JP@Donleavy’s

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

Mono it was who broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All good Donleavy, an’ yerself?”

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

“Spot on, Donleavy. No bother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Naw – the world.”

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono.

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

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

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

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

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

“An’ wha’ ‘bout Boris?”

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

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

Rasher broke the new silence.

“But Trump is a bigger eejit.”

“Ya got that one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You couldn’t make this shit up.”

“Naw.”

“Time for a smoked cod and chips?”

“You said it.”

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

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

“Well lads. Enjoyin’ them pints?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donleavy started to smile. A manic smile.

“Good man JP. Full marks.”

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

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

The lads nodded and kept nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what ya mean.”

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

JP and Rasher harrumphed in stereo.

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

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

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

JP talked directly to the mirror behind the bar.

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

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

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

…and Rasher piped in…

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

JP fixed his spot in the mirror again.

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

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

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

JP kept his focus.

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

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

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

Rasher had a knotted brow of concentration before he spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

Mono darted into the conversation

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

JP tried to redirect.

“Is this goin’ anywhere Rasher.”

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

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

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

Mono looked a little envious.

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

Rasher smiled.

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

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

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

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

‘Ya remember what I said lads?’

Donleavy placed the pints two meters apart.

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

‘Repeat what I said to yez.’

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

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

Donleavy looked from one to the other.

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

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

Donleavy began the incantation.

‘One…’

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

‘Two…?’

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry Donleavy’, they intoned in harmony.

Donleavy continued….

‘Three…’

‘Always enter and exit through the storeroom.’

The answers were coming thick and fast now.

‘Four…?’

‘Never just arrive without ringing first.’

‘Five…’

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

‘Six…and the most important of all…?

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

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

Donleavy shot him dead with a laser look.

‘Six…’

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

‘Good lads. Now – enjoy yer pints.’

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

“It is ya know.”

“Wha’?”

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

“Yeah, know wha’ya mean.”

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

“Where did it all start, lads?”

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

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

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

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

“The weird animal food market…jumping the species”

“No – Chinese biological warfare lab.”

“Nah – it was the American lab.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Pension Funds.”

Rasher’s groan came from his toes.

“WTF…JP.”

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

Well…yeah.”

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

Mono competed with Rasher in the groaning stakes.

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

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

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

Rasher couldn’t take anymore.

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

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

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

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

“Maybe, Mono, maybe.”

“Hey – are the chippers still open?”

“Yeah – but you gorra queue outside.”

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

“Motion carried.”

‘Different Times.’

‘Strange Times.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You remember what I said lads?’

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

Donleavy went to pull the pints.

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

‘You can whistle that.’

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

‘Can’t go to work.’

‘Can’t stay at home.’

‘Just lucky that Donleavy is who he is ‘

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

The lads went back to their pints.

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

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

‘Repeat what I said to yez.’

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

‘Ah Jaysus, Donleavy?’

‘We musta done dis a million times.’

Donleavy stared them down.

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

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

‘One…’

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

JP, Mono and Rasher sighed but started the responses.

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

‘Two…?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donleavy continued his parade ground instructions.

‘Three…’

‘Always enter and exit through the store room.’

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

‘Four…?’

‘Never just arrive without ringin’ first.’

‘Five…’

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

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

‘Six…and the most important of all…?

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

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

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

‘Six…’

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

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

‘Good lads. Now – enjoy yer pints.’

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

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

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

‘Well feck this ‘new normal’’.

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

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.”