JP@Donleavy’s

Rasher had a perplexed look about him. Life was clearly throwing him a ball that was drifting away from his fingers. JP had now noted this a few times in the bar mirror’s reflection. He could see Rasher if he angled his view towards the mirror between the ‘Bushmills’ and the ‘Jameson’. Rasher’s knitted brow would appear every now and again just above the screwcap of the 12-year old Jameson. Donleavy had poured each of himself, Mono and Rasher a big glass of the 12-er one night before Christmas last year. As well he might offer them a treat every now and again. Sure, weren’t the three of them by themselves pushing Donleavy’s profits into a nice health spot on the balance sheet. Donleavy’s accountant was probably worried that the three amigos might switch their allegiance to coffee shops. With drinks in mind – JP noticed that the levels in the reservoir were approaching critical levels.

‘Hoy. Rasher. Come back from Dreamworld. Catch Donleavy’s eye there. If we don’t line up more pints, we could be in danger of shuffling off this mortal coil with dehydration. ‘

Rasher looked at the glasses and then at his drinking colleagues and then shifted his body towards Donleavy down the bar. A finger was raised in the air. It was enough. Communication was complete. Incoming would wing their way to replace three empty glasses in synchronised glass substitution at the perfectly appointed time. It was both an art and a science and the three lads, with the perfect alignment of Donleavy, made it look effortless. But like all these perfected forms – it hid a lifetime of practise that had incrementally got them to this precision.

‘Allright Rasher? You’re not looking like a man firin’ on all cylinders. If ya don’t mind me sayin’ so.’

Rasher took a big gulp of his new pint.

‘Yeah’, Mono added, ‘ya look a bit discombobulated.’

‘Jaysus. Mono. You an’ yer discombobulated. Where the hell did ya hear that word. Ya keep usin’ it. Are we going to have to be listening to the world being discombobulated forever now? ‘

‘Well – only if the world is discombobulated.’

‘Jaysus.’

Donleavy did one of his ‘fly past’ behind the bar and nods were exchanged.

‘Well’, said JP. ‘Is all OK wit de world?’

Rasher decided to take another gulp before he’d order his thoughts.

‘D’ya ‘member at school I was good at the story writin’?’

‘I do.’

‘I do.’

The reply came in duplicate just a bit offset from stereo. More like a wedding response.

‘Well why do ya think I was good?’

JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. They weren’t expecting a quiz. Each had to take some time with their pint to let their neurons collide and spark to prepare themselves for this one. Mono looked to JP for inspiration and guidance.

‘Ya always knew how to write good sentences.’

‘Ya had better ideas than the rest of us.’

‘Yeah. That story about the German tank in Crete. That was a bonzer story. I always ‘member that one.’

Rasher started to smile. His face stretched and his eyes glowed.

‘Thanks lads.’

‘Ya’re welcome Rasher.’

Rasher took another inch of pint before continuing.

‘An’ I have another follow up question. ‘

JP and Mono couldn’t stifle a groan.

‘Naw. Naw. This is easy. Have I ever been to Crete?’

‘Not unless the Rosslare Ferry has suddenly started getting lost.’

‘Exactly. And have I ever seen a German tank?’

‘Not ‘less they’ve recently parked one outside that German language place in Merrion Square.’

‘I rest my case’, Rasher concluded decisively and triumphantly.

JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. Some shoulder shrugging ensued. JP broke the silence

‘Jaysus Rasher. I’m glad you’re not sad and frownin’ anymore. But what the hell are ya witherin’ on about? If ya’re lookin’ for some prize or other for yar school short story – it is a long time ago now. Maybe better to let it go.’

Rasher brought his frown back off the touch line and straight into play.

‘Naw. Naw. Naw. Ya don’t get it. It’s just that the world is screwed up and I wanted to make sure I hadn’t lost you guys to the madness.’

‘Well thanks for the endorsement Dr. Rasher. But ya’re still away with the fairies.’

‘D’ya not get it?’

Blank stares.

‘This bullshit at the moment that ya have to be there before ya can write about it. For me in school – I would have to be a German drivin’ the tank in Greece before I could put finger to keyboard. ‘

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah’, JP piped in. ‘I read ‘bout that. If you write a book about Vikings and you weren’t actually there doing your own share of rapin’ and pillagin’ – then you’re committing the sin of ‘cultural appropriation’’

‘I have no notion what that cultural gig ye’re sayin’ means.’

‘So – not allowed to use yer imagination anymore?’

‘Guess not.’

‘Not allowed to dream or be creative?’

‘Guess not’

‘What do we think?’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Horseshit.’

‘Camelshit.’

‘Worlds gone to Hell in a handbag.’

‘Thanks for your support lads. We’ll need to stick together. ‘

‘Why don’t we stick together over a Smoked Cod and Chips.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Motion carried.’

‘Drink up.’

‘We’re gone.’

JP and Mono were sitting at the bar counter in contemplative mood. Nursing their pints. Staring at the mirror behind the bar counter. Well, staring into the middle distance anyway. It was a quiet midweek night and there were very little background pub noises to deflect their thoughts. Donleavy was propped up against his side of the counter in his usual spot in front of the whiskey.

JP turned to Mono

“Rasher?”

“Don’t know where he is. Not like him to be missing liquid therapy. “

“True enough. “

They went back to their fascination with that blemish on the mirror right behind the Pernod bottle.

As if by telepathy Mono broke the new silence.

“D’ya ‘member when the mots went mad for Pernod?”

“Yeah. Whole pub’d be stinkin’ of liquorice. “

“Water. Ice. Blackcurrant. White lemonade. It all tasted shite.”

“True enough.”

At that precise moment Rasher whoosed into the pub like a tornado and took his seat. He had a flustered look about him.

“Hoi Rasher. D’ya member when your missus used to drink Pernod. Did she taste like a bag of ‘Liquorice Allsorts’ afterwards?”

Rasher looked down his nose at the pair of them. The type of face you’d make if you stepped in something.

“Wha’ the hell is it to you? What kind of stupid question is dat?”

Mono looked to JP for guidance. JP took stock of the situation. Clearly Rasher had little interest in discussing the olfactory or gustatory elements of the French liquor.

“Settle yourself there Rasher and we’ll organise more incoming.”

“Donleavy – three more pints of the best.”

When they were all served. When the white head had settled. When the world had slowed a bit. Then – JP took his cue.

“What’s atein’ ya Rasher?”

Rasher took a big glug of his pint, returned the glass to the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m perplexed lads. I’m in a bit of a quandary. I’m battered and bewildered. Befuddled even.”

“Jaysus.”

“Jaysus.”

JP recognised the seriousness of this situation. This was not good. They were sailing into uncharted territory – perhaps buffeted by unknown winds and dragged by dark tides. Rasher could be relied upon to always be stable as old boots. An unprecedented approach was called for.

JP took a deep breath and went for it.

“Rasher – would you like to take my stool at the bar and sit here between the two of us?”

A seismic event would not have produced the same reaction. Mono sat bolt upright on his stool. Rasher almost took the reverse reaction and cowered under the responsibility of potentially taking the stool in the middle. This had never happened before. Rasher wasn’t sure how to handle it.

It was almost a whisper when it eventually escaped his lips

“If you’re sure?”

“Of course. Of course. Get yourself sorted there.”

A rearrangement occurred. Pint glasses were swapped. An alignment of legs and limbs followed. Finally, a cycle of synchronised pint swilling was completed. Only then did dialogue resume.

“So. Rasher. What has ya discombobulated?”

“Don’t know anthin ‘bout dat, JP. But me conscience is in a mess. I’m as confused as a recoverin’ alcoholic at a free bar. “

“Jaysus. That’s serious. Share your pain here Rasher. We’ll help if we can. “

Another great gulp of synchronised imbibing took place. Rasher looked straight ahead.

“I don’t know where to start. I’m confused and guilty.”

“Jaysus.”

“Just make a start there. Get somethin’ off your chest.”

Rasher took a deep breath. Then another gulp from his pint. Then another deep breath. Then his words came fast.

“I’m not sure about social housing.”

JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. The looks exchanged were part astonishment and part hostility.

“Wha’ the f….!”

“Jaysus.”

“We thought ya’d killed someone.”

“…or at the very least robbed a bank…”

“Bloody social housing.”

“Wha’ the hell is yer bloody problem with social housing.”

Everyone went back to drinking pints. A drought was imminent. JP beckoned for more ‘incoming’. The waves worked out their energy and calmed and everything went back to a whisper. JP was thinking to himself that he had given up his middle stool under savage false pretences. He was focusing on his own breathing to make sure his waves didn’t grow to levelling Rasher with a tsunami of abuse. After another decent volume of stout he felt himself calm enough to re-engage with social intercourse.

“So – what’s yer prob with social housing.”

Rasher looked from JP to Mono and back to JP again.

“I keep thinkin’ they’re shaggin’ spongers. I have to sweat for what I’ve got. I’ve been sweatin’ for years for the little I have. They sit on their hole and get houses and vouchers and electricity and travel and feckin’ everything. And I’m payin’ for it. And they get new houses with the best of insulation and they’re nice and warm and I’ve got breezes blowing through me windows. And all the time they’re just laughin’ at me. I’m payin’. They’re laughin’ their holes off. I’m angry lads. I’m feckin’ angry. But I don’t feel right about bein’ angry. Me head is in a mess.”

JP could feel that Rasher was reaching out to him for guidance; for some understanding of values; to simplify a view about society. A big moment. He had to get it right. His friend’s ethics could be at a crossroads.

“Ya know when we play 5-a-side soccer down in the community hall?”

Rasher looked with a frown that you could have planted spuds in the furrows.

“…eh…yeah.”

“Nine lads turn up – all ready for a decent competitive game…”

“Yeah.”

“One lad turns up stinkin’ a drink. Decided to have a few pints before the 5-a-side.”

“Yeah.”

“What happens?”

“Feckers no use to anyone. Screws up the whole game.”

“So do you see what I’m getting’ at?”

“Not a notion.”

Mono was hopping up and down on the stool.

“JP,JP. I have it. Nine out of ten are good. One ruined it for everybody.”

Rasher started into his pint for an inordinate stretch of time. JP was urging him with some encouraging shoulder movement. It was a seminal moment.

“So are ya’ good now Rasher? Does dat sort ya? Good with the world again?”

“Fecked if I know, JP. Maybe the people in social housing need to play more 5-a-side. Maybe, that’s it.”

“Ah Jaysus.”

“Let’s just go for a batter burger.”

“Most sense I’ve heard all night.”

A Monday night in Donleavy’s. Quiet. Probably no more than a dozen people in the entire pub. The three lads were lined up on their stools in their usual habitat. Someone really should photograph this or paint it for posterity. JP in the middle of the three staring into the bar counter mirror. Rasher looking one direction, Mono looking the other. All seemingly staring into their own private spot in the middle distance. Perhaps it was the quietness of the pub which cascaded into this moment of contemplation? Donleavy was having a private moment of his own as no-one was calling for pints.

JP – who else? – broke the silence.

“Donleavy. A question please.”

“Sure JP. As long as its regarding alcohol or the licensed trade. I don’t know nothing about nothing else.”

“You’re too modest. You’re a barman par excellence. Therefore – you are an oracle on all humanity.”

“Jayzus JP – can I bring ya home to the missus. She should hear some of this. She thinks I got fermented by mistake from a particularly smelly bit of e.coli.“

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono and shrugged.

JP interpreted.

“She says Donleavy wasn’t born – he was shat.”

“Aaaaah”, the two amigos exhaled in stereo.

Donleavy continued his ritualistic shining of pint glasses.

“So, what was the question?”

“How come you don’t have a bouncer on the door like ‘Murphy’s Pub’ down the road?”

“Haw.”

Donleavy walked up and down behind the counter laughing to himself. He finally came back down the counter to JP and putting his two hands square on the counter he looked JP in the eye to the point where they were nearly touching noses. There was a menacing look in the bar owner’s eye. JP backed away slightly. Donleavy talked without really opening his mouth.

“Does. That. Answer. Your. Question.”

Donleavy raised himself back up to his full height and walked back up the bar.

JP, Rasher and Mono exchanged searching looks. They each participated in synchronized pint swilling. Then they reached again for another synchronized swig.

“Wha’ just happened there?”

“Jayzuz, I’m not the better of tha’.”

“Do we need more porter?”

“Is the Pope a catholic?”

“Who’s goin’ to ask Donleavy?”

“Maybe we’re OK with these pints for the mo.”

Breathing and demeanor slowly returned to normal as our heroes resorted to taking girly sips from their pints rather than their more normal glass-emptying gulps.

“It’s odd thou’, isn’t it?”, JP intoned.

“Sure thing”, Rasher replied, “I didn’t know Donleavy could go feral like that in the blink of an eye.”

“No. The bouncer thing. That’s odd when ya think ‘bout it. Ya don’t have a bouncer at a restaurant or a cinema or a theater.”

The two boys took more girly sips of their pints and absorbed all this. As usual with JP he was a great man for the logic and the obvious. But where was he going with all this?

“So wha’ does a bouncer really do?”, JP looked at Mono and Rasher in turn.

There was a long-protracted silence. Eventually Mono’s brow took on a big frown and he tried his luck.

“Bounce?”

JP considered this for what seemed like an extraordinary amount of time before he launched himself again.

“Its weird when ya think ‘bout it. The bouncers keep some people from gettin’ in, throw some people who are in – out, and try stop some who are either in or out from killin’ each other.”

Rasher and Mono contemplated this.

“And ya don’t see any of this at yer Michelin star restaurant, not even yer regular McDonalds or the Abbey Theater or de Lighthouse Cinema.”

Rasher and Mono further contemplated this.

JP raised his almost empty pint glass and drained the last of it.

“Strange stuff – this porter.”

“Too right JP, will I get Donleavy to fire down some reinforcements.”

“Aye lieutenant. Better stock up – in case there’s a world shortage on the horizon.”

“And then we’ll go for a Spice Burger and a bag.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

It was a Tuesday night in Donleavy’s. The place was empty. You could hear yourself swallowing your pint. Every step that Donleavy took behind the long counter echoed off the ceiling.  To say business was slow was a little like saying snails weren’t built for speed. At one stage Donleavy turned off the lights in the alcove area. He was probably thinking he wasn’t covering the overheads of the electricity. Not that he could really complain. All through the previous weekend the punters had been hanging from the rafters. At least there was always JP, Rasher and Mono. The ‘lads’ sat at the bar on their usual stools. For these three boys alone, it was worth keep the lights on. And right on cue JP raised his finger.

                “Hey, Donleavy. If you’re not too busy. If you can manage a free moment. Three more pints whenever you can.”

Donleavy started pulling a pint with all the care and attention it deserved.

                “Quiet tonight.”

Nothing like a barman to state the blindingly obvious.

                “Yeah.”

                “All the money blown over the weekend.”

                “Yeah.”

                “Too bloody cold and wet to bother venturin’ out on a Tuesday night.”

                “Yeah.”

                “Good thing I have you three or I’d be on welfare.”

                “Yeah. We should have shares in your business by now.”

                “Too late – shoulda asked me twenty years ago.”

                “Story of me life.”

The Three Amigos went back to the ritual silence of watching their pints settle. Only when the division between black and white was so sharp that you cut yourself with it, did they allow themselves to raise their glasses in perfect synchronised imbibing.

                “Aaah.”

                “Aaaah.”

                “Aaaaah.”

All was good with the world.

JP stared at the mirror behind the bar for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. This journey of light that caused his reflection to impinge on his retina was often accompanied by moments of great lucidity.  Tonight, was no exception.

                “Mono – d’ya like where you live?”

                “What ya mean, JP?”

                “D’ya like where ya live? What’s so hard to understand ‘bout that question?”

                “Well. Do I like me house?  Do I like the footprint me house is on? Do I like the area? The postcode?”

                “Oooh”, interrupted Rasher. “Footprint. Footprint. Whose been watchin’ house programmes on the TV. Footprint – how are ya. Far from any bleedin’ footprint that ya were reared.”

                “At least I was reared. I’d say you wuz dumped.”

JP stretched out both of his arms, encircled both of the lads’ pints with his big calloused hands and pushed the pints further away from them to the edge of the counter. The ultimate sanction. Being dislocated from your pint.

                “Aisy now gents. We’ll keep it Country.”

The two boys nodded and immediately retrieved their pints and took a good sup to mitigate against any further temporary drought.

                “Well, Mono. D’ya like yer house and d’ya like where ya live.”

                “I do JP. Its not a castle but it does for me. Me neighbours are sound as brown trouts. I’m elected. Only way I’m leavin’ is in a box.”

More sups were supped while these definitive statements were digested.

                “And you…Rasher.”

                “Jaysus, JP. I couldn’t top Mono. So eloquent. He sounded as pretty as a twenty-dollar whore.”

                “So – you like yer house.”

                “Yep.”

JP stared at the mirror and ruminated some more.

JP took a long mouthful of his pint and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He replaced his pint glass on its beermat very carefully – almost reverentially.

                “So neither of ya live in a Ghetto?”

                “Wha’…?”

                “Jaysus…JP!”

                “You know well where we live.”

                “Ghetto…how are ya!”

                “Ya’r a sandwich short of a picnic tonight JP.”

                “Yeah – musta lost a few of yer marbles in the wind comin’ here tonight.”

JP was unabashed. He was obviously on a roll.

                “What would ET think if he dropped down to look at how people live?”

                “Oh no…oh no…not the ET thing again.”

It was a game that JP had started playing recently when he was trying to get across what an objective view would look like. Kept calling it the ‘ET Perspective’ – like as if it was the title of some mystery thriller film. He lorried the remainder of his pint and beckoned for more incoming before he landed with ET.

                “ET would say we have Ghetto bookends across loads of books of different shapes and sizes.”

                “Donleavy – bring the pints quick will ya? Quick. JP’s gone delusional through lack of alcohol.”

Donleavy made his way up the bar with three pints held in his big hands in a neat triangle.

                “As a bar person, I probably shouldn’t even get into this conversation – but I thought the delusions would come from excess rather than not enough?”

                “We’re talkin’ ‘bout JP here.”

                “Silly me – everythin’ in reverse.”

JP raised one eyebrow and raised his pint as well.

                “It’s as simple as this. A Ghetto is a restricted area? Yeah?”

                “You got that one.”

                “With a minority group in it? Yeah.”

                “Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

                “So – Martha’s Vineyard would be a Ghetto? Or Dublin 4? Or any gated community?”

The two boys looked at each other for a long time. They were processing this. You could almost smell the friction of the neurons beating off each other. It shouldn’t be true…but…then again. Mono had this anguished looked on his face when he spoke.

                “So…it’s a bit like ‘The Projects’ where you wouldn’t want to wander into and then ‘Martha’s Vineyard’ where they don’t want you wandering into…is that the ET bit.”

                “Jaysus Mono – I swear you’re getting sharper and brighter with every passin’ year.”

Mono’s chest expanded and he couldn’t stop himself smiling.

                “Full marks. And for that amazin’ ET moment – you can buy the battered sausages on the way home tonight.”

                “And I want curry sauce with mine.”

Mono put a peeved look on his face, but his chest still stayed out there at full expansion. The battered sausages would be a small price to pay.

Saturday night in Donleavy’s. The place was heaving. At this stage I’m sure you’ve gleaned that Donleavy’s is not your ‘run of the mill’ pub. Donleavy’s is special. Not too many places these days with no TVs, no pipe music, no juke box, no vending machines, no pool table, no dart board, no floor service, no fruit machines (perish the thought). Another aspect that‘s notable is that although the pub was as busy as an anthill at a picnic – there were still three unoccupied stools at bar. There were no reserved signs on these locations but in the head of every imbiber there was definitely a virtual embargo on the use of these accommodations. For these were for the sole and unshared use of our three amigos – JP, Rasher and Mono. There was no written contract in this regard – and if you asked Donleavy – he would probably just shrug. But all the other punters were crystal clear – those stools were for the exclusive use of the three lads.

And…on cue…our three gentlemen took their places on stools clearly ordained as theirs by divine right and seamlessly signaled to Donleavy that three creamy pints were required to complete the picture. Ahead of all the others who were queuing at the bar, a trio of pints appeared in front of our heroes. The lads sat immobile and stared at the recent incoming. There was a ritual here that needed to be played out. Patience was required. And delayed gratification. And maturity. And a display of subconscious concentration. And focus. And control. And calmness. But most of all – patience. No words were spoken, and it wasn’t clear to any onlooker as to who moved for their pint first, but a synchronized reaching, uplifting and drinking took place, that if it were admitted as an Olympic event – these guys would have taken the gold way ahead of any competition. These were masters of the craft.

                “Ever practise Mindfulness lads?”, JP enquired of his two drinking partners.

                “Don’t even know what it is.”

                “Naw. I’d get laughed ourra it.”

They went back to staring at their pints.

                “What is it anyhow?”

JP looked from one to the other and slowly replied

                “You’ve probably done it there a few minutes ago.”

                “What y’mean?”

                “Starin’ at yer pint.”

                “That’s Mindfulness?”

                “Kinda.”

                “Hey – I’m all on for it, so. “

JP went on to explain about being aware of the moment and being tuned to it and that staring at a pint might be a 101 version only – but still – it was focusing on a moment. Rasher and Mono seemed kind of pleased that they could now claim to understand what Mindfulness was, that they could claim to have done it – and all from the comfort of their own bar-stool. In the interim there had also been some quenching of the thirst resulting in glasses getting below a critical safety level, so Mono signaled for reinforcements.

                “Wha’ brought Mindfulness into yer mind? That sounds funny, JP, doesn’t it? Anyway – how’d ya come to think of it.”

                “That Bishop’s letter to the schools.”

                “Oh yeah”, Mono piped in “I read about that.”

                “Wha’ was that about?”, Rasher inquired.

JP went on to explain that a Bishop had written to all the Catholic schools in his area saying that Yoga and Mindfulness weren’t of Christian origin and weren’t suitable to be done in schools.

                “So, let me get this straight”, Mono stared hard at JP, “Mindfulness is like starin’ at somethin’ and listenin’ to yerself breath, yeah? And Yoga is a bit of tha’ with some body positions thrown in?”

                “Yeah – pretty much.”

Mono let out a slow breath. Rasher threw his eyes up to the ceiling. Rasher threw out a question.

                “JP – who was the fecker in Rome playing the fiddle?”

                “Wha’ – where are ya at now?”

                “Ya know – when the city was burnin’ ”

                “Oh, yeah, Nero.”

                “Nero – yeah, that’s the feen. Isn’t this Bishop fella a little bit of a Nero. Shouldn’t he be a bit more worried about how few bums on pews there are these days. Maybe if he did a little less worrying about breathin’ and sittin’ around?”

The lads did a bit of trawl for some of the problems of our times. Homelessness. Addictions of all types. Trump. Brexit. Syria. Turkey and Syria. Middle East. North Korea and Trump. Hong Kong. China and Trump. Ebola. Russia and Trump. Alzheimer’s. Racism. Hunger. Misogyny.  Aids. Poverty. They could have gone on for a long time and they didn’t think they would ever get to Yoga or Mindfulness.

                “Can you just imagine it? Imagine it was a telephone call – Bishop to School.”

                “Yeah. Go on….”

                “Here’s how it might go….”

                “Hello.”

                “Yeah, howya.”

                “This is the Bishop.”

                “Wha’….I’m busy…stop messin’….who the hell is this?”

                “This is the Bishop. I want to talk to you about some of the items on your school curricula.”

                “Wha’?

                “Your school curricula. I’m not happy about Yoga and Mindfulness. They are not of Christian Origin.”

                “Wha’? Neither are half of d’other subjects. Don’t think Computer Aided Design or Microsoft Office figured with St Peter. What’s yer point?”

                “Well the Pope doesn’t recommend Yoga either.”

                “Well the Pope mightn’t recommend mechanical drawing or home economics either, so I still don’t get yer point.”

                “You might consider the Rosary?”

                “You might consider getting over yerself?”

                “Sorry. What did you say? Well…..I never…..”

                “G’luck. I’m busy. I still think this is a prank call. And if this is you messin’ Murphy – I’ll brain ya.

Our heroes had a good chuckle. Seemed like a reasonable summary of what the conversation might sound like. Thirsty work this type of creativity. More pints were called for.

It was a quiet midweek night in Donleavy’s pub. Donleavy has his ass propped up against the cash register. He had got tired shining glasses and was now highly engaged in extracting a particularly uncooperative particle from his nose.

The three lads – JP, Mono and Rasher – were nursing their pints. At this moment they were perched on their usual barstools – and woe betide anyone else who would be foolish enough to sit there – and they were staring into the big mirror that ran the whole length behind Donleavy’s Bar. Was each looking at his own reflection or were they looking at each other’s reflection? Hard to say. And if they were looking at each other – who was looking at who? Equally hard to say.

This went on for quite some time. Pints were actually neglected. Very unusual.

Without interrupting his stare, JP broke the spell.

            “The world has gone funny.”

Mono and Rasher continued to stare straight into the mirror.

            “Always was.”

            “All the D’s – different day, different do-do.”

JP had enough. He switched focus. He looked down at his pint and then took a strong glug. A third of the volume disappeared. As if there had been a telepathic signal – Mono and Rasher did likewise. The spell was well broken. Animation returned.

            “No – I mean it”, JP intoned, “this time it’s gone doo-lally.”

            “Why, so, because?”

            “Sure it’s always bonkers in one way or another.”

JP lowered another good swig of his drink and wiped his mouth clean.

            “This piece of halibut was good enough for Jehovah.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. JP had definitely lost most, if not all, of his marbles this time. They both looked around to see if the lads with the wrap around white coats were coming to take JP away this time – because he had surely stepped across the mark on this occasion.

            “Eh…JP…are ya OK? We’re in Donleavy’s. Havin’ a few bevvies. Are ya on any medication? Is there someone we can call for ya? Where do ya think you are?”

JP went back to staring at his reflection in the mirror.

            “D’ya not remember?”

            “’Member wha’?”

            “John Cleese. Monthy Python. Life of Brian. Stonin’ scene for balasphemy. Usin’ the word Jehovah.”

A lightbulb went on.

            “Jaysus, yeah.”

            “Of course I ‘member it’”

            “Jehovah. Jehovah.”

            “Are there any women here?”

They all three had a good laugh. Finishing their pints, they disrupted Donleavy from his cavity searching and ordered fresh incoming.

            “But it is all screwed up.”

            “Wha’ ? The blasphemy laws?”

            “Nah. In general. Everything is gone OTT.”

            “You know ya’re right. Ya can’t fart now.”

            “The pendulum is gone so hard the other way that it’s got stuck and won’t come back.”

            “Ya’re on the money.”

            “Ya can’t say nothin’ about nothin’ but someone will take the hump.”

            “Donleavy there could get sacked just for snot searchin’.”

            “Except he can’t sack himself.”

            “True for ya.”

            “And the women are on course to rule everythin’.”

            “ME TOO. And what about the GLBFG?”

            “I’m sure that doesn’t sound right…?”

            “Who cares? Everytime ya’re not lookin’ they add another letter to the end of it.”

            “True for ya.”

They went back to staring into the mirror.

            “So wha’ are we goin’ to do about it?”

JP took out his pipe. It was clearly going to be a deep existential moment.

            “I’ll tell you wha’ we’re goin’do…I will tell ya.”

Mono and Rasher hung in the air waiting for the next syllables. The air was thick with anticipation. Eventually Mono couldn’t hold out any longer.

            “Wha’ are we goin’ do, JP?”

JP puffed on his pipe and then raised the glass to his lips. He placed the glass accurately in the center of the beer mat. He looked in turn at Mono and Rasher.

            “This is what we are goin’ do – we’re goin’ to drink long and hard and then we’re goin’ to go for a batterburger. “

            “Sounds like a plan.”

            “Gotta have a plan.”

            “Dead right. When the world is in crisis, you need a pocket of predictability.”

            “Never said a truer word.”

            “We are that reliable rock of sense.”

            “True for ya’”

“Off we go, so.”

The three sat on their stools at their end of the bar. JP, Mono and Rasher. It was as if they had a lease on those particular stools. It was as if time stood still or déjà vu perpetually cycled. On a few occasions they had arrived, and their stools were in use. This usually happened when an unsuspecting tourist or stranger strayed into the pub. The locals would know better. Discomfort soon set in for that luckless stranger when our brave trio would arrive. Nothing would be said, no harsh words exchanged, no form of direct communication entered. But the stranger would feel a threat to a previous calm. A discreet invasion of a personal space would begin. Very soon the lads would be back in their natural habitat and the tension would be dissipated and serenity would reign supreme once more.

            It was on one such occasion that JP unleashed his Hibernia theory. The boys had come in to find some gobshite sitting at their end of the bar reading a book. Reading a book – I ask ya?. And a big book at that. He wasn’t even drinking properly. Taking these tiny girly sips from his pint. Jaysus. He might be there for the duration. They set to work. It was incremental efficiency in motion. The girly sips got bigger and bigger until with one massive swallow the bookworm was gone like a scalded cat. The rightful order was restored. Buttocks were eased left and right, elbows found the proper ergonomic bar counter position and feet and heels selected rail or stool. The boys were installed.

            “Shockin’ weather”, Rasher threw out as an opener.

            “Bleedin’ cat”, Mono replied.

            “Think we got our summer in April.”

            “Ya could be right there.”

            “It’s the kids I feel sorry for.”

            “To hell with the kids. I wouldn’t mind takin’ the DART out to Howth for a bit of fishing. But I’m shagged if I’m goin’ to be haulin’ hats and rain mac and flasks with me.”

            “Too right.”

They went back to their pints. Long Adam’s Apples pulses. Creamed lips. Exaggerated backhand wipes. Pints were downed in manly portions. No girly sips here. Through all the ritual and introductory exchanges JP had maintained a silence. This was not unusual. He often had periods of introspection before he’d join the conversation. This was just such an occasion. But he now passed himself fit for selection and with a characteristic clearing of the throat he joined in the game.

            “This country was never meant to be habited.”

He stared at his friends slowly – one after the other – and tempted them to hold eye contact. Then he reversed his stare and, satisfied that they knew there was a serious issue here for discussion, he went back to his pint and, looking directly across the bar, drained every last bit – cream and all.

            Rasher and Mono shared their usual non verbals. What was he on about this time? Who would ask him? One of them had to ask or he’d go weirder and weirder. Rasher took up the bait and in the characteristic style of one thirsting for new ideas (as well as pints) he replied in his enquiring way:

            “Wha’ the shaggin’ hell are ya witherin’ on about now?”

JP lit the pipe. This corner of the smoking section of the pub disappeared within a toxic dispersed plume. Time ticked onwards.

            “The Weather. Just like ya said. This country was never meant to be habited. It’s obvious really when ya think about it.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. This time Mono volunteered to reply.

            “Not with you, JP. On a different plane, a different planet but definitely not playing with the same marbles or even bottlers as you are.”

            “D’ya like this weather?”

            “Course I shaggin’ don’t. Didn’t we both say it’s cat.”

            “Well there ya are then.”

            “I know feckin’ well I’m here. So what’s anything of this got to do with anything? Take me out of the lost and found office and bring me home on this one.”

More pints were called for. It was time to settle in.

            “Weather. Saints and scholars. It’s all clear when ya just give it a bit of thought.” JP reached over for the fresh pint and bent his head to watch the ritual settling of the waves and layers before it could be touched.

            “Yeah. Clear as the mud in the Tolka and that’s even after the goody-two-shoes, pearl necklace, twin set, BMW second car, welly boots, once-a-year-Greens have taken the shopping trolleys out of it.”

            “Let me explain.”

            “Yeah explain”, the response came in Mono-Rasher stereo.

            “Would ya like to live by the Mediterranean?”

            “Not half. Strolling along the beach with all those young ones just about covered.”

            “Yeah, and some of them not even covered”, Mono added lustfully.

            “Well that’s where ya were meant to live. Ya were meant to live by the Mediterranean.”

            “How d’ya make that out?”

JP sucked on the pipe another few times and slipped it to the side of his mouth.

            “The good Lord never planned for all us people to be here. He liked us too much for that. We were meant to life in more pleasant climes. This island of ours – sittin’ out on it’s own in the ocean – it wasn’t meant to be a suburb of continental Europe. It was meant as a place of meditation, a place of peace and refuge.

            There was silence for a while.

            “D’ya mean like the saints and scholars type thing?”

            “Plato Aristotle Socrates Mono. Go to the top of the class. That’s exactly wha’ I mean. Such wisdom in one so young. I will enroll ya in the ‘JP University for the Enlightened’.”

Mono knew it was typical JP bullshit but he was pleased nonetheless. He looked over at Rasher with a Cheshire Cat grin from ear to ear. Rasher was having none of it.

            “OK. If I’m supposed to be livin’ on the banks of the Mediterranean with nudie young ones preenin’ themselves in me garden, would ya mind tellin’ me how I ended up here?”

            “I thought that much would have been obvious”, JP replied, “even for non-enrolled ‘JP University’ peasants like you Rasher. They got lonely. Their minds turned away from the saintly pursuits and the written word to the lustful chase and the captured bird. In short – they started popping the chambermaids in the chamber and the underscullery maids under the scullery. Am I getting’ through to ya?”

            “Roger one-niner. Pickin’ ya up strong on the radar screen. Clear to land. And by the way, will I put a few fresh pints across ya’re own radars?”

There was a general nod of agreement and the proposal for further “incoming” initiated a synchronized draining of glasses and silent belches.

            “Ya know ya might have somethin’ there, JP”, Mono piped in as they waited for reinforcements to arrive.

            “Of course I do. How could ya doubt me?”

            “No. I mean things seem to make a bit more sense now. This would explain why, as a nation, we’re so holy and clever. We all derived from some randy monk or a sex-starved poet. No wonder we had Yeats and Synge and Beckett and Wilde and Con Houlihan. No wonder we had the girlies in Knock and the guy in the plastic case in Drogheda and Sister Santa Claus Kennedy. It’s all clear now.”

            “Hold on one potato pickin’ minute”, Rasher raised his voice for attention. “Wha’ about the bleedin’ Norsers? Wha’ about Vikings? Wha’ about more Irish than the Irish themselves? Do ya not think ya’re loosin’ the run of yarselves?”

JP took another long suck at the pipe. There was very little incineration happening so he took out the lighter and began another cycle of environmental pollution.

            “I believe ya might have somethin’ there, Rasher.”

            “Wha’?”

            “The fightin’!”

            “The fightin’?”

            “That’s where we probably got the fightin’ bit from. Ya know. The fightin’ Irish. Needin’ to give the Norsers a few whacks to keep them away.”

            “So is that how we had Barry McGuigan and Steve Collins and Katie Taylor and Conor McGregor?”

            “Could do.”

            “ But the Norsers won. We were no good at the fightin’.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Yeah.”

            “So wha’ does that tell ya about McGregor and Collins?”

            “Ah yeah, with ya now.”

            “JP. There’s one thing ya’re missing. The drinkin’!”

            “I miss it during lent alright. But not now. Now I’m happy with nearly a full pint in front of me and a few full pints rented inside of me.”

            “No. I mean ya haven’t explained why we’re a nation that likes a sup.”

JP thought about it for a while. Thick clouds appeared above his incinerator in direct proportion to the depth that he needed to go to search for meaning. The silence was interminable. Drink was drunk. Heads were scratched. Drink was drunk. Noses were picked and then squeezed to make it look like they weren’t picked. Drink was drunk. Facial hair, as applicable, was pulled and rolled and twirled. Drink was drunk. Chins were rubbed. Drink was drunk. Donleavy was asked for more drink. JP finally broke the silence.

            “The weather!”

            “The weather?”

            “It’s the only possible answer. Living in this bloody weather – wha’ else could ya do?”

            “Fair comment.”

Donleavy was calling for time. Ladies and Gents now please/no homes to go to/the Guards are at the door/time please/even ugly bastards need beauty sleep/think of the children/JP-feck off and philosophise elsewhere/think of ye’re wifes/OK don’t think of ye’re wifes – just go.

JP decided that this whole area needed some closure.

            “For all that – it’s a great little country – on it’s knees but keeps crawling. Would ya trade it? The grass and the greenness? Fried eggs? Sally O’Brien and the way she might look at ya? Yeats, Beckett, Synge, Wilde, Santa Claus, Drogheda Man, Paddy the Saint, the Girlies from Knock, Mr. Eastwood and Roddy’s brother. Katie from Bray? Would ya trade all that for a piece of brown sun baked Mediterranean clay?

            Rasher looked at Mono. Mono at Rasher. Eye contact made Mono the spokesman.

            “Would we trade it? Does the pope wear a funny hat? Of course we’d bleedin’ trade it.”

It was going to be a very different Thursday night in Donleavy’s bar. Some of the natural order of conversation would be turned on its head.

“I’m tellin’ ya. I always said it. There was somethin’ creepy ‘bout that Jackson fella. I said it. I said it again. But did ya listen to me. Ah no. Ya cut me down. Ya said he was a genius. That’s what ya said. Ya told me that genius had to be different. Ya bate me into submission. Ya told me I was a dickhead. Dickhead me hole. Who’s the dickhead now? Huh.”

On this occasion JP looked at Mono and Mono looked at JP. This was quite possibly the longest and most voluble rant that Rasher had ever engaged with. Even Donleavy came scurrying up the bar to see what was going on. Donleavy thought that there had been a shemozzle between the three amigos. Something that had never happened before – thus the turn of pace that Donleavy uncharacteristically brought into play. 

“OK”, JP said in a hushed tone with the cadence dropping between the O and the K – if you know what I mean. Like you’d use when talking to a complete looney. Agreeing with them no matter if they said that Trump was an icon of diversity and inclusion.

“OK, Rasher, OK. You did say that. It’s true. You said it. You said there was something not quite right about the Jackson fella. Fair play to ya.”

“Yeah”, Mono quickly added. “Yeah. Fair play. More power. Ya called it.”

JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. There was heat in the air. This was unusual. Usually it was just sparks but nothing was ever going to catch a light. No wonder that Donleavy did a Usain Bolt behind the bar. There was only one thing to do and JP knew how this needed to be handled.

“Three pints, there, Donleavy. The black nectar of the Gods.”

Yeah”, Mono quickly added. “Fair play. Well called.”

It was important to keep drinking and to fill in the gaps in drinking with some ‘stuff’ talk. This looked like it was in danger of heading to somewhere personal – and that couldn’t be allowed. Had to be avoided at all costs. There were lifetime friendships at stake here. Jaysus – what if Rasher?…..what if someone messed with Rasher as a kid? Best get the conversation onto another track ASAP. But Rasher wasn’t to be diverted.

“We knew he was a loop the loop. We all knew. Why didn’t anyone call it? Imagine. Nobody called it. What the hell is it with bloody co-called celebrities? Why do we not call it?”

JP didn’t look at anyone. He looked in the bar mirror behind the counter. Jaysus. Rasher had hit onto something here. Something so bloody obvious. Sometimes if you step in something – and if it smells like shit, looks like shit and…..then it probably is…….The reflection in the mirror stared back at JP and it had an accusing look in its eyes. Or was it a disappointed like? Or just sad. The pints weren’t even tasting good. JP thought he might have to have a word with Donleavy later. A word in the ear maybe.

“Why do we do it?”

Now JP had to look at Mono – and Mono looked at JP with a shrug. Rasher kept going which eliminated the need for the obvious question.

“What makes us think that an actor, an actress, a footballer, a golfer, a singer, a musician – what makes us think that just because they are good at one little thing in life – that they are also clever, responsible, caring and even know right from wrong?  What makes us think that successful business people are better’n us? Most of them – for all we know – could be the biggest shits that were ever put into shoe leather.”

Rasher had the scent in his nostrils and he was not going to take his snout from the trail. His hackles were up and he wasn’t going to lie down. The fire was in his eyes and was burning fiercely. Jaysus – he’d turned into a red-eyed, foxy bloodhound, supping a pint – not a pretty mental picture.

“Are we that bleedin’ empty and insecure that we need to glorify someone who can sing a song? A bloke can hit a small round ball really well – are we so bleedin’ stupid that we think he’s the best family man and community person around? And some girl who can act out a scene really well – does that mean she’s some form of bleedin’ role model for how we live our lives. We’ve lived through enough bleedin’ economic depressions to know that we should pass every statement from a politician, a banker, an economist, a business person through a bath of acid before we let it hit our ears. But do we? Nah. We believe the same shite time after time.”

There was silence. Well not quite silence. It’s hard to be completely silent when you are drinking pints. But it went on for a while, whatever you call it.

“So – what should we do?”

It was said quietly with overtones of uncertainty and undertones of doubt.

“I think we should go ‘round to the chipper for a large one and a spice burger.”

“Mighty thinking.”

“Magic one-oh-one.”

“Gone so.”

Another quiet Thursday night in Donleavy’s. JP, Rasher and Mono were occupying their usual stools at the bar. The atmosphere was just the way they liked it – a little background hum that gave the place a nice ambiance but not enough noise to stifle conversation and engagement. That being said – the boys had been silent for quite a while now – concentrating on the serious business of focused Guinness drinking – a competency that should not be taken lightly – and not one that is learned overnight – and certainly not just on a weekend trip to Dublin – or even a week’s holiday in Ireland. These guys had spent a lifetime enhancing their experience and expertise and richly deserved their status. If there were PhD’s being given out for ‘Guinness Appreciation’ – not only would each of the three have their own high-level qualification – they would be overcome with honorary degrees from a multitude of academic institutions.

But life does not always adequately reward the highly skilled members of our society – so the three amigos were left to sup their pints in as content a fashion as one could imagine for a wet Thursday night in March.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable for our highly proficient men. They were used to staring into the depths of the black liquid and only being distracted by a brief dalliance of considering the creamy head. In these depths lay knowledge and contemplation and a liquid pathway to wisdom. It didn’t necessarily need words to be exchanged. However – it nearly always did. And it usually began with an utterance from JP. And tonight, was no exception.

“I was reading an article.”

“Yeah”, came the reply in stereo.

“Yep.”

“Where do you get all these articles you read?” (Note to reader: the italics are not a slip of the fingers. Read into it what you may)

“Oh – here and there. You know.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. They didn’t know. That was why the question was asked. Guess they weren’t going to know any more tonight either. The two lads were expecting the next sentences to come from JP, but nothing was happening. He went back to drinking his pint and staring into the middle distance – or the mirror behind the bar – whichever.

It was Rasher who could take no more.

“You gonna tell us ‘bout dis article?”

“Yep.”

JP went back to his Guinness and prepared himself.

“It was about dying.”

“Oh, bloody hell, just what we want for a wet Thursday night”, Rasher pipped in.

“And….what about dying?”, Mono tried to force the pace. JP was legendary for his slow build ups.

A pause.

“Seems there was dis nurse…in Australia I think. Musta worked in a hospice. Gathered all the thoughts of the dying around what they shoulda done different like.”

“Nice topic.”

“Yeah”, intoned JP as gravely as he could, “but the article was framed like all these shite ones……5 ways to lose belly fat, 5 things the Ireland rugby coach needs to consider, 5 ways to make your willy longer…. you know the type.”

The boys nodded.

A pause.

“So…what was number one?”, Mono tried to push the pace again.

“Number one wha’?”

“Number one thing tha’ ya’d like to have done different when ya’re about to pop yer clogs.”

“I’m absolu 100% sure I know the bloody answer”, Rasher almost jumped out of the stool with excitement.

“Go on.”, the two others encouraged.

“Has to be…drum roll…rat-a-tat-tat…humpty dumpty, when pubic hair collides, karma sutra, the beast with two backs…forget the drugs and rock and roll…just give me more of that S-E-X. Hey, hey, JP. I nailed it. Yeah. Has to be.”

JP took out his pipe and started getting it ready. He had that habit of using this preparation as a response delaying tactic which, of course, infuriated Rasher and Mono.

“Humpty Dumpty, numero uno, I got it, didn’t I, JP?”

A cloud of smoke took different avenues from JP’s exhalation.

“Nope.”

“Ah well, I’m losing interest rapo in this article. Couldn’t be true. Number 2, so?”

“Nope – not even in the top 5.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Eyes wide open.

“Bullshit so.”

“How the feck could ya believe it so?”

JP contentedly sucked away at his pipe knowing that he had the boys securely hooked – yet again – and all he needed to do was to reel them in at a pace of his own choosing.

“Go on then.”

“Go on then, wha’?”

“What’s bleedin’ number one regret?”

More smoke signals in Donleavy’s smoking area.

“Being more yourself”, JP piped up triumphantly.

“Wha’?”

“Wha’?”

A slight mistime on the stereo. More of a reverb really.

“Now let me get dis straight, JP”, Rasher fixed JP with a laser stare, “ya’re tellin’ me that of the milluns of folks tha’ die every week – their biggest regret is not bein’ demselves?”

JP nodded.

“Well who the feck are they, then?”

“Horseshite. Who is this bleedin’ nurse anyway?”

Rasher attacked his pint and let out a satisfying belch.

“OK, JP, let me tell ya wha’ we’re not goin’ to do here.”

JP looked at him quizzically through a screen of smoke.

“We’re not goin’ thru’ these one be one at a snail’s pace. Dis nurse babe has lost all credibility at number one. So just rant off d’others so we can see exactly wha’ kinda looney tune she is.”

JP thought for a while. You could tell he was weighing up his options. He’d love to string it out – regret by regret – but he knew if he tried to tear the arse out of this completely that he’d just lose each of the lad’s interest.

“OK. Deal.”

Mono and Rasher sat more comfortably in their seats. A small victory.

“Number two – worked too hard.”

“OK – can live with that.”

“Number three – expressed my feelings better.”

“Oh, Mother of the Divine – more of this mamby pamby nonsense.”

“Number four – spent more time with friends.”

“OK – can live with that.”

“Number five – let myself be happier.

“Oh, sweet mother – another namby pamby one. No wonder sex didn’t make the top 5.”

“I tell ya JP – you’d wanna seriously consider the type of shite ya’r readin’. Yer head could get turned inta some soft mush.”

“Yeah”, Rasher quickly interjected, “an’ yer deathbed regret will be tha’ ya didn’t listen more to Rasher and Mono and wasted yer life readin’ shite.”

JP smiled.

“Will we go for a batter burger?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Don’t wanna have a life of regrets tha’ we didn’t eat enough batter burgers.”

“Spot on.”

Scraping of stools on the bar floor.

“G’night Donleavy.”

“G’night lads.”

It was another quiet midweek night in Donleavy’s. The yardstick always was if you could hear the conversation on the non-smoker side of the bar. When the smoking ban came in Donleavy had creatively extended his massive wooden bar counter and with a combination of civil architecture, air flow engineering and plastic see-through curtains had arrived at a seamless bar counter experience. The Health and Safety people had been all over it looking for flaws. Because this was not what the law was supposed to be all about. The law was about banishing smokers to some cold barren place where they could come to know the error of their ways. Serve out a period of exile until they could demonstrate their rehabilitation, and only then might they be re-introduced to the light and the heat.

Of course, it didn’t work out that way. The smokers haven became the spot with the patio heaters that people could congregate around. And the outside TVs. And the comings and goings. And generally, the area for enhanced ‘craic’. And many was the non-smoker who migrated in pursuit of the ‘craic’.  And Donleavy was the master architect of it all. He’d expanded his footprint and now had two pubs for the price of one. And for a man whose engineering and architectural and building skills were all gleaned from B&Q leaflets – he saw off all the Health & Safety men and ladies and left them scratching their heads.

Rasher and Mono had given up smoking when the price of a box of fags went through a fiver. So, they didn’t much care one way or the other. But JP was never going to give up his beloved pipe. And where JP went it was an unspoken understanding that Rasher and Mono would follow.

And so it came to pass that on a quiet Tuesday night our intrepid warriors were nursing their pints of Guinness while JP send smoke signals to warn of an impending war dance.

                “All politicians are liars.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Where had that come from? It had been almost tranquil up to this. There was a pause that had nearly reached a full-term pregnancy by the time Rasher gave birth to a question.

                “What’s bitin’ you? Someone turn down your plannin’ permission, or wha’?”

The two boys had a single guffaw.

                “Nope. It’s just a fact. And they’re gettin’ worser and worser.”

                “Have to grant ya that.”

                “Yeah.”

                “Sure yer man Trump has done so many u-turns he’ll meet himself coming backwards.”

                “True for ya.”

JP blew a few more smoke signals to make the cavalry nervous.

                “D’ya’know”, he narrowed his eyes to show his serious intent, “I was looking into it.”

                “Into wha’, JP. The next-door neighbour’s bedroom window?”

                “Ahhhh ya pervy little deviant.”

                “Mind you – couldn’t blame ya – she’s a looker OK.”

JP took the pipe out of his mouth and looked from one to the other with a look that would make a nettle wilt and give up its sting. There was an unspoken beckoning from Rasher and Mono for JP to continue.

                “D’ya know where the word comes from?”

                “Pervert?”

                “No – ya clown – ‘politics’ – do ya know where it comes from?”.

Momentary silence

                “Leinster House?”

                “Dail Eireann?”

Momentary silence. Sound of exasperation.

                “Mother of the Divine. Give me strength to carry on. It comes from the old Greek and Latin words”.

                “Ah Jaysus JP. Is that what ya meant? Sure don’t all words come from either the Latin or the Greek?”, replied Rasher shoving his chest out.

                “Except for the curse words”, added Mono quickly. “They all come from the Northside.”

JP looked away from them and into the distance. Then slowly he lasered a stare on each of them.

                “Can I continue?”

                “Away with ya.”

                “The word has gone from meaning …looking after the country like what the Greeks meant… to looking after the citizens like what the Romans meant… to being shrewd up to being downright deceitful like what it means now.”

                “Jaysus, JP. Them’s strong words.”

                “Fightin’ talk that.”

                “Must be more than just the plannin’ permission. Must have turned ya down for somethin’ else?”

JP looked away again into the middle distance.

                “But amn’t I right? We don’t have to look as far as Donald Duck. We have fellas in Leinster House who have been shown up as liars in tribunals and then when they get back to their comfy seat in the House – they rear up on their hind legs and lecture us all for saying such bad things about them. And wha’ do we do next……?”

                “We vote them back in.”

                “And why do we vote them back in?”

                “Cause they’re schemers… and sly…  and cunning… and glic…..and…”

                “And we get wha’ we deserve.”

Silence. More silence.

                “Depressin’ that.”

                “Yeah. Let’s go to the chipper for a batter burger.”

                “Sold.”