Two More Pints (3 page)

— Hang on—

— Poor oul' Brad. Angelina's too busy with all them orphans she bought in Somalia.

— Was tha' not Madonna?

— There was a sale. So, annyway, Brad has a shave an' slaps on the Inevitable an' he says, ‘I'm just goin' ou' for some milk an' nappies, love,' an' he—

— Yeh missed somethin'.

— Wha'?

— He has a beard.

— So?

— He didn't shave.

— It's only one o' them little Three Musketeers ones—

— It's not aftershave.

— I know – they don't call it aftershave—

— It's not called Inevitable.

— Wha'?

— It's Chanel No. 5.

— I don't give a fuck what it is—. Hang on. The fuckin' perfume?

— Yep.

— Women's perfume?

— Well spotted.

— I never fuckin' noticed. What's tha' dopey cunt doin' on an ad for women's perfume?

— Makin' a few quid.

— For fuck sake. She asked me what I wanted an' I told her a bottle of Inevitable, an' she just smiled an' said Grand.

— Wha' did you get her?

—
FIFA Manager 13.

— Fiscal cliff.

— He's shite.

— Wha'?!

— He's just copyin' the other fella.

— Wha' the fuck are yeh talkin' about?

— The rapper.

— Wha' rapper?

— Fiscal Cliff.

— There's no fuckin' rapper called—. You're messin', yeh cunt.

— I am, yeah.

— It's serious, but. Isn't it? The fiscal cliff.

— Seems to be.

— How?

— Don't know. Spendin' cuts, deficits – the usual shite.

— America goes into recession.

— An' so do we.

— Wha' the fuck are we in at the moment?

— Exactly. We're already fucked.

— Still though. A crap end to a crap year.

— They're all crap.

— Wha'?

— Every fuckin' year I've lived has been crap.

— Ah now.

— It's all shite.

— Hang on – calm down. The birth of your oldest.

— A great day in the middle of a fuckin' shite year.

— Your youngest.

— My ma died the same day. Fuckin' dreadful.

— Your weddin'.

— I remember half an hour an' the rest o' the year I was hung-over an' out o' work.

— Your first ride.

— Five minutes. The rest o' the '70s were fuckin' unbearable. An' the fuckin' '80s.

— I'm not listenin'.

— A waste o' time – I'm tellin' yeh. As for the '90s—

— Ah, fuck off.

— Happy New Year.

— Fuck off.

— God, you're fuckin' miserable.

— See the new boss o' the Bank of Ireland is a lighthouse keeper.

— He can't be anny worse than the dozy cunts that've been runnin' it up to now.

— True. Although – did yeh see the ad, did yeh?

— I did, yeah.

— So. You've your man arrivin' at the lighthouse.

— In the pissin' rain, yeah.

— To change the light bulb.

— An' he manages it all righ'.

— It's comfortin' tha', isn't it? Tha' the new boss o' the bank can change a bulb.

— An' he turns on the light as well, don't forget.

— Fair enough – it's a busy day.

— An' the voice is goin', ‘We recognise tha' for the last few years the waters have been particularly stormy.'

— Un-fuckin'-believable.

— An' this bit. ‘That's why we want – an' need – to renew our commitment to look ou' for you.'

— You know it off by heart.

— I fuckin' do.

— But did you notice his bike?

— Wha'?

— When he's inside in the lighthouse lookin' ou' for us, his bike's outside. Parked against the wall, like.

— Yeah – okay. And?

— The fuckin' eejit forgot to lock it.

— Did he?

— Annyone could fuckin' rob it.

— So it's business as usual at the Bank of Ireland.

— Exactly.

— When was the last time yeh ate a burger?

— Jaysis – I don't know. A good while back. This mornin', I think. Maybe last nigh' – not sure. Why?

— Did yeh not see the fuckin' news before yeh came ou'?

— I did, yeah.

— How they found traces of horse an' pig DNA in beefburgers, in Tesco's an' Dunne's an'—

— So?

— So? Fuckin' so?

— It's still meat.

— But it's not fuckin' beef.

— The beef isn't beef either. I couldn't give a shite. Long as it's not slugs or maggots or eyeballs an' tha'.

— You're fuckin' serious.

— Long as they taste alrigh' – what's the fuckin' fuss?

— Wha' abou' standards?

— This is fuckin' Ireland, bud – cop on.

— So – say—

— Go on. You're goin' to say somethin' stupid.

— Fuck off now, an' listen. Say it was human DNA?

— Grand. It's meat.

— Yeh wouldn't mind eatin' human?

— No. But it depends.

— On wha'?

— Wha' sort o' human it was.

— Wha' d'yeh mean? Not race—

— God, no. No – fuck tha'. No, I could never eat a Man United supporter. It'd make me fuckin' sick.

— I'm with yeh. Or a City fan.

— No meat on those fuckers.

— Or a child.

— Not one o' me own, no.

— You look a bit lost.

— Ah fuck it—

— Wha'?

— She caught me smokin'.

— At home?

— Ou' the back, yeah.

— How long have yeh been off them?

— Ten years – officially.

— Jesus. Wha' did she say?

— I've to go on
Oprah Winfrey
.

— Wha'?!

— She's comin' to the house.

— Hang on –
the
Oprah Winfrey?

— Yeah.

— She's comin' to your fuckin' house?

— To interview me, yeah. To hear me confession.

— Fuck off.

— Don't believe me – I don't give a fuck. She's fuckin' furious.

— Oprah?

— The wife. She's makin' me do the hooverin' before your woman arrives. With her 112 fuckin' questions.

— Will you admit it?

— I will, yeah – no problem. But listen. She – the wife – says it was the most sophisticated, organised and professionalised sneaky smoke in the history of sneaky smokin'.

— She's a way with the fuckin' words.

— Well – between ourselves now – she can fuck off. I'll be tellin' Oprah that all people my age – tha' generation – we all fuckin' smoked. There were East Germans smoked a lot more than me. I was quite conservative. But yeah, I'll admit it. Then I'll be back on the bike – with a bit o' luck.

— Will yeh say you're sorry?

— I will in me fuckin' hole.

— See Heffo died.

— Sad.

— Heffo's Army, wha'.

— Good days.

— Were yeh one of the lads yourself back then?

— No, I wasn't big into the Gaelic at all. But it wasn't tha'. It wasn't the football.

— Wha' d'yeh mean?

— It was the whole Dubs thing. The pride, yeh know. When they started winnin'.

— We were Dubs.

— Exactly. We were Dubs. Against the rest of the country.

— The culchies.

— The kids call them boggers.

— Well, they'll always be culchies in my heart. Especially the Kerrymen.

— No argument. They're the best culchies of the lot.

— I worked with a chap from Kerry. Nice enough fella but I couldn't understand a fuckin' word he said. I'm pretty certain it wasn't English.

— Irish, maybe.

— Maybe, yeah. His sandwiches, righ'? They were so big – he'd lift it to his mouth an' his whole fuckin' head would disappear behind it. Only his fringe, like – hangin' over the edge.

— See they're thinkin' of allowin' drink-drivin' in Kerry?

— Great idea.

— D'yeh think?

— No question. Think of it. Tourism. Telly. You'd come in after a few pints an' there's a programme on called
Drunk Kerry Drivers – Live
. You'd watch it.

— I'd get locked just to watch it.

— See the last o' the Andrews Sisters died.

— Whose sisters?

— The Andrews Sisters. They were singers.

— Oh.

— Durin' the war.

— A bit weird, tha'.

— Wha'?

— They stopped singin' when the war ended. Were they Nazis or somethin'?

— Ah, fuck off. My da loved them.

— Did he?

— He did, yeah – loved them. He was in the RAF.

— Was he?

— He was, yeah. Did I never tell yeh?

— Hang on – your da was fuckin' Biggles?

— Well, there now. There was once – I was a kid, like – an' I ask him what he was in the RAF. An' he looks at me an' he says, ‘Well, son, I was a fuckin' air hostess.'

— Brilliant.

— He was great, me da. He was a mechanic.

— Fixed the planes.

— Exactly. But he never mentioned it much. In case some fuckin' eejit called him a Brit an' took a swing at him. But he loved the Andrews Sisters. Had the record.

— Give us one o' their songs.

— There was one abou' sittin' under the apple tree.

— Give us a few bars.

— No – fuck off. Not here.

— Ah, go on. Did he play it a lot?

— He did, yeah. Specially after me ma died.

— Ah shite – sorry.

— No, you're grand – you're grand. It's your round by the way. The barman wants yeh.

— See Richard the Third was found dead in a car park.

— Who?

— Richard the Third.

— Who was he?

— The King of England.

— Wha' happened the fuckin' Queen?

— Before her.

— He was her da?

— I think so, yeah. Grandda maybe. Annyway, they found him.

— They took their fuckin' time.

— Yeah – yeah. I'd like to think that if I got lost my gang'd try a bit fuckin' harder.

— He was probably a bit of a cunt.

— Safe bet. They're all cunts.

— Wha' happened him annyway?

— He couldn't find his car.

— So he just lay down an' fuckin' died?

— Well, like. If you're used to people doin' everythin' for yeh—

— Ah, fuck off.

— I'm only messin'. He was in a fight. Swords an' all.

— The car park was in fuckin' Swords?

— No – the fight. There were swords. He was brutally hacked – accordin' to the English guards.

— How do they know it was him? He must've been there for ages.

— His DNA.

— What about it?

— It was 45 per cent horse.

— Ah well, then he was definitely one o' the British royal family.

— Science is incredible, isn't it?

— Brilliant.

— See the Trogg died.

— I saw tha', yeah. Reg Presley.

— With a name like tha' he was never goin' to be a plumber, was he?

— It wasn't his real name.

— Was it not?

— No. His real one was Reg Ball.

— You were a bit of a fan, were yeh?

— I was, yeah. I was only a kid when ‘Wild Thing' came ou'—

— It made your heart sing.

— That's the one. One of me brothers had the record an' he left it behind when he got married, so it was always in the house.

— Great song.

— Brilliant song. Still.

— Could you get away with it now?

— Wha'?

— Callin' a woman a wild thing.

— I don't see why not. I called my missis exactly tha' this morning after the news.

— An' she was grand with it?

— Fuckin' delighted. I put me arms around her – I was a bit emotional, like. An' I sang it to her.

— Nice.

— In the kitchen.

— An' tell us – without invadin' your privacy. Did it develop into a bit of a Jack Nicholson, Jessica Lange moment? On the table.

— Not exactly, no. But she put an extra dollop o' jam into me porridge.

— For fuck sake.

— Blackcurrant.

— Nice.

— So. Anglo's gone.

— Liquidated.

— Great fuckin' word.

— But—

— Wha'?

— Is it good news or bad news?

— That's the fuckin' problem, isn't it? We don't really know.

— An' no one else does either. Not one o' those cunts on the telly or the radio has a fuckin' clue.

— 'Cept your man, the economist fella. Constantin.

— Constantin Gurdgiev.

— Him – yeah. He looks like he knows wha' he's on abou'.

— Only because he's the only one tha' doesn't look like he's tryin' to sell yeh his wife or a second-hand Hiace. His face, like.

— Buster Keaton.

— Exactly.

— So, does he think we're any better off?

— I couldn't really understand him. But he said none o' those Anglo season ticket holders—

— Bondholders.

— Yeah. None o' them should've got their money back. They could fuck off with their promissory notes.