JP@Donleavy’s

Rasher, Mono and JP filed religiously into the bar. With some satisfaction they found their end of the counter had not been defiled by heathen worshippers. They took their places at Donleavy’s shrine and arranged themselves into comfortable positions. JP spread out his hands in priest like fashion and made an entrance announcement.

            “Rasher, Mono. You are both true friends. I would like the drinks tonight to be on me. In fact I want to buy ya drink for the week. Maybe even a month. So how about it?”

            “Bejaysus.”

            “Would a bear shit in the woods?”

            “Did ya get the six balls or wha’?”

            “I know. Great-aunt Gertie died and left ya an oil well. Wha’?”

JP spread out his wings again looking for a calm.

            “I have indeed come in for an unexpected addition to my normally hazardous pecuniary situation and I would like to share it with ya. Also I would like to get rid of it in a way that the dragon doesn’t get to know of it.”

            “Our lips are sealed, JP.”

            “Well except when we’re drinking that is.”

JP took out his wallet and, with it held under the bar counter, quickly opened and closed it. There was a wad of dog-eared notes clearly visible in the split second that they saw its contents in the dim light of Donleavy’s pub. There were certainly hundreds of euros there. Both men let out a low whistle.

            “So how did ya come by this money and why can’t the dragon know about it. Don’t tell me ya robbed Mrs. O’Brien in the post office?”

            “You’ve ripped off the children’s allowance account?”

            “Ya fecked it from the sacristy after Masses last Sunday?”

            “You’ve started selling your body down by the docks?”

            “You’re pimping for the little blonde one that lives in number 43?”

            “Ya’re dealing drugs?”

JP held up his hands again.

            “Well actually drugs do have something to do with it,”

Rasher and Mono looked at each other askance. This wasn’t the answer they were expecting. Could it be true? Could JP really be involved in a drugs racket? He was a weird one that was for sure. He had a history of being off beam. But drugs! It wasn’t possible. There was along silence in which JP seemed to be reveling. He took out his pipe and his tobacco pouch. He laid them on the bar counter and went rooting for his lighter and Swiss army knife. When he had everything in order he opened the tobacco pouch and took a long smell of the contents.

            “Know wha’s in here, lads?”

There was no answer.

            “Best Mexican marijuana. Some of the best in the business. Want a sniff?”

            Both men sat motionless and silent.

            “Now, who’s for a few pints? And some big cigars?”

Still neither man spoke. JP shifted his arse slightly off the barstool and motioned to catch Donleavy’s attention as the bar owner did his lap of the horseshoe shaped bar.

            “Donleavy”, JP beckoned in a louder than usual voice, “give us three pints and three of them corona cigars that have been sitting there forever. I hope they’re still fresh. Me and me mates are having a bit of a celebration. And have a cigar yourself. Ya deserve a break.”

Donleavy made a beeline to the end of the bar, his barman’s nose smelling profit.

            “Of course they’re fresh. Each one hand-rolled on the thigh of a virgin and each one immediately wrapped in plastic to maintain her nubile scent. Wha’ more can I say?”

            “Hopefully very little more”, JP replied.

            “Well, I will say one more thing. Wha’ are ya celebrating men?”

            “Let’s just say that I’ve diversified my income portfolio and my current financial position is more liquid. Now I’m going to liquidate my assets in favour of liquid, if ya get my drift.”

Donleavy started pulling pints.

            “Loud and clear, JP. You liquidate for liquid. I serve liquid and increase my liquidity. Everyone is happy all around. At least I think so. Mono and Rasher there seem to have faces as long as a Friday evening tailback. Ya’d want to give them some happy pills if ya want a celebration.”

            “Oh, I’ve got something to make them smile alright. Happy pills come in all sorts of shapes and sizes.”

            Mono and Rasher still sat motionless with mouths open catching flies. JP was still smiling like a Cheshire, enjoying their discomfort with every passing moment. He took up his pipe and having stuffed the bowl went to light it. Rasher nearly calved.

            “Jaysus, JP, don’t light up in here. Ya’ll stink the place out. Everyone knows the smell these days. We’ll be shaggin’ nicked before ya can say ‘same again’.”

JP continued his lighting up ritual, blowing toxic nebulae towards the yellowed bar ceiling.

            “Calm down, my man. Don’t panic. It’s only baccy. It’s not really grass.”

Mono was still very uncomfortable. He pushed away the pint that Donleavy had served up in front of each of them.

