Two Pints Page 3

  — Not really – no.

  — Annyway. Yeh sure?

  — Go on.

  — So annyway, the poor little bollix – Damien, like – the grandson. He has to answer questions about it. An’ the last one – it’s really stupid now. What road do you think you should never take? An’, like, I tell him, The road to Limerick.

  — Did he write tha’?

  — He fuckin’ did. An’ guess where the fuckin’ teacher comes from? An’ guess who’s been called up to the fuckin’ school, to explain himself to the fuckin’ headmaster?

  — Brilliant.

  — Tomorrow mornin’.

  — Serves yeh righ’ for readin’ poetry.

  — I agree. A hundred fuckin’ per cent. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood me hole.

  15-10-11

  — WHA’ D’YEH THINK o’ Dana’s sister sayin’ that her –

  — No! No – please—

  — Okay.

  — Thanks.

  — Can I just say one thing abou’ Miriam O’Callaghan’s outrageous bullyin’ of poor Martin McGuinness in the Prime Time debate? An’ then we’ll move on.

  — Okay. One thing.

  — Only one – thanks. She can bully me anny time she fuckin’ wants.

  — That it?

  — That’s it.

  — The first sensible thing yeh’ve said in weeks.

  — Months.

  — Ever.

  22-10-11

  — SO GADDAFI’S GONE.

  — From the chipper?

  — Ah, listen – look it. You’re goin’ to have to broaden your fuckin’ horizons.

  — Oh, the other one.

  — Yeah, the other one.

  — Yeah, I seen tha’. The man with the golden gun.

  — Didn’t do him much fuckin’ good, did it? See they found him in a drainage pipe?

  — Yeah.

  — I’ll tell yeh. The last couple o’ months must’ve been rough. Cos he wouldn’t’ve fitted into tha’ pipe a few months back.

  — We’ll kind o’ miss him.

  — We will in our holes. An’ d’yeh see ETA’s declared a ceasefire?

  — Thank fuck. That’s great news.

  — Oh, you’re interested in tha’ one, are yeh?

  — Fuckin’ sure – the noise she was makin’.

  — Hang on – wha’?

  — A woman of her age, buyin’ a fuckin’ drum kit with her redundancy – her fuckin’ lump sum. Thinks she’s Keith fuckin’ Moon at three in the fuckin’ mornin’.

  — Hang on—

  — It’s a disgrace.

  — Hang on. Not Eithne.

  — Oh.

  — ETA.

  — The Spanish cunts who aren’t Spanish.

  — Exactly.

  — Shite.

  1-11-11

  — WHA’ DOES ‘THINKIN’ outside the box’ mean?

  — You were watchin’ The Apprentice last night, weren’t yeh?

  — I was, yeah.

  — Me too.

  — Wouldn’t’ve thought it was your cup o’ tea.

  — It isn’t. But we had to give the dog half a Valium, cos of all the fuckin’ bangers and fireworks. An’ he conked ou’ on top o’ me. So I was stuck – couldn’t reach the remote.

  — Yeh saw it, so.

  — Load o’ shite.

  — I’m with yeh. But they’re all runnin’ around – the contestants, like – an’ they’re all, I’m thinkin’ outside the box, Bill. What’s it fuckin’ mean?

  — Comin’ up with somethin’ new. Thinkin’ a bit different.

  — That all?

  — Think so.

  — For fuck sake.

  — Last time I thought outside the box I tried to get off with me mother-in-law.

  — Fuck off.

  — Before she died, mind.

  — Ah, fuck off. I’ll give yeh an example. My young one’s lad. Damien. The grandson. He goes into the chipper, with his chipmunk.

  — His—?

  — Chipmunk. An’ he tells Gaddafi he’ll fuck it into the fryer unless Gaddafi pays him a tenner.

  — I’m impressed. And?

  — Gaddafi tells him to fuck off.

  — And?

  — D’yeh ever taste deep-fried chipmunk?

  — That’s thinkin’ outside the snack box.

  — It fuckin’ is.

  9-11-11

  — SO ANNYWAY, I was listenin’ to the news there.

  — Oh fuck.

  — No, fuck off a minute. This is important. Morning Ireland, it was. The posh news.

  — Go on.

  — An’ the headline – this was one o’ the headlines. Italian parliament under pressure to take out Berlusconi. Take out was wha’ he said, the news cunt. An’ he didn’t mean bringin’ him ou’ for a nosebag an’ a few drinks in the lounge.

  — He meant kill him.

  — Assassinate him, yeah.

  — Why would the Italian parliament be under pressure to assassinate Michael Jackson’s doctor?

  — Wha’?

  — Berlusconi is Wacko’s—

  — You’re gettin’ your stories mixed up.

  — Got yeh there, bud.

  — Ah, fuck off. So, annyway. There’s that. The inappropriate language. An’ then there’s the story itself.

  — How d’yeh mean?

  — Well, the bondholders aren’t happy with Berlusconi, so he has to go. But then I’m thinkin’, just who do these fuckin’ cuntin’ poxy bondholders think they fuckin’ are? Berlusconi’s a prick but he’s an elected prick. Who elected the bondholders? Fuckin’ no one.

  — Were yeh a Frazier or an Ali man?

  — Frazier. An’ the Stones.

  — I was Ali. An’ the Beatles.

  — Go upstairs to the lounge, where yeh fuckin’ belong.

  12-11-11

  — ARE YEH GOIN’ to Poland?

  — I’m only after gettin’ back from the jacks. Give us a fuckin’ chance.

  — I meant the football, yeh gobshite.

  — I know yeh did, yeh cunt.

  — Well, are yeh?

  — Don’t think so. It’s cold there, isn’t it?

  — Not in fuckin’ June – I don’t think.

  — Summer there then, is it?

  — I’d say so, yeah.

  — I’ll tell yeh wha’ it is. The football’s shite. The way we play.

  — It’s always been shite. We play ugly.

  — We are fuckin’ ugly.

  — That’s it – spot on. We’re the ugliest cunts on the planet and we still sing. Especially when there’s a recession.

  — The Mexicans are way uglier than us.

  — That’s fuckin’ debatable.

  — No way is it. They’re un-fuckin’-believable. And the Welsh.

  — The fuckin’ Welsh?

  — Yeah. You know your man, the Snag? He’s over there, beside the picture of the Dubs. Don’t look – don’t fuckin’ look!

  — Is he Welsh?

  — No, but he was conceived in Holyhead when his ma an’ da missed the ferry.

  — Ah, fuck off. It’s great but, isn’t it? Qualifyin’ for the football.

  — It is, yeah.

  — Gives the place a lift.

  — It’s not as good as the Queen’s visit, but.

  — Fuck, no. Tha’ was the best.

  Estonia 0–4 Republic of Ireland

  23-11-11

  — WILL THE EURO last?

  — I’ve enough left for a couple o’ pints, an’anyway.

  — I mean the currency. Is it fucked?

  — I don’t care.

  — Ah, fuck tha’. Yeh have to have an opinion.

  — Why should I? Fuck it.

  — But—

  — We were able to enjoy the occasional pint before the euro. Yeah?

  — Yeah.

  — We’ll still be able to do tha’ if the euro goes. Life’ll go on.

 
; — You’re righ’.

  — Wha’?

  — You’re probably righ’.

  — I am.

  — We’ll still be able to buy Cornettos for the grandkids when they come over on Sundays.

  — No fuckin’ way.

  — Ah now, would yeh begrudge—

  — It’s Magnums in our house.

  — Yeh posh cunts.

  — It’s Magnums or nothin’. I told her. If we can’t afford Magnums for the grandkids, we might as well turn on the gas.

  — Yeh don’t want to be too hasty. There mightn’t be anny in the shop.

  — Yeh know what I mean.

  — I do, yeah.

  — Every Sunday. Magnums for everyone. Even the youngest. She’s lactose-intolerant, God love her. Yeh should see the state of her by the time she’s finished. Try takin’ it off it her, but – she’ll bite your ankle through to the bone.

  — She has respect for family tradition.

  — She fuckin’ does.

  29-11-11

  — DID YEH GET tha’ flu yet?

  — You’ve been its victim, yeah?

  — Did yeh not notice I wasn’t here?

  — I thought yeh’d gone quiet alrigh’.

  — Fuck off now. It was fuckin’ desperate. I had a temperature of 123.

  — Is tha’ fuckin’ possible?

  — So she said, an’annyway. An’ she gave the yoke a good shake before she put it under me arm.

  — Yeh can’t argue with science.

  — That’s another thing.

  — Wha’?

  — I’m in the bed, feelin’ woegious. An’ there’s this smell. Un-fuckin’-believable. First of all, I think it’s me. But it’s comin’ from downstairs. So I go down. I have to cling to the banister, the sweat’s drippin’ off me. An’ young Damien’s in the kitchen – the grandson, like. An’ there’s a mouse in the fuckin’ toaster.

  — Ah Jaysis.

  — So I say it must have fallin’ in – to comfort him, like. But he says, No, Granda, I thrun it in.

  — Is this the same lad tha’ threw the chipmunk into the deep-fat fryer?

  — That’s him.

  — Do yeh detect a fuckin’ pattern here?

  — He’s goin’ to be a scientist – a biologist.

  — D’yeh reckon?

  — Fuckin’ sure. We can all love animals, yeah?

  — I suppose.

  — Well, Damien takes it further. He’s curious abou’ them.

  11-12-11

  — ISN’T IT GREAT tha’ we can hate the Brits again?

  — Brilliant, yeah. It’s a load off me mind.

  — Good oul’ Cameron.

  — The baby-faced prick. Wha’ is it he’s after vetoin’, exactly?

  — I haven’t a fuckin’ clue. It doesn’t matter.

  — Fuckin’ gas, isn’t it?

  — Brilliant. All tha’ matters is tha’ the news will make sense from now on. The Brits will be to blame for everythin’.

  — It’s fuckin’ great. After three years of not understandin’ wha’ was happenin’. Now but. The bondholders.

  — Brits.

  — Every fuckin’ one o’ them.

  — The Brits are to blame for where we are now.

  — Yep.

  — And for blockin’ all attempts to get us ou’ of our fuckin’ predicament.

  — Bastards.

  — I love them.

  — All the Queen’s hard work – up in smoke.

  — Thank fuck. It was too complicated. But do we have to start hatin’ her again as well?

  — There’s always a downside, unfortunately.

  — The fuckin’ wagon.

  — Good man. You’re adaptin’ to the new reality.

  — I fuckin’ am.

  — You’re a good European.

  — Come here, but. It’s a pity Cameron isn’t Thatcher, isn’t it?

  — Ah, Jaysis. I’ve died an’ gone to heaven.

  — My pint’s not the best. How’s yours?

  — Only so-so.

  — The fuckin’ Brits.

  — Cunts.

  20-12-11

  — SEE THE QUEEN’S goin’ to mention Ireland in her Christmas speech.

  — Ah, great. I might mention her in mine.

  — It’s a big deal.

  — Not really. I just say a few words to the family.

  — The Queen’s one, I meant.

  — Fuck ’er – she has it easy.

  — She’s goin’ to say Ireland’s great or somethin’.

  — She can hardly say we’re a bunch o’ cunts.

  — They’d sit up an’ listen.

  — That’s my point. They won’t sit up when she says we’re grand. It’s borin’. I suppose yeh have all your presents bought, do yeh?

  — The ones I didn’t rob.

  — Yeh girl.

  — Fuck off.

  — Wha’ did yeh get young Damien? A wolf?

  — God, no. Nothin’ like tha’.

  — Wha’ then?

  — A hyena.

  — Where the fuck did yeh get a hyena?

  — Wicklow. There’s a fella rears them – in a caravan, like.

  — Where is it now?

  — In the attic.

  — Does Damien know?

  — Not yet. But he stayed with us there a few weeks ago. An’ he tells me tha’ the hyena’s reputation for bein’ a scavenger isn’t deserved. Tha’ they kill 95 per cent of wha’ they eat. Yeh should’ve heard him. Like fuckin’ Attenborough.

  — An’ it’s in your attic?

  — Yeah.

  — Gift-wrapped?

  — Not yet, no. That’s her department.

  23-12-11

  — ARE YEH ALL set for the Christmas?

  — Fuck the Christmas.

  — Ah now—

  — There was no way he was the son of God.

  — Who?

  — Jesus.

  — Which one?

  — Wha’?

  — Which Jesus, like? You man over there or the Israeli fella?

  — The Israeli, o’ course. Your man over there – that’s only his nickname. His ma was called Mary an’ the postman’s name was Joe. His real name’s Larry. Annyway, Christmas is a load o’ bollix.

  — Is your eldest comin’ home this year?

  — No.

  — Too far?

  — Yeah. So he says.

  — Where is it he’s gone again?

  — Drogheda.

  — That’s only up—

  — I’m messin’. Melbourne.

  — New Zealand.

  — Exactly. Nearly all his pals have gone. All over the place. An’ there now. Jesus. Jesus over there, like. His lad – Danny. D’yeh know wha’ he’s up to?

  — Wha’?

  — He’s a Somali pirate.

  — Fuck off.

  — True as God. He saw it on the news an’ liked the sound of it. So off he went.

  — Did he do a course or somethin’?

  — Not before he left – far as I know. I don’t think there’s a piracy course here. Yet.

  — He’ll hardly be home for the Christmas.

  — No, this is their busy time.

  4-1-12

  — SO. THE HIGH points an’ the low points of last year.

  — No fuckin’ way.

  — Ah, go on.

  — Listen, bud. I already have me low point for this fuckin’ year.

  — Christ – sorry. Wha’ happened?

  — Young Damien’s hyena.

  — Go on.

  — I had to put him out of his misery this mornin’. The hyena, like. Not Damien.

  — Was it sick?

  — Not really.

  — Wha’ happened?

  — Well, the hyena was Damien’s Crimbo present, like. Yeh remember tha’?

  — I do, yeah.

  — So, all’s grand – on the day itself. The fuckin’ thing never st
opped laughin’. It was fuckin’ gas, actually. Burstin’ its shite laughin’. Even durin’ Downton Abbey. An’ tha’ takes some doin’. Laughin’ through tha’ shite. Annyway but, the trouble starts the day after. When Damien lets it ou’ the back for a dump.

  — Oh God.

  — Rita next door. Her chickens, yeah?

  — Gone.

  — You betcha. An’ Larry Hennessey’s English bulldog.

  — Fuckin’ hell.

  — I’m not finished.

  — Go on.

  — One o’ Stella Caprani’s twins.

  — It didn’t eat a fuckin’ twin.

  — Not all of it – in fairness. A fair bit, though. So annyway. Tha’ was tha’.

  — How did yeh do it?

  — Shovel – the usual.

  — Sad.

  — Desperate.

  — Poor Damien.

  — Ah, he’ll be grand. He has his eye on a gorilla.

  16-1-12

  — YOU’RE LIKE ME, I’d say, are yeh?

  — I fuckin’ hope not. How?

  — Yeh hate havin’ your dinner interrupted.

  — Well, yeah. I’m with yeh there. Definitely.

  — It drives me spare.

  — Me too. The bell, the phone – they can fuck off till I’m done.

  — Same here.

  — Sometimes, like, she even expects me to talk to her. While I’m eatin’, yeh know.

  — It’s fuckin’ unbelievable. Annyway. You’re just startin’ the dinner when the cruiser hits the rocks. Do yeh finish it or leg it to the lifeboats?

  — Depends. Wha’ is it?

  — Risotto.

  — What’s tha’?

  — Rice.

  — On its own?

  — No. It’s nice. Like Chinese, except it’s Italian.

  — I’ll finish it, so. Anny idea what else was on the menu?

  — No. It just said risotto in the paper.

  — Grand. An’ I wouldn’t rush it either. We don’t want heartburn.

  — We’d eat first, then climb over the women an’ children to get to the lifeboats. Like the lads – the crew, like.

  — My fuckin’ heroes.

  — Especially the captain.

  — Francesco Schettino.

  — They should put him in charge o’ the euro.

  — He’d know when to quit.

  — He fuckin’ would.

  24-1-12

  — WHA’ D’YEH THINK of cancer?

  — I’m all for it.