greetin’s?”

              “That man can get feckin’ thick sometimes.”

              “Woah. This the same Donleavy ya were suggestin’ not two nights ago should get on the accelerated beatification pathway. That Donleavy? Yeah?”

              “Yeah, Well, feck it.”

The three boys went back to another synchronised sup. Clearly there was a story here. No doubt. But no point in rushing things. Everything would out in its own good time. However – Rasher didn’t appear to play the game without some small encouragement.

              “Well?”

              “Well wha’?”

              “Why were you slicing rashers off Donleavy?”

              “Hey – good one JP. Rasher slicing rashers. I like it.”

JP and Mono did a high five. Rasher just stared into his pint as if the other two were children who just needed to be ignored.

              “Well?”

              “Wha’?”

              “Donleavy?”

Rashed looked slowly at each of the other two amigos one by one and then back to the other one.

              “I told him his food was shite and we didn’t want it.”

              “Nice….”

              “Ever consider a career in the diplomatic corps?”

They each went back for another sup. The ramifications of this new piece of news needed to be chewed over before the next line of questioning progressed.

              “Did ya really say tha’?”

              “Ah feck. Wha’ d’ya take me for? Of course, I didn’t beedin’ say tha’.”

              “So, what did ya say?”

`             “I told him we always go to the Chipper after pints. That there was no point in givin’ us food. It would just upset the natural order of things. Couldn’t be done. Shouldn’t be done. A bit like seein’ the endin’ of the film at the start. A bit like havin’ desert first on the menu. A bit like playin’ extra time before the game.  A bit like havin’ a climax before ya even begin.”

              “You mean shootin’ your load a bit premature.”

              “Exactly. Yeah.”

“Let’s not go there. Conversation will get messy…as well.”

The three boys drained their pints. This conversation was getting serious. They needed to re-order from Donleavy but clearly JP and Mono needed to know where the ground lay before one of them signalled for another round.

“…and Donleavy said?”

“Said that we needed to pay eleven euro each and take the feckin’ food if he was goin’ to be within the law.”

“…and you said?”

“…that he didn’t give much of a shite for the law over the last nine months.”

“Oooh. Harsh. I thought ya’d rescued the career in the diplomatic corps. Tear up the ol’ application form for the embassy there. Not only would ya’ not get past the screenin’ process – they’d probably take ya out with a sniper.”

The three boys turned the empty pint glasses over in their hands. The tiny remnants of liquid were curved from one side of the bottom of the glass to the other. This needed to move on fast or a drought of African proportions could set in.

“Tell me this ended peacefully.”

“Of course. They don’t call me Mahatma Gandhi for nothing.”

“They don’t call ya Gandhi. It was ‘Rasher’s bandy’ they were shoutin’. Ya know – because you’re as bow legged as a Victorian coffee table.”

“Harsh.”

The banter was all great craic, but JP was starting to get anxious. It wasn’t good to spend this amount of time dry between drinks. They were into unchartered territory. They were outside the proven range. Anything could happen. They needed to get things back into equilibrium with three pints settling in front of them. Things were escalating out of control. Some manner of restraint needed to be re-established. Pints needed to be re-ordered.

“So, where did ya finish with Donleavy?”

“I told ‘im to keep the thirty-three euro. Shove it into the charity box of his choice. Throw the receipts outta the till showin’ we’d ordered his shite food. And everybody’d be happy. Easy-peasy, tickedy-boo…Oh…and just so yer mind is more at ease. I didn’t actually say his food was shite. I said we’d pass on his gastronomic delights.”

“Well feck it Rasher. Maybe we should call you Bandy Gandhi. You’re a warrior.”

“Stand out feckin’ performance.”

“Yer a credit to yer parish.”

Rasher puffed out his chest. He was unaccustomed to this type of praise. Clearly the boys were impressed by how he had handled this delicate situation. And with such an excellent outcome. Pints now. Chips later. Normal service restored. Yep – they’d beat this Covid into the ground with a big stick. Optimism reigned. Anyway, the pints and the chips probably gave them Covid immunity but, at the appointed future time – they’d queue for the ‘vac’ all the same. But for now, it was important to observe the imperative. Rasher put his hand in the air. Donleavy nodded. Three creamy pints would arrive shortly. The world was good.

Just another night in ‘Donleavy’s’.

JP, Rasher and Mono took their bar stools at the counter in ‘Donleavy’s’. They had taken their usual route – under cover of darkness – through the back gate of ‘Donleavy’s’ and via the storeroom into the bar. Donleavy looked as if he had got smaller every time they came into the bar. Guess when Donleavy started keeping his pub premises illegally open during Covid – he didn’t envisage it would go on for this length of time. But the stress was clearly weighing him down. He was shrinking in front of their eyes. How he was even keeping the bar stocked was any man’s guess. But if it could be done through prohibition in the US in the 1920’s – well then it was always possible in the 2020’s.

The three amigos took their usual position at the bar counter – JP in the middle flanked by his two trusty outriders. Donleavy used to hover behind the bar on twinkle toes but now as he approached them it seemed like he was dragging himself through quicksand.

                “Usual, gents?”

                “Are there bears in the woods?”

                “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

                “Does Donald tell porkies?”

The settling of buttocks on the barstools was always accompanied by a moment of Buddhist mindfulness as each man allowed a non-judgmental slowing down of the body and the brain. Only when there were three creamy pints in front of the group followed by a synchronized swallow followed by a deep expression of ‘aaaah’, did they allow themselves to speak.

                “Still big numbers today, lads?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Not too many fatalities thou’. At least compared to usual”

                “Somethin’ to be thankful.”

                “I’ll drink to that.”

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

They did indeed drink to the reduced number of people who shuffled off this mortal coil at the hands of ‘Rona’. There were little enough items to celebrate these days so a few less dead was still worth raising a glass towards. JP’s line of vision was by now lasered on a particular bottle within the bank of spirits. Donleavy tended to keep all the slow-moving stock together in the one area of the bar shelving. From the line of JP’s sight, the best guess would have been that the object of focus was a bottle of Turkish Raki. Not much call for Turkish Raki within the clientele of ‘Donleavy’s’ unless someone brought in their paint brushes for cleaning. This was a porter, ale, and lager establishment. JP was wondering where and when that Raki bottle was added to the pub decoration.

