JP@Donleavy’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Pears Soap.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

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

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

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

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

Mono then took the reins.

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

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

              “It was important to me lads.”

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

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

JP looked at them both in turn.

              “It’s a sign.”

              “A sign?”

              “Yeah – a sign.”

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

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

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

“Oh, glad to hear it. Definitely.”

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t have a happy childhood.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bang out of order, JP.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaysus.”

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

They all had a good chuckle over that one.

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

JP was still smiling.

“So, what was it really like.”

“Oh, a lovely car right enough.”

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

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

“Everyone smelled nice. Everything smelled nice.”

“What the feck do you mean by that?”

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

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

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

JP turned in surprise.

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

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

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

“That’s more like it, JP.”

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

They made their way out the back gate

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

Well – maybe a slightly different night.

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

              “Well – Sláinte.”

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

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

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

              “Touché.”

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

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

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

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

              “Needs must.”

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

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

              “Funny this.”

              “Wha’? Us in a beer garden?”

              “Or more like a beer yard.”

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

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

              “Cashless society.”

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

              “True fer ya.”

More musing.

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

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

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

              “I’ll drink to tha’.”

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

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

              “Not sure about the café society.”

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

They had a good laugh at that one.

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

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

They toasted that one.

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

              “And outsides tables.”

              “That’s all good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “True fer ya.”

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

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

The other two automatically looked to the sky.

              “What geese?”

              “Don’t see no geese.”

Rasher’s breath laboured a response.

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

              “What about ‘em?”

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

              “True fer ya.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Wha’, wha’?”

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

              “Ah, Jaysus. Magic.”

              “Pints and batterburgers. The business.”

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

They went back to their pints.

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

Well – maybe a slightly different night.

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

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

              “Is there an end in sight?”

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

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

              “Nice one.”

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

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

              “All or nothin’ game.”

              “Yeah – just like any final.”

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

              “D’ya know what lads?”

              “Go on…”

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

              “How so?”

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

              “True for ya.”

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

              “Wont last of course”

It was Mono who broke the good feeling.

              “Why d’ya say tha’?”

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

              “And…?”

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

              “Sounds familiar OK.”

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

              “Yeah. Could see that happenin’.”

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

              “Feck it – that sounds like a plan.”                        

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Bad role modellin’. Cyclin’ helmets.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They shook their heads.

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

They nodded their heads.

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

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

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

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

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

              “Yer on the ball there. For sure.”

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

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

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

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

              “Let it go.”

              “We’ve dealt with that.”

              “Temporary thing.”

              “No more.”

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

              “Bleedin’ teachers.”

              “Feck, yeah.”

              “Strike action in the middle of a pandemic?”

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

              “What feckin’ planet do they live on?”

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

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

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

“Come the revolution, comrade…….”

They drained their glasses.

              “Another…?”

              “I’m hungry after all that.”

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

              “Give Donleavy the nod.”

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

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

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

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

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher.

              “Wha’? The six nations?”

              “The U20 hurlin’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Rasher. Mono. Look at us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Orange Face and Mad Yellow Hair.”

              “Yeah.”

              “Obviously.”

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

              “Bloody teachers.

              “Jaysus, yeah. Proper whingers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “All the feckin’ anti- crowd.”

              “Feck, yeah.”

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

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

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

              “Some of the bleedin’ journalists and media.”

              “I hear ya, but why so?”

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

The boys nodded sagely.

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

              “True for ya. Give Donleavy the nod.”

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s. 

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

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

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

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

              “Wha’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Aha. Now I’ve got it.”

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

              “Wha’ – the superpower?”

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

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

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

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

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

              “Ya said ya were jealous.”

              “Wha’?”

              “Jealous of wha’?”

              “I dunno. My superpower?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Brutal!”

              “Come again?”

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

              “That it was shite.”

              “Yeah – shite – wojous – cat melodeon.”

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

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

              “Anymore?”

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

              “Almost a virgin.”

              “Yeah – that’d work.”

The momentum began to pick up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Sounds like a plan.”

              “Give Donleavy a wave.”

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

Just another night in Donleavy’s.  

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.”