JP@Donleavy’s

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.”

It was strangely quiet in Donleavy’s.  Maybe because it was in that weird time between Christmas and New Year.  People overspending coming up to the break and then trying to keep some dosh aside for ringing in the following year.  All this meant that there were a lot of empty bar-stools and chairs in Donleavy’s.  The Three Amigos were in their hallowed havens at the bar. The stools could have had ‘JP’, ‘Rasher’ and ‘Mono’ engraved on the wood as no other punter would be brave enough to sit in these particular spots.

The boys nursed their pints.

                “Bleedin’ dead in here tonight.”

                “More craic in the morgue.”

                “We should go get a slab of cans and find a busker.”

                “Yeah – we could sing with him and earn the money back for the slab.”

                “Sounds like a plan. Will we go?”

Silence.

                “Well – let’s have a few pints first and think about it.”

                “Sound – call Donleavy.”

As Donleavy pulled the fresh incoming, the hiss of the Guinness taps almost echoed around the pub. It was a long time since sound carried so far in the pub without meeting something to absorb it.  The boys stared off into different directions. Vision vectors crossed over but never aligned.

                “Backstop.”

                “Wha’?”

                “What the hell is the backstop?”

Rasher waited expectantly for an answer.  JP and Mono looked at each other in various expressions of confusion.

                “Give us a clue here. Only backstop I know is ‘Arret’.”

                “’Arret’?”

The other two looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

                “You know…’Arret’….diarrhea drug….backstop…”       

                “Aaaah…”

They went back to supping their pints. Silence again gained the upper hand in Donleavy’s.

                “Why were you asking Rasher?”

                “’Cause I’ve no feckin’ idea what it is. They’ve been talking about it for months as part of this Brits Out thing and I have no clue what they are witterin’ on about.”

They went back to supping their pints. Silence gained another few notches in superiority.

                “Syringes”, JP intoned to sever the silence.

Rasher and Mono looked at each other.

                “Naw JP. I think ‘Arret’ is a capsule. Don’t think I ever saw it in a needle. Jaysus – you’d want to have some bad case of the trots to need a needle. Need a skinful of bad pints and some rancid kebabs for that.”

JP stoked his pipe and blew a few avenues of smoke before he gripped the pipe firmly in his teeth and formed his response.

                “The nephew. Wife’s sister’s boy.”

                “The pharma boy.”

                “Same one.”

                “Executive type. One that likes the smell of his own farts.”

                “Same one.”

                “Shit comes out in sealed plastic bags.”

                “Same one.”

                “Well – what about him?”

                “Syringe – backstop.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono shrugged while returning the look. Both looked at JP.

                “OK, JP. You have us. No idea where all this is going. You’re witterin’ man.”

JP took another long puff of his pipe and holding the pipe bowl with one hand and using the thumb of the other hand he repeatedly pointed at his own chest.

                “JP never witters. JP is always directly on the money.”

                “So start making sense man.”

                “OK. The nephew told me that the backstop of a syringe is the bit that prevents the stopper coming out of the syringe barrel. Now – doesn’t that make the Brexit backstop clear?

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Quizzical eyebrows went up and down like waves. Rasher went to speak. Mono intercepted him with a windscreen wiper finger. It just wasn’t worth it. Life was too short and not enough Guinness had been drunk. Silence went up even a few more notches. Any further and it would be ringing a bell.  

                “So what about the Brits Out thing?

                “They sure screwed up there. Do the Brit politicians not realise that the electorate were only jokin’? Pulling the piss with them.”

                “Naw. They keep goin’ on about democratic mandate and the will of the people.”

                “Gobshites. Don’t the Brit politicians realise how referenda work? You ask the people a question. The people give an answer. But the answer is to screw the government over as much as possible.”

                “Yeah. It’s not personal. It’s just business. “

                “It’s the same as voting out a current government.”

There was a collective guffaw and supping of pints. Each in his own mind was reaching back to some previous memories.

“Do the Brits not know that its OK to have another referendum. That the first vote is a protest vote and you only get the right answer the second time.”

“I don’t think they have much referendum practice.”

“Remember Nice Treaty?”

Guffaws. Laughing.

“And the Lisbon Treaty?”

More guffaws. Increased laughter.

                “And the abortion referendum….?”

                “That one took a while to get to the right answer.”

                “What about divorce?”

                “Yeah – that took a couple of go’s as well.”

                “The poor Brits – they’ve had diplomacy for too long. They think people say what they mean. How are we going to get them to understand that you just keep going with another referendum until you get the right answer?”

Many guffaws. Belly laughs.

                “Order more pints there.”

                “Yeah – this Brexit is better than any soap opera.”

                “Naw. SciFi. With the Maybot as Hal.”

                “Aces.”

                “Let’s go for a spiceburger.”

                “Sound.”

It had got to that time of the evening.  JP was sucking on his pipe. It had gone out a long time since. Mono was staring into the remnants of his pint as if the secret of life was somehow contained within the last inch of his Guinness. Rasher drained the last drop of his pint and snook out a quiet little belch. In silence, the three amigos stared in different directions as if eye contact would have been dangerous. A little oasis of calm had evolved at this slice of the pub. The vectors of each of their stares shifted every now and then, being careful not to cross. The silence got too much.

                “Will we call another?”

                “Do sure.”

                “Bird never flew on one wing.”

                “Jaysus. Our bird must have wings like an octopus.”

                “More power.”

                “Give Donleavy the nod.”

                “Good man.”

The other two drained their pints in unison. A twin harmony of ‘aaah’ accompanied the replacement of the empty glasses on the bar counter. The vectors changed to parallel and they all looked into the mirror that ran the length of the area behind the bar.

                “So.”

                “Sow grass, sow plenty.”

Eyes lasered towards Donleavy as he consecutively topped up the three pints. Then cupping his hands around the three glasses the bar owner ferried the drinks the length of the bar and doled them out one by one onto fresh bar mats.

                “Fair play.”

                “’Atin’ and drinkin’”

                “Mighty man.”

                “Cheers lads.”

They each gave the incoming pints of Guinness the initial period of reverence the drink deserved and then – better than any synchronized diving team – they swooped on the black and white liquid and drank. Creamy residues were removed from lips with back handed relish.

                “Great pint.”

                “Best in town.”

                “Donleavy’s the goat.”

Rasher and Mono. Looked at each other.

                “The goat?”

                “He’s the goat. No bout adoubt it.”

                “The goat?”

                “Ah lads. You’d want to keep up with the times. I got that from the daughter. You know. The one that just started college. Goat. Greatest Of All Time.”

Mono and Rasher looked at each other and eyes opened wider as the penny dropped slowly.

                “Goat. Goat. Yeah. Yeah.”

                “Oh yeah. Very good. That girl will keep you cool out.”

                “Better believe it.”

A fresh attack on the pints took place.

                “Speaking of college. Did you see the report on the rapes?”

                “Yeah. Three rapes reported in the first week of the college term.”

`               “Are you worried about the daughter JP. Like – her starting school in a new place. Not knowing people. Are you worried for her?”

                “University Mono. Not school. I call it college and she bates the head off me. If she heard you call it school she’d do for you completely.”

                “Well are you worried for her?”

                “Naw. I’d be more worried for the poor innocent country lads that might have the misfortune to gain her attention. Sure she has a tongue on her that could lash the bark off a tree.”

                “But we’re not talking about a conversation JP. What if she was attacked….and like….you know……”

                “Jaysus. Lads. You’ve met her. She always said she knows nine places to kill a man. And I wouldn’t doubt her. She’s working on finding out the tenth.”

The crowd was beginning to swell in Donleavy’s. The decibels began to grow. The three amigos in unison spread out their bar stools to widen their counter patch. JP went through the ritual of relighting his pipe. A lot of sucking and blowing took place.

                “D’ya know what the daughter was telling me?”

                “The same daughter.”

                “Yah. Her. She said they had classes in consent.”

                “Consent?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Oh yeah – I heard about that. This is where one says, ‘can I ride ya’ and the other one says ‘fire away, mad’. And they almost both sign a pre-printed form. Am I right?”

                “Well. Yeah. Basically.”

                “Mad.”

                “Yeah.”

                “Bit different than our day.”

                “You can whistle that.”

                “I’ll give you the tune.”

JP sucked more on his pipe. Drank. Sucked. Drank. He pointed a finger in the air like a revelation had just descended and consumed him.

                “D’ya know what?”

                “What?”

                “We had consent too.”

                “We did like feck.”

                “We did – it was just all in the way clothes were designed.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. The unspoken words crossed from one to the other and were transmitted by the raised frowns.

                “It was consent in the clothes.”

                “You’ll have to give us a clue, JP.”

                “D’ya not remember? Are ya that old that yez have forgotten. Did either of you ever manage to open a bra hook? And even if you manged one hook there was always a set of them. Well did yez? Tell the truth now.”

There was no great yell of triumph.

                “See. Ya did yer able best to release the hooks but they always bested you. So, after so much fumbling that the fire of a mood could go stone cold – she’d do it for you. See what I mean. That was consent to engage with the top deck. D’ya agree? I know ya do. But young ones today. There’s either no bra at all or a string or these magic cups that load from the bottom or just all sorts of things that fall away by themselves. See what I mean? These days there could be a dispute about whether you got a ticket to go to the top deck. We didn’t have that doubt.”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Raised eyebrows and repeated head swaying indicated that they both thought JP might be on to something.

JP was in full flight. There was plumes of pipe smoke above his head as he sucked feverishly.

                “I’m not finished. Lower deck was clothes controlled too. D’ya ‘member we used to boast that ‘her knickers were in a ball and stuck to the wall’? Well there was a good reason they were in a ball. Again – ya could never get them off by yourself. A couple of inches down and they’d have rolled into some unmanageable twisted mess that no amount of side to side, up and down persuasion would get them past mid-bum. So, what happened? She’d have to do it herself. And what was that? Consent. A ticket to the lower deck.

Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. A curling of the edge of the mouth pointed towards some begrudging agreement.

                “And there are no knickers today. Its either commando…or silk stuff that falls down by itself…or thongs.”

                “Tongs? For putting coals on the fire of passion.”

                “No. Thongs. Not tongs.”

                “Ah for putting coals on the fire of passion with a lisp…”

                “There’s no point in talking to you two.”

                “Too true.”

                “Let’s go for a battered sausage and chips.”

                “Sounds like a plan.”