            “Look JP. We’ve been friends a long time. But I won’t take drink off ya if ya’ve been making money from drugs. There’s been too many young fellas down our estate who’ve shagged themselves up with drugs. I won’t have any part of your ill-gotten blood money. D’ya hear. No shaggin’ part. Ya can stuff your drink. And your bleedin’ cigar. Ya can stuff it where the sun don’t shine and I hope it burns your bleedin’ prostrate on the way up.”

            JP blew out a few more puffs using his moustache as an environmental filter. He took a big swallow from his pint and then licked the cream and nicotine from his ronny.

            “Alright. Alright. Pipe down. It was only a bit of fun. Yes I did make some dosh from drugs. But only indirectly. And nobody got hurt. Well nobody’s health got hurt anyway. I’d say my nephew had a bit of a pain in his arse but ya can’t really count that. In fact it probably did the little gobshite the power of good. Put some manners on him for a change,”

            “JP, ya’re not making sense. Wha’’s all this about your nephew? Wha’ the hell has your nephew to do with any of this?”

            “Drink up there lads and I’ll tell ya. This is a good one, I promise ya.”

            “No JP”, they both answered together. Rasher continued on. “No drink from ya ‘til we know wha’ this is about.”

            “Your drought lads. No skin off my nose. But this is a good one.”

JP drained his glass with his second slug and for more emphasis he took the pint from in front of Rasher and placed it in front of himself.

            “Ya know the wife’s sister’s young fella? The little jumped up shit that works for the pharmaceutical company.”

They both nodded.

            “Well the last time he was over he was really getting on my wick. He loves the smell of his own farts and has his head stuck so far up his own arse that he wouldn’t know daylight if it bit him on the same arse. Always calling himself an executive and keeps telling me and the dragon how he’s back and forward to the States like a trans-Atlantic pilot. To listen to him ya’d think the little pen-pusher ran the whole global organization.”

They both nodded more vigorously.

            “Well when he was in full swing in our kitchen last week he kept going on and on and on about this big visit they were going to have at their company this week. Apparently the organization’s chief bottle washer was going to be over from the U.S. Jaysus, the way he talked about him ya’d think this fella never belched or farted. Ya’d like to see him shaving just to make sure he bled when he cut himself. And of course the nephew was the main mover and shaker. Of course. The bottle washer was coming over to see him and him alone. Corporate Titans together. It took me all me time not to puke in the kitchen sink. It was all laid on so thick you wouldn’t cut it with a chain saw.”

JP went back to his pint, well Rasher’s pint really, and fed his ulcer with another large wincing slug. He needed to take a little rest then to let the belch percolate upwards. He reached for his pipe and then thought better of it and unwrapped the cigar, bit the end off it with great drama, and lit up.

Mono’s impatience exploded.

“JP, wha’ the hell has any of this got to do with anything? I ain’t drinking no pint until ya tell us wha’ the feck is going down here.”

JP took Mono’s pint and lined it up behind the half full glass and beside the empty.

            “Patience. I’m getting there. Now where was I?”

Mono and Rasher whined in exasperation and thirst. JP took a long luxurious drag from the corona.

            “Oh yeah. The nephew. The visit. Well, I’ll tell ya something. I thought it was time he had his comeuppence. And no better buachaill than yours truly to give him a dose. So wha’ did I do?”

JP allowed himself a few more drags from the corona and then cooled his palate with the rest of Rasher’s pint.

            “Well…. Any ideas?”

            “Jaysus JP, get on with it. No. No ideas. Ya chopped off his knees with the chain saw. Ya put a wine cork up his arse to stop him putting his head up. Wha’ the hell did ya do?”

            “Nah. Both good ideas mind ya. Nah. I paid a visit to the bypass.”

Mono and Rasher looked at each other as if this was supposed was to explain everything. They shrugged to each other. Meanwhile, JP began to work on Mono’s pint.

            “Bypass. Bypass. So wha’? So ya wanted to avoid going into town. Big swinging ones. Wha’ the hell are ya whittling on about? Get to the point – we’re getting thirsty here.”

            “Well, my trusted friends – your thirst if of your own making. If ya trusted me like I trust you we’d all be pints in by now.”

            “JP – get on with if for the love of Jaysus.”

            “OK. OK. I went to pay a visit to our good friends in the caravans on the bypass.”

            “The knackers?”

            “Please, Mono, please. We must value diversity in our community. I went to visit some of the members of our traveling community who were temporarily berthed in their caravans on the bypass.”