                “Hey lads. What are the Covid figures like in Turkey?”

                “Wha’?”

                “Why are ya askin’? Why would ya care?”

                “No reason.”

                “Bleedin’ weird if ya ask me.”

                “Was anyone askin’ ya?”

                “Yeah – you asked me.”

JP couldn’t actually argue with that. The logic was sound.

He had been to Turkey once. A week in Kusadasi. It had been too bloody hot. That was the only memory he kept. He certainly didn’t drink any Raki when he was there. That was for sure. It would be a long time before anyone went to Turkey on holidays again. Not just him and those in his network – but anyone.

                “Hey lads. The airlines are in trouble, wha’?”

                “Yeah – banjoed. No one travellin’.”

                “D’ya think this is good for the planet?”

                “Cant hurt.”

                “With all the planes on the ground and everyone W.F.H. and not travellin’ – d’ole polar caps will be freezin’ better again.”

                “Yeah. If we could only stop the cows fartin’ – we’d be minted.”

The boys had a good laugh at that one. Mono squeezed one out just to add to the fun.

                “Jayzus, Mono. Wha’ d’ya have for lunch?”

                “Yer rotten, Ya bowsie.”

JP was trying to remember what Kusadasi even looked like. It had been a while. He guessed that it had beaches and hotels and restaurants and bars. Probably could have been any beach resort in the world except the menus were in Turkish.

                “Hey, thou’. The world will change thou’ wont it?”

                “Wha’? If the cows stop fartin’?”

                “Naw, ya clown. Wont all the cities change? Not as much office workers. Offices needed to be changed into apartments. Much more people livin’ in the city. All tha’ sort of stuff?”

                “Jayzus yer right. Will car sales go down?”

                “Roads become emptier?”

                “Could happen.”

                “Then the cows can keep fartin’?”

                “Could be a runner.”

                “Let’s go get a batterburger to celebrate. Might as well stockpile on burgers.”

                “Sounds like a plan. Burger and chips on the way home. Take our mind off ‘Rona’ Give Donleavy the nod there.”

Just another night in ‘Donleavy’s’.

JP, Rasher and Mono were enjoying their illicit pints in Donleavy’s. Donleavy was clearly not having the time of his life. The constant stress of keeping a pub premises operating illegally was beginning to take its toll on the bar-owner. JP was sure that Donleavy’s hairline had visibly receded since March. Mono had recently remarked on how Donleavy’s shoulders seemed to be more rounded and Rasher was shit scared to even order drink from him – such was the risk of catching abuse for some unknown and unrecognized slight. There was no comparison with the Donleavy model of 2019 and that of 2020. Last year’s model had the feet of a dancer, the movement of a gymnast, the guile of a politician and the bluff of a car salesman. The 2020 model was just banjoed.

JP sat in his socially distanced mid-point at the bar counter, flanked by his trusty sidekicks. Rasher and Mono were drinking in perfect synchronicity with their pivot man. If ‘Synchronized Pint Drinking’ were to be made an Olympic event – then these boys would bring back gold for Ireland without any shadow of doubt. Practice makes perfect and these guys had put in the ten thousand hours.

JP put his empty glass down on the bar and within nanoseconds the echo of two more glasses completed the trinity.

                “Al’right Rasher. Yer shout.”

Rasher visibly winced. He hesitantly raised a finger in the air. Within a short timeframe Donleavy acknowledged the order with a barely perceptible nod. Years of signaling required no words. Rasher allowed a long exhalation to exit.

Minutes later the order was replenished. Donleavy had not vented his stress on the three amigos. Pints had settled. All was again well with the world. JP stretched the full length of his spine, relaxed again, and aired a musing.

                “Wha’s it all goin’ be like after?”

                “After wha’ – after three more pints?”

                “….or after a batterburger?”

JP focused his stare on a bottle of Southern Comfort that he was sure hadn’t moved from its resting spot in the last five years. No great wonder. It was popular once with some of the pretenders, but nobody went near the stuff anymore.

                “Wha’s it all goin’ be like after ‘Rona?

                “Ahh…yeah”

                “The really big C.”

Each man was alone with this thought for a while. Pint drinking went on. Clearly these gentlemen had neurons that performed with greater clarity and efficiency when lubricated regularly with ethanol. A sweet spot arose, and the ideas began to air.

                “Well – for years people have been tryin’ to get us all to use cards and get rid of cash. Guess we’re well on our way”

                “Jayzus. They didn’t need to kill hundreds of thousands to get us over to the plastic.”

                “That’s the truth.”

JP was trying to think what the youngsters used to drink with Southern Comfort years ago to kill the taste. He doubted even cough mixture could nail it.

                “D’ya think we’ll all be nicer to each other when this is all over. I mean we’re all in this together aren’t we.?”

                “Yeah. As Winston said…we shall fight with da soap, we shall fight with da masks, we shall fight with da 2 metres. We shall never surrender.”

                “Hey – nice one Mono. Fair play.”

JP was just about to shout ‘Coke’. But he realized in the nick of time that his was a pocket conversation.  Neither Rasher or Mono were in on this. He remembered now that the young fellas used to drink SC and Coke. The liqueur and coke probably murdered each other and created something less horrible than each of them individually. Mono started talking and brought him back to the moment.

                “D’ya know. Talkin’ about the big bulldog. I was shootin’ the breeze with an aul English fella d’other day – and d’ya know wha’ he said…?”

                Wha’?”, the other two replied in stereo.

                “He said that this reminded him of the way his aul wan and his aul fella used to talk abou’ the Blitz in London and how they all supported each other and couldn’t do enough for each other – whether Lord or layabout.”

                “…and…?”

                “And they were all set – after the war – to have a wonderful society where they all valued each other, and everythin’ would be fairer and sure hadn’t they all succeeded together and were all pals.”

                “Feck. I think I know where this is goin’”

                “Yeah. Didn’t last pissin’ time. Every man for himself before you could say I’m all right Jacqueline.”

They drained their pints. JP gave that look that suggested it was time to go. He looked at each of them in turn and cleared his throat before speaking.

                “I think it’s a case of ‘carpe diem’.”

                “Jayzus, JP. I never understood tha’. Wha’ does it mean at all.”

                “Very simple, Rasher. It means enjoy yer battered sausage and chips on the way home in case they bring in lockdown and ya can’t travel to the chipper.”

                “Jayzuz, JP. All that outta two words. Them Latin words are bleedin’ amazin’.”

                “True enough. Give Donleavy the nod there that we’re away to the chipper.”

Donleavy’s humour had not improved in the last number of days. He could frequently be heard muttering and kicking bottle caps as he walked behind the bar counter. Nobody could swear for certain what the words were, but most concurred that they were hearing ‘Mickey Martin’ a lot, and there was some agreement on ‘sleeveen’, with limited votes for ‘soldier of misery’ and ‘fianna fecker’. It certainly seemed like the stress of keeping open a Covid illegal bar was beginning to take a toll on the usually relaxed bar owner. Also clear was who Donleavy blamed for him having to keep his licensed premises operating under the radar. If the leader of the Government of Ireland had back pain, then it was very likely from Donleavy’s voodoo doll.

JP sat in his usual position at the bar at the apex of the sacred trinity of himself, Mono and Rasher. As god-fearing, solid citizens they played their part in the pandemic crisis by having their bar stools further apart from each other than was their usual pattern. JP sat in the middle as per normal flanked by his two-meter outriders.

JP raised his pint at the reflection of the three amigos in the bar mirror and the other two followed suit.

“First one today.”

“Yeah – outta this glass.”

“Yeah – and I hope we get through it without the pub getting’ raided.”

JP and Mono looked sternly at Rasher. The furrowed brows, the laser eyes and the tilt of the heads said it all.

“What…wha’…don’t tell me ye havin’ been thinkin’ ‘bout it. You know The Peelers have been raidin’ even the legit pubs lookin’ for dodgy dealings. You don’t think Donleavy is goin’ get done some day? Why’d’ya think he has a face on him like a pig that just licked piss off a nettle?”

The two boys continued to stare at him.

“What…wha’…ya know this as well as I do”.

Slowly they went back to each of them staring at the bottles on the bar counter while indulging in synchronous visits to their pints. The calm had been disrupted and it took some time before the breathing was restored to an even pattern, before the shoulders gently sagged and the flat foreheads returned. JP had that look about him where the other two knew that it was just a matter of whether he would launch into something at the end of one pint or the beginning of another. But like Cape Canaveral on a fine day – the launch was assured. JP didn’t disappoint.  

“The world is a very inconsistent place.”

There. It was out. The lure had been cast into the mysterious waters of Rasher and Mono’s minds. Even if they wanted to resist the hook – one of them was bound to take the bait.

Rasher.

“Yeah. Yeah. Obviously. Clearly. But why in particular.?”

JP shifted his stare to the cognac bottles. He spotted an Armagnac. He wondered when Donleavy had last sold a glass of Armagnac. This was more a porter and beer type gaff. A G&T was considered exotic. A Pernod was positively out there. Usually for some shithead’s moth just back from a fortnight on a French campsite. But…Armagnac…? JP brought his mind back into focus.

“Why, so? Just thinkin’…you make one mistake these days, one slip of the tongue, one opinion that doesn’t sit well with the masses and the Nuremberg Twitter Trials will have ya out of a job before ya can say…”well, actually what I meant to say was””.

Rasher and Mono slugged their pints and then nodded their heads in slow agreement.

Rasher dived into the conversation current again.

“You’re dead right, JP.  George Hook got the bullet from the radio for one shaggin’ controversial opinion.”

“Yeah -and Kevin Myers lost his newspaper column.”

“…and what about this GDPR crap or whatever it’s called. That’s madness in the other direction. If it smells like shit, feels like shit, tastes like shit…. you still call it shit’…but maybe not.”

The three lads racked their brains for examples. They looked at each other one to one – willing an outcome. Mono was first to explode out of the blocks.

“…the visitors books at the tourist sites…d’ya’member…they took them away. ”

That was all it took to get the cascade falling.

“…and the muggers. D’ya’member …RTE couldn’t show their faces…”

“…yeah…and the Barristers that were creamin’ all the money…couldn’t name them either. GD-bleedin’-PR. World’s gone mental.”

Rasher fired his finger in the air for Donleavy to get going with replacement pints. The gesture was enough to calm the swell. The lads went back to the serious time management of nursing the pint in front of them until incoming was confirmed. Donleavy arrived with his big paws enveloped around the three fresh pint glasses. A sense of stillness began to settle in harmony with the pints.

JP sighed.

“But on d’other hand – when did bare faced, in your mush, downright lyin’ become OK?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

“Trump”, they said in stereo.

“Yeah. What other American President ended up with everythin’ he said goin’ through a fact checker because he told so many big fat porkies.?”

“Guess he’s no George Washington.”

“Deffo.”

Rasher imitated a very poor American accent.

“ Trump would say – there never was a cherry tree, it was just fake news that there was ever a cherry tree there, if there had been a cherry tree – it should have a wall built around it, and if there had been a cherry tree it would have been the biggest cherry tree in the world, we can make cherry trees great again, but there never was a cherry tree there to begin with, I am the future of cherry trees, without me there can never be great trees again.”

The boys guffawed into their pints.

“Suppose we Irish can’t really talk. We had politicians who were clearly found out to be lyin’ to legal tribunals and then stood up in the Chamber and shouted and ranted about their good names.”

“True. True.”

More of the pints were emptied.

“And what about that vaccine guy.?”

“Yeah. The guy who had the paper in the Lancet and then they had to pull it all back because it was a big fraud.”

“That’s him – – he was struck off, wasn’t he?”

“He was. But now he’s swanin’ around the US with loads of money and a celebrity model for eye candy.”

“…And you know wha’?”

“Wha’?”

“He was at one of Trump’s inauguration gigs.”

“Well – that says it all.”

The boys were momentarily silent while they digested this connection

“What about a fish supper?”

“D’ya’know – I feel like a bit of a change. Maybe I’ll get a kebab.”

“Brave.”

“Yeah -you’ll see that again.”

“C’mon. Wave to Donleavy there.”

Donleavy was like a man working himself through the seven stages of Covid grief. Just one big problem – he was stuck on anger. Clearly when he kept his pub illegally open to cater to his regular clientele – he wasn’t expecting the pub lockdown to go on for this length of time. Or that there would be so many false reopening dawns but that still the sun hadn’t risen over his drinking emporium.  JP, Rasher and Mono were now on eggshells whenever they had any short conversation with him. Gone were the friendly enquiries, the casual commentaries. Left in their place was a scowling Donleavy who would recite the ten commandments of illegal drinking – enter and leave through the storeroom; never let any light shine onto the street, keep the noise down; never breath a word to anyone else of the arrangement etc, etc,.

“Will we ever get our ol’ Donleavy back again?”, JP intoned to no-one in particular.

“He could‘ve been consumed by the Covid Demigorgon.

“Yeah. I think he’s lost to us.”

Mono signalled Donleavy for fresh incoming. It was a very sheepish. raising of the finger. Truth was that the three amigos had almost become scared of their once friendly bar-owner. The Covid stress was showing in every new furrow on Donleavy’s forehead, in the exasperated tones when he would approach their part of the bar counter and in the way he aggressively threw the pint glasses down on the beer mats in front of the lads. This was not Donleavy. The spirits of the Coronavirus must have vacuumed the goodness out of him and replaced him with this spectre who would suck the energy out of the bar. Donleavy used to drift along the length of the bar with the light touch of a dancer. Now he trundled back and forward making more noise than a herd of migrating wildebeest. True to recent form – he bounced the pints in front of our gallant triumvirate

“Hey Donleavy, why don’t ya join us for one.”

“Yeah – take the weight off yer feet.”

“For ol’ time’s sake.”

Donleavy looked at them. One by one. Then back again. The three lads started to shrink into themselves a bit. Finally, Donleavy spoke. It had the menace of a Mafia hitman.

              “Are you three off yer game.? Cop yerselves on.”

Mono looked at JP. JP looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. No words were spoken but the air was thick with emotion. Hurt. Confusion. Guilt. Longing. No-one said anything for a very long time.

JP fixed his stare on that small crack in the bar mirror just to the right of the Bushmills bottle. A sure sign that a major statement was coming. He didn’t disappoint.

              “Mono, Rasher – lads – have either of ye ever acted like a pervert?”

              “Wha’ the hell……?”

              “Jaysus, JP. What kinda question is tha’?”

JP took a generous aliquot of his pint, wiped the back of his hand across his chin and placed his pint gently back on its beer mat. He gently nudged the glass so that it sat perfectly central on the mat.

              “Have ya ever sent naked pictures of yerself to anyone?”

              “Jaysus, JP….”

              “Or sent a text askin’ someone what colour underwear they were wearin’?”

              “JP – are you losin’ the feckin’ plot here?”

JP moved his stare to the left-hand side of the Baileys bottle. If you looked really closely there was an imperfection in the mirror concave. Once you knew it was there it sucked your focus. While JP lasered his view, Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher shrugged.

              “Have ya ever sent a video of yerself, you know , is it that WhatsApp thing?”

              “Yeah. WhatsApp. Yeah – I know it., pictures and videos.”

              “So – you HAVE sent a video of yerself – all nude and naked – who’d you send it to?”

              “Ah Jayzuz, JP. I never said it was in me nakidity. Giv us a break here. All fully clothed. All fully clothed, man. What’s got into ya, man?”

Rasher was definitely getting a bit flushed. This wasn’t the type of conversation he was used to on a night out in Donleavy’s. Mono was equally uncomfortable. JP turned his attention away from the mirror and looked at each of the two lads in turn.

              “And what about jackin’ off? Have you ever sent a video of yerself jackin’ off.”

Mono literally spluttered into his pint and then took a fit of coughing. Rasher’s barstool screeched against the wood floor as he flung himself backwards from the bar.

              “JP. What in the livin’ hell has got into ya tonight? Have ya lost all reason? You’re the bloody pervert here. Askin’ questions like tha’. Has Covid turned yer brain to mush or somethin’? Yer bang outta order here, JP. Bang outta order.”

JP had a serene look about him. He let the moment linger. The fluster and the bluster prevailed for a while. He judged his moment.

              “I can guarantee you somethin’ gentlemen. Six months ago what I’ve just described woulda  got ya at least excluded or marginalised or branded for life”

              “Dead right. Branded as a ‘sicko’”

              “And some of wha’ I described might even have been seen as criminal.”

              “Feckin’ right. Postin’ videos of yerself chokin’ the bishop is surely against some law.”

Mono looked momentarily at Rasher, subconsciously seeking encouragement for what he had to say next.

              “JP. Why is everythin’ that ya said in the past tense?”

JP threw his hands in the air.

              “Brilliant Mono. Simply brilliant. You are de man.”

Mono had no idea what JP was on about but he smiled and swelled his chest anyway. Rasher looked a bit crestfallen.

              “And why is Mono the bleedin’ man, then?”, Rasher couldn’t help himself blurting out.

              “Because, my dear friends, what I have just described is what our Government now recommend as good sexual behaviour in the light of the pandemic.”

              “You’re jokin’?”

              “I don’t believe ya”

              “Am I supposed to send me wife pictures of me willy?

              “Naw, ya clown, this is only if ya’r not livin’ in the same house.”

              “Feels that way, sometimes.”

              “Know what ya mean.”

              “World is right fecked up.”

              “Too true.”

              “Let’s go get some battered sausages and chips.”

              “Good idea.”

The boys drained their pints, waved ‘goodbye’ to Donleavy and headed for the storeroom exit. But the ‘New Normal’ had taken on yet another dimension.

Donleavy was furious. JP and the two boys couldn’t remember when they had seen him so livid. He was literally banging the pints down in front of them. If he were a cartoon character at this moment, then he’d be depicted with steam coming out of every orifice. It didn’t make for relaxed imbibing.  Mono was positively scared to order another round. In decades of drinking together there had never been confusion as to whose shout it was – but Mono had tried to convince Rasher that it was JP’s round simply because he was afraid to order from Donleavy.

                “He’s takin’ it hard, ain’t he?”

                “That’s the understatement of all time. He’s like a man possessed.”

                “Well – I suppose that’s twice they’ve postponed the openin’ of the pubs. I heard he had to go through hoops to get the last set of kegs. God only knows what he’ll need to do to get the next set”

                “It’s a bit like bleedin’ prohibition isn’t it?”

                “Yeah – with Donleavy as Al Capone and Michael D Higgins as Woodrow Wilson.”

                “So, who are we then?”

                “I don’t know – but I wanna be played by Johnny Depp.”

                “Marlon Brando more like.”

                “But ain’t he dead?”

                “…and yer point is…?”

The boys went back to pint swilling. It seemed that the volume of each gulp had decreased. Maybe there really was a nervousness to engage Donleavy for fresh pints. JP was in his usual position as the central character socially distanced on his bar-stool with Mono on the right and Rasher on the left. He was staring at a point in the bar counter mirror just to the left of the Jameson bottle.

                “It’s strange times, ain’t it?”

                “Jayzus JP – you don’t have to state the obvious.”

                “Naw. Naw. I know all that pandemic shite. But I mean the way people are goin’ ‘bout things.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They shrugged.

                “What’ya mean… exactly?”

JP adjusted his gaze to the right of the Bushmills bottle.

                “Well this is one time we should all be listenin’ to the Scientist Geeks? The guys in the white coats, yeah?”

Mono piped up:

                “Well the immunologists, really.”

Rasher nearly spat back into his pint.

                “Jayzus. Aren’t you the proper little Scientist yerself – couple of weeks ago the only ologist you had ever come across was a Bollocksologist.”

                “Hey, hey…”

JP tried to shush them back into order.

                “But really. Not a lot of our behaviour makes sense, does it?”

                “You mean me, you and Mono?”

                “Naw, naw. People in general.”

                “That’s alrigh’, so. I thought yer were havin’ a dig at me and Mono.

The boys finished off their pints. Mono plucked up the courage and gestured for more incoming from Donleavy. The bar owner grunted and started pulling pints. Mono exhaled slowly, significantly less stressed now that the order had been recognised and he went back to the conversation.

                “There’s nowt as quare as folk.”

                “That’s what they say.”

                “I heard one there recently. If yer had a jar with a hundred sweets and yer knew one of them would either kill ya or make ya incredibly ill…what would you do?”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

                “I wouldn’t eat any of the bleedin’ sweets”, Rasher said, emphatically banging his pint on the bar. “Do I look that much of a gobshite?”

Mono jumped in.

                “Is that a real question…just….”

JP tried to get it back on track.

                “So why would people gather at house parties, why would they crush together at BLM protests, why would they jump up and down at being asked to wear a facemask? Why would they think the virus would go away durin’ the summer when its already runnin’ rampant in hot countries? It’s like they want to get to the poisoned sweet as quick as possible.”

                “Don’t ever underestimate how stupid people can be.”

Mono took his time to speak.

                “I heard an even better one than the sweets, JP.”

                “Yeah – what’s that?”

                “The only thing we need to fear is fear itself”, Mono paused for a few seconds. “And stupid – we should be shit scared of stupid.”

                “Nice one.”

                “Yeah – spot on.”

                “Will we go for chips?”

                “Yeah – and a battered cod.”

They drained their pints.

                “We’re gone so.”

Donleavy was absentmindedly polishing glasses behind the bar. Well – polishing a glass really. He’d been turning the same glass in his hand for ages. JP, Rasher and Mono were sitting on their stools in their new socially distanced arrangement. This was their ‘new normal’. If anyone had have asked for their elevator pitch on what Covid-19 meant for them – I am sure they would be consistent in their response – ‘sitting further apart at the bar counter and drinking in an illegally open establishment behind locked doors’. Haw – who would have predicted? Who would have written the script?

Mono it was who broke the silence.

“Is he alrigh’? He’s goin’ rub tha’ glass back to sand. Should we check if he’s OK?”

“Naw, he’s grand”, JP replied, “he’s probably just wonderin’ when phase 4 can kick in so tha’ he can get back to legal openin’. He’s probably just disappointed that bar openin’ has been postponed.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. I’m just sensitive to everyone’s mental health these days.

The other two broke into howls of laughter. Loud enough to break Donleavy’s reverie.

“Sensitive. Sensitive. Would you listen to him? He wouldn’t know how to spell it.”

“…and mental health…a few weeks ago that meant escaping a hangover after a night on the batter.”

“Ah Jaysus lads. Yiz are very harsh. Very harsh indeed.”

Donleavy sidled over to the bar counter and began wiping it down and replacing their beer mats.

“OK lads? All good? All the care safe and well?”

“All good Donleavy, an’ yerself?”

“Fine. Fine. Just keep it down a bit, lads. OK.? I don’t want any truck with the Peelers. Not when we’re so close to stage four. You good?”

“Spot on, Donleavy. No bother.”

The three amigos went back to synchronised pint swilling. No sooner had Donleavy sidled down to the other end of the bar but they were trying to catch his attention to order more incoming.

Only when the next round of creamy pints was settling in front of them could you visibly see the tension begin to drain away.

JP wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and settled himself on the stool. He took a big inhalation of breath and then let it exhale really slowly

“It is a complete clusterfuck, isn’t it?”, he asked looking right and left.

“Wha’?”, relied Mono, “the drinkin’ arrangement here in Donleavy’s?”

“Naw – the world.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

“Maybe ya’d like to break tha’ down just a tad

JP went back to staring into his pint and then took a trademark long swig. He exhaled loudly again. He belched quietly.

“Brexit. Covid. Boris. Trump. Whoever the hell is writin’ this script is pullin’ the piss in a major way.”

“Gotta be the Russians. They’re pullin’ Trump’s strings like he was a feckin’ Punch an’ Judy. puppet.”

“Naw – it’s the Chinese. They’re goin’ for the world domination card.”

“An’ wha’ ‘bout Boris?”

“Ah he’s just a feckin’ eejit”, the other two echoed in stereo.

They each went back to their pints. It was almost an instinctive reaction at this stage. One would reach for his pint and the others would reach out. And clearly the volume of the swallow had become uniform over time because each would finish their pint at the same moment. It was always said that if girls shared accommodation that their menstrual cycles would align over time. Well this was probably the male equivalent.

Rasher broke the new silence.

“But Trump is a bigger eejit.”

“Ya got that one.”

“Is he actively tryin’ to NOT get re-elected?”

“He must be. He couldn’t act directly opposite to the way a sane person should act on so many occasions in such a short space of time.”

“Maybe there’s somethin’ toxic in the orange make up that’s eatin’ the few brain cells that are still functionin’.?”

“Or maybe Melania told him they needed to go home to NYC?”

“Or Putin forgot to recharge the batteries in Trump’s head?”

“He could be an alien experiment and at night it goes…IT.IS.TIME.TO. SELF-DESTRUCT.?”

They pondered this for a while as they made inroads into their pints.

“And all Joe has to do is not do anythin’ silly.”

“You can imagine Joe’s campaign manager with his hand over Joe’s mouth all day every day. He must just keep sayin’…No Joe, Quiet Joe. No Joe.”

“Maybe the Mexicans put some Colombian marchin’ powder in Trump’s coffee?”

“Yeah I could just imagine it – you build no wall after diz amigo…”

“Pal of mine – Derek – when we were growin’ up – Derek used to talk so much he often talked himself out of the ride. Well Trump reminds me of Derek. He’ll go down in history as being the first man to Tweet himself out of the POTUS. Class one eejit.”

“It would all be bloody hilarious except for the fact tha’ there are people literally dyin’ from the lack of his leadership.”

“You couldn’t make this shit up.”

“Naw.”

“Time for a smoked cod and chips?”

“You said it.”

JP, Rasher and Mono were socially distanced at the bar. This was their last night of ‘illegal’ drinking before the phase three easing of the Covid restrictions allowed bars to re-open.

Donleavy was busy readying everything for the ‘re-opening’. For a big man it never ceased to amaze how quickly he could cover the ground from one end of the bar to the other. In the twinkling of an eye he was in front of the three amigos.

“Well lads. Enjoyin’ them pints?”

They raised their glasses in unison. For some reason there was a bit of a malevolent look in Donleavy’s eye.

“We’ll have a bit of extra fun tomorrow to celebrate phase three of the Covid roadmap, wont we lads?”

The boys nodded but it felt a little like the fun was a mandatory exercise.

“And when someone asks when was the last time you were in this pub for a pint – what will ya say?”

Rasher started to speak but JP cut him dead in his tracks.

“We will say clearly that March 15^th was the last time we set foot in these premises and that it is wonderful to be back again after an absence of three and a half months.”

Donleavy started to smile. A manic smile.

“Good man JP. Full marks.”

Donleavy moved his laser gaze slowly to Rasher and then to Mono.

“And if any of ye answers any different – I swear – your shadow will never darken the door of this establishment ever again. Am I understood?”

The lads nodded and kept nodding.

With pints two meters apart our three amigos sought some comfort in their drinks.

“Jaysus, that was scary. Don’t think I’d like to meet Donleavy in a dark alley.”

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

“Jaysus. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this new normal.”

“Yeah – but I’m really lookin’ forward to getting’ back to some semblance of pub normal.”

“I know what ya mean.”

“But its not the old normal, sure its not? I mean there’ll only ever be a third of the crowd here. And we’re all only supposed to stay for ninety mins and then leave.”

JP and Rasher harrumphed in stereo.

“D’ya really think Donleavy is goin’ to throw us out after ninety minutes?”

“For feck sake – we’ve been drinking illegally in here since March – what’ya think is gonna happen overnight? D’ya think Donleavy is goin’ to climb some Mt. Moral in his sleep or somethin’?”

Our intrepid warriors went back to lessening the volume of their respective glasses with deep synchronised swallows. An air of zen calm descended that looked like it might last a reasonable length of time. Fat chance.

JP talked directly to the mirror behind the bar.

“I’m sure we are pre-programmed to screw things up before we fix them.”

Mono stared at a similar focus in the mirror and raised his glass.

“If you’re still talkin’ about the balls I made of fixin’ the young fella’s bike – then you hit that nail on the head.”

…and Rasher piped in…

“Has my missus been talkin’ about me repairin’ the washin’ machine last week?”

JP fixed his spot in the mirror again.

“No lads. Society. Society. We always seem to swing the pendulum way over before we can get it to rest somewhere in the middle.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. A look of perplexation was exchanged. It was Rasher who spoke.

“I haven’t a bog what you’re witterin’ on ‘bout, JP. But the dragon’s washin’ machine has no pendulum – I’d swear – and I’m pretty sure there aint no pendulum in a bicycle either.”

JP kept his focus.

“No. No. We’re on a higher plane here. I’m talkin’ gender equality, racial discrimination, LGBT acceptance, equal opportunity – all of that kind of stuff.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. This time it was Mono who spoke.

“Jaysus, JP – you’re gone to a different place than the front derailleur and the full load dryin’ cycle OK.

Rasher had a knotted brow of concentration before he spoke.

“I think I know what ya mean, JP. I do, I actually do.”

“And I wouldn’t doubt ya Rasher. Not for one second.”

“Nah. Ya see. I was talkin’ to the nephew there recently. The nephew that loves the smell of his own farts. The one that works in that big multi-national place, whatever it’s called. I can never ‘member. Funny name. Jaysus – can’t even ‘member what letter it starts with now.”

“Probably not critical for the conversation, Rasher, what’d’ya think?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Even if I could ‘member – probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it proper. Anyroads – the nephew was in for a promotion, ya see. Reckons this was his time. Carpe Diem says he. He was lookin’ forward to the extra bobs. Probably had it already spent if I know the little turd. Was either in with the estate agent or down the Mercedes garage. He’s very predictable – the materialistic, narcissistic, little sewer rat.”

Mono darted into the conversation

“Woah – big words there, Rasher. Ya didn’t get them out of ‘The Beano’. And don’t hold back – tell us what ya really think of the nephew.”

JP tried to redirect.

“Is this goin’ anywhere Rasher.”

“Yeah. Yeah. What I was tryin’ to say – the nephew didn’t get the promotion. Poor little sap. But he said he’d need to be a coloured lesbian with a hump on his back to have any chance of success. Is that what you’re gettin’ at JP?”

JP took a very deep breath and slowly turned towards Rasher.

“You know Rasher – I think ya might have aced it there. Top marks.”

Mono looked a little envious.

“And just for that – the battered sausages are on me.”

Rasher smiled.

“Doesn’t get much better. Pub opens legitimately tomorrow. No more sneakin’ around the back door. And free battered sausages. Whoopee.”

“Mighty. Tell Donleavy we’re gone out through the storeroom.”

Our three amigos were now in their accustomed Covid-19 social distancing positions at the bar. Three bar-stools. Still in the same order. JP in the middle, flanked by his able lieutenants Rasher and Mono. Big difference was the two-meter distance between them and the bigger fact that the bar was supposed to be shut on government orders. Donleavy, the bar owner, could not countenance doing nothing and not being behind the bar and equally well he felt he owed allegiance to his regulars to continue to provide a haven for them. A haven in normal circumstances but much more importantly – a haven in this time of Covid-19 uncertainty. There were some of his clientele for which extended time at home could bring life into uncharted territories where the outcomes could be unpredictable and perhaps catastrophic. So – ‘Donleavys’ went on behind locked doors and darkened windows. The fact that one of the ‘regulars’ was a Garda gave at least some additional protection against the wider law.

Donleavy danced to the end of the bar to replace the triumvirate of pints in front of our gallant back line heroes.

‘Ya remember what I said lads?’

Donleavy placed the pints two meters apart.

Donleavy stood back and looked each of them in turn directly in the eye.

‘Repeat what I said to yez.’

‘Ah Jaysus, Donleavy? Do we have to keep doin’ this?

‘It’s goin’ aroun’ me head in me sleep.’

Donleavy looked from one to the other.

‘Well we’ll do it one more time. Wont we lads?’

JP sighed. Rasher swore. Mono looked to the heavens for some consolation.

Donleavy began the incantation.

‘One…’

‘This is your bar and it’s your livelihood and licence at stake.’

‘Two…?’

‘We will at all times speak in hushed tones with no whoopin’ or hollerin’.’

Donleavy delayed the next refrain and looked at each one in turn – testing for concentration and resolve.

‘So why the feck do I continually need to tell ye not to be hollerin’ down the bar for fresh pints? Eh? If it’s all so clear and ye are all so bright? Huh?’

The boys looked suitably chastened. Headmaster Donleavy had spoken. The only difference was that if detention was on the cards – the lads would have signed up immediately.

‘Sorry Donleavy’, they intoned in harmony.

Donleavy continued….

‘Three…’

‘Always enter and exit through the storeroom.’

The answers were coming thick and fast now.

‘Four…?’

‘Never just arrive without ringing first.’

‘Five…’

‘In the event of being caught by the Peelers – look for sympathy by saying it’s a funeral gathering. A Covid-19 death.’

‘Six…and the most important of all…?

Rasher couldn’t resist it. Every single time they had done this, Rasher just couldn’t keep it in.

‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with your whole being…’

Donleavy shot him dead with a laser look.

‘Six…’

‘Upon pain of permanent disbarment – never tell anyone of this arrangement – ever.’

‘Good lads. Now – enjoy yer pints.’

JP, Rasher and Mono looked at each other from their two-meter distances.

“It is ya know.”

“Wha’?”

“Goin’ roun’ me head even when I’m tryin’ to sleep.”

“Yeah, know wha’ya mean.”

They went back to the serious business of staring at pints and then more synchronised drinking. A sense of calmness and serenity began to pervade the aura around them. JP looked into the mirror again. The reflection urged him to begin the conversation.

“Where did it all start, lads?”

“Wha’ are we talking ‘bout, JP? Birds and bees? Adam and Eve?”

JP kept staring in the mirror. A serious thread was about to hem the conversation.

“No, the coronavirus. Where did it come from?”

Rasher and Mono dived in with a speed of answering that nearly took them across the bar counter.

“The weird animal food market…jumping the species”

“No – Chinese biological warfare lab.”

“Nah – it was the American lab.”

JP thought about all this. He looked to the bar ceiling. He motioned with an almost imperceptible nod to Donleavy for more incoming. He then went back to a direct fixation on a dot on the bar mirror.

“It could never be as straightforward as that lads. I can guarantee ye that there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Rasher and Mono groaned – they had a fair idea what was coming next. They kept quiet for as long as was humanely possible. But you could sense the pressure starting to rise again. Rasher was the first one to break.

“Go on, so. What’s the theory this time?”

JP kept up a pregnant pause. A man who liked to build the columns of suspense and them swoop from on high.

“Pension Funds.”

Rasher’s groan came from his toes.

“WTF…JP.”

“I’m serious guys. Covid is wipin’ out the older generation? Yeah?”

Well…yeah.”

“So – the pension fund guys were gettin’ taken to the financial cleaners because everyone is livin’ too long. This wipes the wrinklies out. Pension fund guys back on track. Makes sense – doesn’t it?”

Mono competed with Rasher in the groaning stakes.

“Or it could be other end. It could be a world collaboration of millennials. They’re fed up with not havin’ enough housing and enough job opportunities. This increases the availability of both. Kills off some of the house owners, kills off some more of the experienced people. Opens the game up. Am I right? Probably WAM – world association of millennials.”

Rasher and Mono were drinking at a furious rate. There was nothing else for them to do. They didn’t want to encourage JP in his wanderings. But JP was in full flight…

“Or the environmentalists. Could easily be the environmentalists. Big reduction in fossil fuel use. Bugger all road or air traffic. Give the earth a rest. Could be that they think this is the only way that they delay climate change. Make sense wouldn’t it? Yeah – you’d have to suspect the environmentalists.”

Rasher couldn’t take anymore.

“Are ya off yer game JP. Have ya any notion how extreme and unlikely this crap is?”

JP turned to him and gave him a look of pity.

“Yer too trusting Rasher. There are groups workin’ in the shadows. Workin’ in the dark shadows. It might even involve the housing charities to bring down AirBnb and create more rental market. Or the US Republicans to swing the dial towards bringin’ manufacturing back to the US. Or it might even be extra-terrestrials who’re goin’ to eat us all up and gettin’ rid of the tough ones and usin’ lockdown to fatten up the rest of us.”

“JP – you wanna lay off the sauce. You’re truly off yer game.”

“Maybe, Mono, maybe.”

“Hey – are the chippers still open?”

“Yeah – but you gorra queue outside.”

“Grand – we’ll go for a batter burger so.”

“Motion carried.”

‘Different Times.’

‘Strange Times.’

‘Jaysus’, shouted Mono, banging his fist so hard on the bar counter that he set up eddy currents in the pints. ‘If I hear one more person talk about the strange and different times – I may commit murder.’

JP looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at JP. JP gave Rasher an almost imperceptible wink. He picked up his glass, had a decent gulp, placed it back on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked directly into the big mirror behind the bar.

‘Oh, strange times alright’, he said to no one in particular.

Mono put his head on his arms on the bar counter and cried.

Rasher called down to Donleavy at the far end of the bar.

‘Hey Donleavy. More pints please. This big girl’s blouse who’s sobbing his little heart out might need some more of the black nectar to revive him.’

Donleavy, for a big man, could move with the speed and grace of a dancer. He was up on them in an instant.

‘You remember what I said lads?’

‘Jaysus, Donleavy – if we didn’t remember at this stage we’d want be quare thick. You’ve told us a million times.’

Donleavy went to pull the pints.

‘Seriously though. The world is fair screwed up.’

‘You can whistle that.’

‘Look at us. Six feet apart at the bar. Donleavy pushing the pints towards us on a tray.’

‘Can’t go to work.’

‘Can’t stay at home.’

‘Just lucky that Donleavy is who he is ‘

‘Mega true – in times of great hardship – you really know who your friends are and who can step up to the plate.’

The lads went back to their pints.

Donleavy arrived with incoming. Final settling of the folding black waves in the glasses was followed with the intensity of concentration of an operating surgeon.

Donleavy stood back and in turn looked each of them directly in the eye.

‘Repeat what I said to yez.’

It was said like an order from an army sergeant. All it was missing was a click of his sensible bar owner shoes.

‘Ah Jaysus, Donleavy?’

‘We musta done dis a million times.’

Donleavy stared them down.

‘Well we’ll do it for the one million and one time.’

The lads looked at each other in rotation. When you are each two meters apart it’s more difficult to get the best eye contact. As usual JP was in the center flanked two meters each side by Mono and Rasher. Donleavy began…

‘One…’

It seemed like all he was short of doing was smacking a riding crop along his thigh.’

JP, Mono and Rasher sighed but started the responses.

‘This is your bar and it’s your livelihood and licence at stake.’

‘Two…?’

The lads were intoning the response like it were a religious service. With just as little real conviction if the truth were known.

‘We will at all times speak in hushed tones with no whooping or hollering.’

Donleavy looked each one with a steely eye but then settled on Rasher.

‘Then wha’ the feck was dat hollerin’ down the bar to me for fresh pints? Eh? Tell me dat, if everythin’ is so bloody clear?’

Rasher started a ‘redener’ which began at his neck and moved quickly up his face until he was glowing like a light bulb. He hadn’t been as embarrassed as this since Ms Murphy caught him reading a skin mag in class.

‘Sorry Donleavy’, he whispered, briefly looking at JP and Rasher. He didn’t know in these looks whether he sought back up or redemption.

Donleavy continued his parade ground instructions.

‘Three…’

‘Always enter and exit through the store room.’

The chastisement of Rasher had resulted in clearer and swifter answers.

‘Four…?’

‘Never just arrive without ringin’ first.’

‘Five…’

‘In the event of being caught by the Peelers – look for sympathy by saying it’s a funeral gathering. A Covid-19 death.’

The three lads were getting the response in thick and fast and synchronised now.

‘Six…and the most important of all…?

Macker couldn’t resist it. It started from his lips before he could control anything.

‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with your whole being…’

Donleavy shot him a look that could have turned diamond back to carbon. He gritted his teeth.

‘Six…’

‘Upon pain of permanent disbarment – never tell anyone of this arrangement – ever.’

Donleavy looked at each of them individually for a disquieting passage of time before he spoke.

‘Good lads. Now – enjoy yer pints.’

The three lads looked at each other. Rasher still had the residue of his redener that hadn’t fully gone away.

‘Slainte’, offered JP, raising his pint glass in a formal toast and wish for all present.

‘Yeah. Right on. Good Health is the order of the day’, Macker replied raising his own glass.

‘Well feck this ‘new normal’’.

That last word was left with Rasher as the lads fixed their concentration on synchronized pint glugging. Different times. Strange times. Indeed.