Two More Pints (8 page)

— OOH AHH PAUL McGRATH'S DA – SAY OOH AAH PAUL McGRATH'S DA.

— We're out of the Bailout an'anyway. A nation once again, wha'.

— Fuck the fuckin' Bailout.

— What's wrong with yeh? Are yeh not happy tha' you can have your pint without worryin' tha' Merkel will whip it away from yeh?

— I'll tell yeh what's wrong with me.

— Go on.

— Fuckin'
Lawrence of Arabia
.

— Wha'?

— I go home a few nights ago an' she's cryin' – in the kitchen.

— Merkel?

— Fuck off. The wife.

— Why?

— I told yeh –
Lawrence of Arabia
.

— Was he in the kitchen as well?

— Fuck off. She's not cryin' like when Whitney died. She's really bawlin'. Fuckin' inconsolable.

— Cos o' Lawrence?

— Peter O'Toole, yeah. Turns out, all these years, she's fuckin' loved him – adored him. From fuckin' afar.

— Ah, that's just—

— He was tall, yeah?

— Yeah.

— Am I?

— Yeh would be, if you were up on a camel.

— He had beautiful blue eyes.

— Fuckin' beautiful?

— Wha' colour are mine?

— Kind o' grey an' red.

— Not blue.

— Not really. Maybe she just thought he was a good actor. Hang on but—. Is this a Fernando Torres thing? Did you fancy him too?

- - -

— An' now you have to share him with the missis? Is that it?

- - -

— How was the Christmas?

— Code fuckin' Red.

— Wha' happened?

— The mother-in-law.

— I thought she died.

— The new one.

— Oh fuck.

— Annyway. They all come to the house – the whole gang, like. An' she reacts badly to the stuffin'. A Nigella recipe, as it happens. Sausage meat an' Red Bull.

— Sounds lovely.

— Yeah, but she started expandin'.

— Well, it was the Christmas dinner. We all fuckin' expand.

— Really quickly. Like a thing in a fillum.

— Fuck.

— Exactly wha' I said. Anyway, then there's the lotto – who'll bring her to A an' E. An' they're all lookin' at me. Cos, like – A. I'm the fuckin' host, an' B. I have the van an' your woman's gettin' even bigger, so we'll be just about able to get her in the side door. But—

— Wha'?

— Well, it's Christmas. I want to stay at home with me family.

— But—

— Anyway. I say – listen to this. I say – as a matter of principle, like – I'm not willin' to bring anyone to hospital until I'm assured tha' the car-parkin' charge isn't goin' to top up some chief executive's salary.

— Jesus.

— Well, it seemed clever when I was sayin' it.

— How was your year?

— Ah, fuck off.

— Same here.

— Same shite.

— Death an' fuckin' disaster.

— I was shavin' this mornin', righ', an' there was this huge fuckin' hair growin' out of me ear. Two inches long, it was.

— An' tha' was your year's work, was it?

— Overnight. It wasn't there when I was brushin' the teeth last nigh'.

— Jesus, are your teeth in your ear as well?

— Fuck off. It's growin' old. Every fuckin' day – a bit less. I can hardly remember the names of me kids. The grandkids are fuckin' impostors.

— But yeh know, the worst thing about this year is findin' out the Yanks are watchin' us.

— Not me an' you, like.

— Yeah.

— Why the fuck would they be watchin' us? Now, like – here?

— Maybe.

— I thought it was only emails an' twitters an' tha'. So, if we change the order from two pints, say, to two pink gins, they'll tell Obama?

— They might.

— We'd better stick to the pints, so. To be on the safe side.

— Yeah. Fuckin' worryin', though, isn't it? Happy New Year, by the way.

— Fuck sake – I'm not fuckin' deaf !

— I wasn't talkin' to you. I was talkin' to Obama.

— See the Everly Brother died.

— Saw tha'. Sad.

— The lungs.

— Fuckin' cruel, isn't it? He gave so much pleasure to people usin' them lungs, for decades, like – more than fifty years. An' then they go an' fuckin' kill him.

— That's life.

— You said it, bud.

— ‘Cathy's Clown'.

— Great song.

— Before our time, but, weren't they – a bit?

— No. No, I know what yeh mean. I don't remember seein' them on
Tops o' the Pops
or annythin'. But when you heard them on the radio—

— You always knew it was the Everlys.

— Exactly.

— An' it was always brilliant.

— Exactly – yeah.

—‘Bye Bye Love'.

— There now – here's somethin'. My mother sang that every mornin' when me da was goin' to work. Goin' out the back door, like.

— Ah, that's nice. Isn't it?

— Yeah.

— That's a great memory to have. Cos o' Phil Everly.

— She sang it at the funeral as well.

— In the church?

— At the grave.

— God. Tha' must've been somethin'.

— It was. We all joined in at the end. ‘
Bye bye, my love, goodbye
.'

— They loved each other.

— They did.

— So, how come you're such a miserable cunt?

— Well, I can't blame Phil.

— Yeh know the way we're goin' to be payin' for the water?

— Well, fair enough. It hasn't rained since this mornin'.

— And yeh know the way this new company, Irish Water—

— Good name.

— At least it's in English.

— They prob'ly paid a gang o' fuckin' consultants to find the best way to get across the point that they're Irish an' they'll be sellin' the water.

— That's the thing, but. They've paid fifty million to consultants. But, like, what is a consultant?

— A cunt.

— That all?

— With a jockey's bollix.

— A cunt with a jockey's bollix?

— Basically. A fuckin' chancer who's happy enough to take money from a useless bunch o' pricks who haven't the guts or the brains to make their own decisions, an' call it expertise.

— But, say—

— An' they all went to the same schools. The pricks an' the cunts. It's business as usual in Ireland fuckin' Inc.

— But—

— An' it's our money.

— Will we have another pint?

— I've the money for the round but I don't have the consultancy fee.

— Wha' fuckin' consultancy fee?

— D'yeh expect me to answer tha' question on me own? ‘Will we have another pint?' It could take fuckin' years.

— See all the Uggs tha' got stolen?

— Wha' – the whole family? The kids as well?

— What are you on abou'?

— The Uggs, tha' live over the bookie's.

— That's only their nickname.

— Fuck – is it?

— I meant the boots. That all the young ones wear.

— And one or two o' the oul' ones.

— Anyway, there was a million quids' worth stolen.

— Where?

— Cork.

— Ah well.

— The lads were caught but, like, some o' the Uggs got away – you with me?

— Grand.

— An', Cork bein' Cork, they've ended up in Dublin.

— That's not a pair yeh have on yeh there, is it?

— No – fuck off. These are desert boots.

— They're nice.

— I've had them a few years. Anyway. I know a chap might be able to find some – Uggs, like. Especially suitable for girls with different-sized feet.

— Ah, for fuck—

— No – it's a scientifically proven fact. We all have different-sized feet but it's usually not tha' big of a difference. But anyway, these Uggs would be a fuckin' godsend for a young one with, say, one size-four foot an' the other one size seven.

— Which is which?

— Left, four. Right, seven.

— I'll get workin' on it.

— See Shirley Temple died.

— There's a thing.

— Wha'?

— Shirley Temple. There was a fella in my class – in primary school. He'd curly hair – loads of it, like. An' a baby face. Mind you, we all had baby faces. We were only fuckin' six or somethin'. But the teacher – a righ' fuckin' monster – I can't remember her name. But anyway, she called him Shirley Temple. An' it stuck.

— The poor cunt.

— All his life.

— Did he die?

— Today.

— No. Same as Shirley?

— Same day, not sure abou' the time. Yeah, he was always called Shirley. An' he went bald in his thirties.

— Hang on. Tha' Shirley? Is she a man?

— Different one – you're barkin' up the wrong Shirley. Tha' Shirley just shaves her head – it's a lifestyle choice, like. You wouldn't've known this lad. He moved to England, somewhere.

— To get away from bein' called Shirley.

— Tha' an' a job, yeah.

— Come here, but. Shirley Temple. The real one, like – the original one. You know – all those fillums. The little dresses an' ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop' an' tha'.

— Wha'?

— It was fuckin' weird. Wasn't it?

— Very fuckin' weird.

— See the city's full o' Nazis.

— Wha'?

— Nazis.

— In Dublin?

— So I heard. Bono was talkin' to them.

— Well, tha' would turn anyone into a Nazi, havin' to listen to tha' cunt. Wha' was Bono doin' talkin' to fuckin' Nazis?

— There's a conference of them. In the Convention Centre. The Nazis an' Fine Gael.

— Hold on. Fine Gael aren't fuckin' Nazis.

— Merkel's there as well.

— She's not a fuckin' Nazi. She's only a German. Yeh can't be callin' the Germans Nazis. They're grand, the Germans. I like Merkel.

— I kind o' do as well. There's somethin' about her – she doesn't give a shite.

— That's it. She's one o' the lads. Annyway, look it. It's the European People's Party that's in the Convention Centre. They're not Nazis. They just look a bit odd.

— No uniforms, no?

— No.

— Shite. I was goin' to bring the grandkids down to have a look at them.

— No, they're just right of centre. A bunch of heartless cunts, but not Nazis – in fairness. Borin' as fuck, I'd say. Imagine goin' for a pint with a gang of Fine Gaelers an' Christian Democrats from Belgium.

— An' Bono.

— Fuck sake. Give me the Nazis, anny day.

— See Christine Buckley died.

— Saw tha'. Sad.

— Very sad. Great woman.

— Great fuckin' woman.

— Wha' was the name o' tha' place, where she exposed the abuse?

— Goldenbridge.

— That's it. Hard to imagine a place with a name like tha' could be so fuckin' evil, isn't it?

— I know wha' yeh mean. You'd kind of expect hobbits in a place called Goldenbridge.

— Well, tha' was the problem, wasn't it? If the place had been run by hobbits, they'd have looked after those poor kids properly. A bit of love an' tha'. Not like the fuckin' nuns, batterin' them.

— It's nearly twenty years.

— Wha'?

— Since tha' programme Christine Buckley was in.

— Yeh serious?

— Yeah. 1996. Said it on the radio. Is the country any better, d'yeh think?

— Well, if it is, it's because o' Christine Buckley, an' them.

— I met her once.

— Did yeh?

— Corner o' Mary Street an' Jervis Street. She was standin' there, like she was waitin' for someone. An' I knew I knew her, but I didn't know her – d'yeh know wha' I mean? I knew her face. An' I said, ‘Are you—?' An' she goes, ‘That's right – Diana Ross.' An' she bursts ou' laughin'.

— Peaches Geldof.

— Jesus, man, it's sad.

— So fuckin' – just—. Sad.

— I know nothin' about her. Except she's Geldof's daughter an' she was in the magazines.

— She was only twenty-five.

— Terrifyin'. It'd have yeh wanderin' around the house, checkin' the windows.

— Textin' the kids an' grandkids, makin' sure they're alrigh'.

— Exactly. I drove past my young one's flat, just to make sure. I didn't go in or anythin'. I just wanted to – I don't know – be useful, or somethin'. A father – yeh know?

— Yeah. An' Mickey Rooney died as well.

— I know nothin' about him either.

— A child actor, by all accounts.

— Not fuckin' recently, but.

— He was in a lot o' fillums with Judy Garland. So they said on the radio.

— The only one o' hers I seen is
The Wizard of Oz
, an' he's not in tha', I don't think. Unless he was one o' the hobbits.

— Munchkins.

— Yeah. Or – now that I think of it – was he the friendly lion?

— The cowardly lion.

— Fuck off now. There was nothin' stoppin' him from bein' both friendly an' cowardly. It's easily managed.