            “Yeah? And? So?”

            “Still no penny or euro or cent dropping? I’m disappointed in ya. I gave them some interesting information of where they might temporarily relocate themselves and their caravans”

Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Whether it was penny or euro or cent – there was a sound of currency dropping.

            “Ya cute hawk.”

JP sucked on the corona and then sucked again on Mono’s pint. He seemed intent on having the three pints drunk before finishing his story.

            “I tell ya men. It was like precision planning. They moved in outside the company on the morning of the visit. I’m just sorry I couldn’t have been there myself. Me main man – Traveller Numero Uno told me the nephew was planking. I’d told them the time of the visit and Numero Uno held out negotiating right ‘til the last minute. Even when they agreed a price per caravan to move, the clown of a nephew arrived down with the company chequebook. I ask ya – where would ya find the likes of it. He had to send a flunky to the bank for cash and the transfer of funds only just about took place in time for the caravans to be moved.”

            The two men looked at each other and then at JP.

            “Ya’re a bastard JP, ya know that, don’t ya?”

            “Yeah.”, JP replied contentedly.

            “So wha’ was in it for you?”

            “Well all good agents get their fifteen percent. Unfortunately our bypass colleagues come from one of the best stables for negotiators. I could only succeed in agreeing ten per cent. As it was I don’t know wha’ the nephew agreed per caravan so I’d be pretty sure they even stiffed me on that. But I don’t care. We’re going to drink for a month and the nephew sweated blood and planked himself. All in all, I’d say it was a good day’s work. Wha’ do ya think?”

It was Mono that replied immediately.

            “I still think ya’re a bastard.”

            “Ya’re probably right. Now, wha’ are you drinking?”

            “Nothing. Ya drank it, ya bastard.”

            “Well faith, so I have. Donleavy, three more pints, hold the cigars.”

            JP took the last glass with only a gulp-full left in it.

            “Ya know lads I want to raise a toast but I’m buggered if I know who to drink to. Should we thank the drug companies for having lots of money, should we thank the nephew for being an arsehole or should we thank Numero Uno for delivering?”

Mono licked his lips waiting for a pint that was well overdue. He knew exactly how this was going to be played.

            “We’ll drink to the Traveller’s friend who’s going to supply us with drink ‘til all his ransom money runs out. And JP – count it out there and leave it with Donleavy – cause if one red cent of it goes anywhere else then ya’ll feel the fire of the dragon. And now – me and Rasher will have whiskey chasers. We’ve waited bleedin’ long enough.”

Whiskey was called for.

          “Oh”, said JP as if he’d nearly forgotten, “and I send a gift card to Peter Casey explaining everything and thanking him for keeping these types of opportunities in the front part of me brain.”

           “Nice one.”          

           “I’m sure he’ll add you to his Christmas card list.”

JP and the lads will be ‘going out’ over the weekend. Bound to be something worth reporting. 

“It’s all about how they piss”, said JP. “That’s what’s made America great.”

His two drinking buddies, sitting at the counter in “Donleavy’s”, raised their eyes to heaven.  Here we go again.

“No, I’m telling ya. It’s a fact. It’s all in the pissing. Believe me.”

Mono was the first of the two to rise to the bait, for bait it was. JP would issue forth no more on the initial taster until bidden to do so.

“OK, JP. Since Rasher obviously isn’t going to ask ya, I will. Why did America become great from pissing?”

“Aaah, I’m glad ya asked me that. Have either of ya ever been to the States….Mono?…Rasher?”

They both shook their heads and as they did so they realised they were now entirely in his grasp. Rasher immediately raised his finger to order another round from Donleavy who had just peered his head enquiringly around their side of the u-shaped counter. They might as well at least have a drink in front of them.

“Well let me tell ya what an American jacks look like. Picture your own loo at home. Well the American loo ain’t a whole ton different. OK, there might be more bells and whistles and it’s probably better made and smoother to sit on. Very concerned about their sensitive parts, the Americans and who can blame them. Well anyway, none of that is important. What’s important is the water. That’s the crucial part of the whole thing. Do ya know that the water for New York City comes from the Catskill Mountains miles and miles and miles away. Remind me to tell ya about that some other time. Because that’s not important now either.”

They nodded and started their fresh pints. “No, what’s important is the volume. It’s the volume that has made the difference to the entire American psychology.  It’s the volume that has made them great.”

