Two Pints (2 page)

— No.

— Me neither. Borin’.

— Unless it was somethin’ unusual.

— Like wha’?

— Well, say he was stickin’ it into Colette from the Mint or your woman with the hair from Paddy Power’s. That’d be worth knowin’ abou’.

— I’m with yeh.

— Other than tha’ but—

— I’ve been hackin’ me missis.

— There’s plenty of her to hack.

— Fuck off now.

— Jesus, but. D’yeh have the technology an’ tha’ – to do it?

— I do, yeah.

— How d’yeh manage it?

— I read her texts when she goes to the jacks.

— Anny good ones?

— Not at all. The usual shite. Loads of fuckin’ LOLs – an’ the other one. PMSL. Don’t know what it means.

— P is for period.

— An’ M – that’ll be the other one. Men’s—

— Men’s wha’?

— Menstruation.

— Makes sense. What about the S an’ the L?

— Fuck knows.

— One thing.

— Wha’?

— How come yeh didn’t slag my missis after I slagged yours?

— Are yeh ready for another pint?

— After yeh answer my fuckin’ question.

13-7-11

— HARPER SEVEN
.

— I’m not listenin’.

— It’s wha’ Beckham an’ Posh are after callin’ their latest.

— I know.

— But, like – who gives a shite?

— Fuckin’ everyone. In our house annyway.

— It’s not a bad oul’ name, really.

— It’s the Seven bit’s the problem.

— I know. But they prob’ly have their reasons. Somethin’ sentimental.

— Like the amount o’ times he had to ride her.

— I’ll tell yeh. You’re never fuckin’ predictable.

— Fuck off. My brother’s young one’s little fella. John. Know wha’ his full name is?

— Go on.

— John Player Blue.

— Fuck off.

— Swear to God. It’s like I said. Sentimental reasons. They met outside the boozer a few weeks after the smokin’ ban kicked in. And John arrived soon after.

— That’s kind o’ nice.

— There now.

— They still together?

— No. Actually – he died. The husband.

— That’s rough.

— Cancer. She was pregnant as well. A girl. Know wha’ she called her?

— Wha’?

— Cancer.

— Fuck off now. I’m not listenin’ to yeh.

— A tribute to his memory.

— Fuck off.

— D’yeh want to know the surname?

— No.

— Ward.

— Cancer Ward?

— A lovely kid. A breath of fresh air.

— Fuck off.

20-7-11

—
HOW COME THE
most borin’ stuff is the most important?

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Well, look it. What’s the best thing yeh saw on the news this week?

— Murdoch’s missis slappin’ the comedian.

— Me too. It was fuckin’ brilliant. An’ I bet you were sittin’ there watchin’, and wishin’ your missis was Chinese. Amn’t I righ’?

— Kind o’.

— Fuckin’ sure I am. She threw her whole body into tha’ slap. But – this is my point. It doesn’t matter a fuck. It was only a laugh. But, now, all the EU leaders meetin’ in Brussels tomorrow—

— Ah, fuck off. I’m not interested in those cunts.

— Exactly my point. The thought of it – it makes me want to lie down an’ fuckin’ die. But it’s vital.

— Why?

— I don’t fuckin’ know. I just know it is. But the thought of tryin’ to understand it – defaultin’, an’ Greece, an’ all tha’ shite.

— If they brought their wives an’ husbands—

— That’s it. Human interest. Sittin’ behind them, like Murdoch’s. An’ Merkel says somethin’ snotty abou’ Ireland—

— Kenny’s wife slaps her across the fuckin’ head.

— Yeh’d watch.

— I might.

— Yeh fuckin’ would.

— Okay.

25-7-11

—
DID YEH LIKE
Amy?

— I did, yeah.

— A bit skinny.

— Great fuckin’ voice.

— True.

— Sad.

— Desperate. The same age as my oldest.

— A real singer. None o’ the
X Factor
shite.

— No.

— Horrible week.

— Fuckin’ awful.

— Norway.

— Frightenin’.

— Who’d shoot kids?

— I haven’t a clue.

— Horrible.

— Fuckin’ horrible.

— An’ Somalia.

— Stop.

— Where is Somalia, exactly?

— I don’t even know where Norway is, exactly.

— Well, at least we have the cunts in the Vatican to give us a laugh.

— I’m not laughin’.

— The fuckin’ heads on them.

— Thank Christ the football’s back in a couple o’ weeks.

— What’re yeh sayin’? Tha’ none o’ this would’ve happened if there’d been football on the telly?

— Fuck off. It’s not funny.

— You’re righ’. Sorry.

— Okay.

30-7-11

—
NO MASSACRES THIS
week.

— Stop tha’.

— Were you across at Amy’s funeral?

— I’ll leave, I’m fuckin’ tellin’ yeh.

— Okay. Fair enough. Wha’ abou’ the ban on smokin’ in cars? Can I mention tha’?

— It should be up to the kids.

— Wha’?

— The ban. It’s when there are children in the vehicle, righ’?

— Righ’.

— So, the children should vote on it. In the back o’ the car, like.

— They’d bribe the poor fucker tha’ wants a smoke.

— Exactly. It’d teach them to be adults. Cash only. In little brown child-sized envelopes.

— You’re not jokin’.

— No way am I. It’s the problem with this fuckin’ country. We’re tryin’ not to be corrupt. But we should be teachin’ our kids to be even more corrupt. Like every other country in the world. Not just Greece an’ the mad places – fuckin’ everywhere. They’re laughin’ at us.

— I don’t know. Yeh might have a point.

— I do have a fuckin’ point.

— What if there’s only one kid in the car?

— Then the dopey prick drivin’ it should have no problem countin’ the votes.

15-8-11

—
HOW DID WEXFORD
go for yeh?

— I’ll tell yeh. We were sittin’ in the mobile, myself and herself. Watchin’ the news. Cos it was fuckin’ bucketin’ outside. There’s the riots in London. Then there’s this stuff abou’ how the euro is basically fucked. So she says, Fuck it, let’s blow it. So, that’s wha’ we do. We get the Tesco bus into Gorey and we fuckin’ spend it.

— Your jeans are new.

— Fuck off a minute. We’re in this pub, Browne’s, and we go out for a smoke. She takes ou’ her BlackBerry an’ she taps in some fuckin’ thing. An’ she puts up the hood of her pink hoodie. An’ then – basically – she’s gone. Like a fuckin’ greyhound. Across to this shoe shop. Gaffney’s. She takes a run at it an’ kicks the fuckin’ window.

— Did she break it?

— She missed it. But she has another go. An’ then there are other women – middle-aged, like. An’ they’re all kickin’ the window. They’re only up from the fuckin’ Garda station. An’ sure enough, here’s a Guard, an’ they leg it. I haven’t seen her since. Where were you, yourself?

— Magaluf.

— Where’s tha’?

— I’m not sure – we went in a plane.

22-8-11

—
I WAS OU’
at the airport there.

— Doin’ wha’?

— Lookin’ at the boats – wha’ d’yeh think I was fuckin’ doin’?

— I don’t know. Goin’ somewhere, comin’ back. Fuckin’ lay off.

— We were ou’ meeting her sister.

— Comin’ back from somewhere.

— Yeah.

— Where?

— Can’t remember – doesn’t matter. We’re at the arrivals place, yeh know, and I’m bored out of me fuckin’ tree, cos her flight’s late. So I start doin’ imaginary passport control as all the people are comin’ in off the planes – in me head, like. You can stay, you can stay, you can fuck off, you can stay. An’ anyway, that’s when I see him.

— Who?

— Gaddafi.

— From the chipper?

— No, the other one. From Libya.

— In Dublin Airport?

— Terminal 2.

— Fuck off.

— Swear to God. That’s where he’s hidin’.

— Fuckin’ hell. An’ he’d just arrived, had he?

— No, this is the genius bit. He was moppin’ the floor.

— Gaddafi was?

— Fuckin’ brilliant, isn’t it?

— Colonel Gaddafi?

— They’ll never find him there.

— You’re sure it was him?

—Course I am. I winked at him.

—Wha’ did he do?

—He winked back.

30-8-11

—
THAT’S A FUCKIN’
jumper.

— Birthday present.

— Purple’s your colour.

— Fuck off.

— I’m serious. Man o’ your age. It’s brave.

— Fuck off.

— D’yeh get annythin’ else?

— This.

— Wha’?

— This – hang on. I’ve to get it – it’s around me neck.

— What’s tha’?

— Kind of a dog tag.

— What’s it say there? I am neutered and chipped. It
is
a fuckin’ dog tag.

— Yeah.

— Who fuckin’ gave yeh tha’?

— She did.

— Why, but?

— She got it off the dog. She died, like.

— Your missis?

— No, the fuckin’ dog. A few months ago there. D’yeh remember?

— I do now, yeah. What was it again?

— Mongrel – bits of fuckin’ everythin’.

— No, wha’ killed it, I meant.

— Ah, just fuckin’ fat – yeh know yourself. Great oul’ dog, but. An’ anyway, she held on to the collar.

— That’s nice. Considerate.

— I thought so. An’ that’s not all. The chain.

— What about it?

— Gold.

— No.

— Yeah. Her idea. Somethin’ she heard on the radio. It’ll hold its value long after the euro goes down the fuckin’ jacks.

— So, it’s not just romantic.

— It’s me fuckin’ pension. An’ it’s goin’ back under me new purple jumper.

4-9-11

—
I NEED THIS
pint.

— I know.

— No. I really need it.

— Yeh look a bit flaked alrigh’. Wha’ were yeh up to?

— Writin’ my response to the Vatican.

— Wha’?!

— Well, like, I responded to the Vatican’s response yesterday to Enda fuckin’ Kenny’s response to the child abuse inquiry in – it’ll come back to me in a minute – Cloyne.

— Say tha’ again. No – don’t. But. Am I righ’? You wrote to the fuckin’ Vatican.

— I did, yeah.

— To the fuckin’ Pope.

— Yeah.

— Fuckin’ hell – fair play. Wha’ did yeh say?

— Fuck off.

— I was only askin’.

— No. That’s wha’ I said. Tha’ was my response. And I think I spoke on behalf of the vast majority of the Irish people. The Dubs an’anyway.

— You told the Pope to fuck off?

— I did, yeah.

— How?

— The usual way.

— Yeh shouted? He wouldn’t have heard yeh from here.

— No, email.

— You emailed the Pope?

— I did, yeah.

— Fuckin’ hell. Did he answer?

— Not yet. Come here, but. Yeh know the way you’re
angry
sometimes but yeh cop on an’ calm down. But other times you’re angry an’ yeh know you’re righ’ to be.

— Yeah.

— Yeah, well, this was one o’ those times.

8-9-11

—
DID THE POPE
get back to yeh yet?

— He did, yeah – this mornin’.

— Did he? Jesus. Wha’ did he say?

— Well – like, it was in Latin.

— D’you know any Latin?

— We wouldn’t speak it much at home, no. But listen. I found this English–Latin dictionary yoke. Google, like. An’ there’s a box for the Latin. So, I typed in his – the fuckin’ Pope’s email – it’s only short. An’ the English came up.

— Wha’ did it say?

— Tell your sister I was asking for her.

— Fuckin’ hell. The Pope wrote tha’?

— In fuckin’ Latin.

— So, wha’ did yeh do?

— I told me sister – I phoned her. I knew which one he meant.

— And wha’ did she say?

— Tell him he was a terrible ride an’ he can fuck off back to Poland.

— Tha’ was the last one.

— Tha’ was the one she meant, I think. So, annyway, I translated it into Latin an’ sent it to the fuckin’ Vatican. An’ I said I expected a reasoned response by the end o’ the week.

— He’ll deny he’s Polish.

— I cheated there. I changed it to German.

— He can’t deny he’s German.

— No, but he mightn’t admit it, either. They’re slippy fuckers.

18-9-11

—
HAVE YEH RECOVERED
yet?

— Ah fuck, man. What a day. I’m still a bit – I don’t fuckin’ know – overwhelmed.

— Know wha’ yeh mean. I had to lie down on the bed for a bit.

— I cried.

— Me too.

— Fuckin’ hell.

— I never thought I’d see it happen again.

— No – same here. It’s been so long – I’d given up hopin’.

— But the way he took tha’ ball.

— Incredible.

— Fuckin’ incredible. Here, look it. Give us a hug.

— Hang on, hang on. You’re not upstairs in the fuckin’ lounge.

— Sorry.

— No, you’re grand. Have a suck o’ your pint.

— Yeah – thanks.

— You’re grand.

— Somethin’ to tell the grandkids, wha’.

— Exactly, yeah.

— We saw it.

— That’s it. The day Fernando Torres scored a fuckin’ goal.

Man Utd 3–1 Chelsea

28-9-11

—
WHO’LL YEH BE
votin’ for?

— Fuck tha’ – not interested.

— Come on. Be a citizen. There’s the Senator.

— Which one’s he?

— The James Joyce wanker.

— Got yeh. He did somethin’, didn’t he?

— He wrote a letter defendin’ an Israeli paedophile.

— Could he not’ve defended one of our own paedophiles?

— His patriotic duty. I never saw it tha’ way before.

— Who else is runnin’?

— Dana.

— Ah, for fuck sake. Louis Walsh in a fuckin’ dress. Who else?

— McGuinness.

— Has he given up managin’ U2?