JP broke off; picked up his pint; exercised his Adam’s apple; winced as the liquid met his ulcer; wiped his smoke stained mustache and proceeded to light up his pipe in sharp breath intakes and huge smoke releases. Mono fidgeted on his stool and Rasher gave JP an elbow in the ribs.

“First it’s pissing, and then it’s water, now its volume. What are ya witterin’ on about man?”

“Do ya not see the connection? When you’re at home having a slash what do ya do?…you too…Rasher….what do ya do?”

“Ay Jaysus, JP!” they said in unison.

“OK, let me tell ya what ya do.” They both looked around to see if anyone was over hearing any of this. Satisfied that the nearest person was out of earshot, they relaxed a little.

“You avoid the water. I bet ya anything you aim at the side of the bowl to avoid the water.Particularly you, Rasher, you have teenage daughters. I bet ya any money ya point Percy at the porcelain rather than the water. And ya probably pride yourself on a good slash if ya avoid the water completely, especially the first bit that emerges that’s hardest to control and the last bit when the pressure begins to tail off and ya have to move the Lad to keep it on the porcelain. Am I right lads? Am I right Rasher?”

They looked at each other like little schoolboys and smiled and nodded.

“See, I knew I was right. And, by the way, that’s one thing that makes us better than women, by the way. They have no choice but to fire it at the water. And we can hear them. And they know we can hear them. Try telling them what you’ve heard. It annoys the shite out of them. Try it lads.”

Rasher laughed and looked at Mono.

“I’m shagged if I’m going to tell me missus how she pisses. She’s twice my size.”

“Yeah, I’ve met your missus”, replied Mono, “and shagged is what ya wouldn’t be for a long time afterwards. After the wounds healed that is!”

With a few guffaws and grunts they exchanged looks knowingly. More slugs of porter – more pints were called for.

“Listen JP, thanks for the advice on how to approach my missus, get myself hospitalised and not have another shag for the rest of the year but I can’t see how the Yanks beat the Russians by me listening at toilet doors. And, by the way, I’m sure you get arrested for that sort of thing – ya bleedin’ pervert.”

“Purely social observation, Rasher, purely social observation. I’m sure I could probably get a grant for it if I tried.”

“I’d say ya could. Only you could.”

“Anyway, thanks for getting me back on track. I’m going around in circles. Talking of circles, ya know the way they say history repeats itself, goes in it’s own circles so to speak.”

They nodded. There was little else to do but nod now that JP had his head of steam.

“Well I’ve had a few premonitions. African priests.”

There was a silence. Rasher and Mono looked at each other, each one’s eyes saying that they weren’t going to ask. But they did. At least Mono did.

“What about them?”

“About who?”

“The shaggin’ African priests!”

“Oh yeah. We’re going to see a lot more of them. They’re going to over-run the gaff. Soon ya’ll be going to Sunday Mass and it’ll be a priest from Kenya or Nigeria or Botswana or Swaziland. Ya’ll go to confession and there’ll be no pink face in the dark. It’ll be all dark save for two brown eyes from Zimbabwe or Malawi. And your two daughters, Rasher, one’ll be married by a priest from the Congo and the other from Sudan. I can almost guarantee it.”

“Right JP”, Rasher interrupted, “so ya stayed awake in Geography all those years ago. But besides knowing your African countries, where does all the other rubbish you’re witterin’ about come from.”

“Rubbish! No way rubbish my friend. Common sense. It’s the cycle that’s what it is.”

“Yeah, and so is a Raleigh or a shaggin’ High Nelly but what’s that got to do with anything.”

“It’s simple. D’ya’member all the Irish missionary priests that went out to darkest Africa to convert the savage heathens?” They nodded. “Well now the cycle has turned. We’re probably the savage heathens now. We’ve got no priests and they’ll have lots. They’ll be exporting priests to us in numbers. Mark my words. Remember where ya heard it first. It’s as good as done. Believe me.”

Rasher frowned unconvinced. Mono laughed. He called for more pints.

“And the Arabs”

“Oh Jaysus, Mary and long-suffering Saint bleedin’ Joseph.. What about the shaggin’ Arabs?”

“The cycle again.”

“Let me guess –we’re going to be overrun by a crowd of Sheiks pedaling around Stephens Green in Dublin on mountain bikes…… with their robes tucked into their socks…… heading down to Buswells…… to massacre the entire cabinet…….. who are out on the piss to celebrate the first black Archbishop of Dublin.”

“Now that’s a possibility Mono, I grant ya, but it wasn’t what was in my mind. It was more the sands of time I was thinking about.”

“Ah, I see. The Arabs were going to supply sand to the new black Archbishop of Dublin ……..to convert the Archbishops Palace into a man-made pleasure beach resort…… offering immediate absolution for any past indiscretions.”

Mono and Rasher shook with laughter. The porter was beginning to fertilize now.

“Ah well, if ya’re just trying to make fun of me……”

Mono tried to stifle a laugh while Rasher stuffed his fist into his gob. There were tears in the corner of their eyes, more at JP’s hurt expression than at anything hilarious about their imaginings.

“We’re not making fun of ya. Go on. The Arabs. The sands.”

“No, I’ll not be piss-pulled.”

“Ah JP, go on. In the name of God, man, keep going.”

“Well only if ya’re going to take me seriously.”

They looked at one another.

“Go on. The sands. Go on in the name of Jaysus.”

“Well OK. It’s simple really. The Arabs were always nomads. They moved about in the desert on their camels travelling from one oasis to another.  Then they got their oil and suddenly they were rich. No more camels – just four wheel drives on four lane highways through the desert. No more oases-hopping when ya could flit between swanky restaurants. But the cycle. The cycle spins around. It’s a race as to whether the oil runs out or something cheaper replaces the oil. Whichever happens it doesn’t matter. As soon as the well stops pumping all the ex-pats will be home quicker than flies onto a shite. It’ll be Desolate City, MiddleEast. Then it’s back to the camels. Mark my words. Remember where ya heard it first. It’s as good as done. Believe me.”

The spontaneity dried up for a few silent minutes as the men went back to their pints and JP sucked contentedly at his pipe, happy again in the knowledge that he had shared the future. Rasher looked up from his shoes.

“What about the American pissers?”

“Wha’?”, the other two grunted in harmony.

“The American pissers. Why are they the best pissers in the world.”

“Yeah, JP, ya never finished”.

“Ah yes, our American friends and why they’ve become the guardians of our planet.” JP settled himself for an explanation. “It’s really very simple. Our bogs only have water down at the end of the loo. It only just comes up above the u-bend. Now in the average Yank’s bowl the water comes right up to near the surface. So much so that if ya sit on the bowl ya have to be careful that your mickey doesn’t hang down and get wet.”

“Bleedin’ boasting again”, Rasher interrupted.

“Shut up will ya and let him talk. Go on”, said Mono , “what’s so important about ya getting your tool wet?”

“Oh yeah. It’s not that at all. It’s when you’re standing up firing the arc. Don’t ya see? There is no porcelain to aim at. You’re all at sea with no land to water bomb. It’s splash or nothing. Bubbles and froth. You’ve no choice.”

Rasher and Mono looked at other. Blankly. Then they looked at JP. Blankly.

“Don’t ya see?”

They clearly didn’t.

“It’s so simple. It’s a confidence thing. I’m going to piss straight down into the darn water and ya can listen to me and I don’t give a damn.”

It was a terrible impersonation of an American accent sounding something like a cross between John Wayne, Robin Williams and Daffy Duck.

“I’m telling ya both. It was loo design that made America great. If ya didn’t have a generation of American men watching the effects that their piss made on the loo water and reveling in the turpitude, then the American confidence and arrogance wouldn’t be what it is today. It’s a bit like liking the smell of your own farts. Except they have it inbuilt because of their toilet training. Psychologists will prove it all in the future. Mark my words. Remember where ya heard it first. It’s as good as done. Believe me.”

Donleavy called an end to the conversation with his standard no homes to go to/ladies and gents now please/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 but just go routine.

JP went for a final slash. Rasher and Mono skulled the last of their pints.

“Do ya believe all that mullarkey?”

“I do in my hole.”

As they left the pub and headed as usual to the chipper for a one and one JP chirped up again.

“Did I ever tell ye lads the story about how chips, or should I say pomme frites, helped bring down Louis the Sun King of France.”

JP was left by himself as he felt two figures push past him and scurry up the road.

“Jaysus, lads, hold up will ye. Hold on. Hold on. Wait for me. Wait, will ya. Oh, go on then, feck yez. Hold me a place in the queue.”

Hold tough. There is a conversation on it’s way. JP, Mono and Rasher are going to Donleavy’s tonight (like most nights!). ‘Listen’ in later….

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton