Two More Pints, Page 2

  24-11-12

  — See the Pope says there were no donkeys in the stable.

  — Rafa Benitez.

  — Was he in the fuckin’ stable?

  — Rafa fuckin’ Benitez.

  — Good man.

  — Rafa fuckin’ cuntin’ Benitez.

  — Get it out o’ your system.

  — I mean – how can he get away with it?

  — Who?

  — Tha’ Russian—. What’s the word for a rich Russian fella – begins with ‘o’?

  — Cunt.

  — How can he just play with my fuckin’ heart?

  — D’yeh want a hug?

  — Fuck off. Look it. I’ve been followin’ Chelsea twenty years longer than I’ve known my missis.

  — That’s two fuckin’ disasters, so.

  — Fuck off. Look. In all the years – all the managers an’ tha’. Goin’ way back. To the ’60s, like. Tommy Docherty, Dave Sexton. I’ve never liked it when the manager was sacked. Never. But I never felt any hostility towards the new man comin’ in. Even tha’ fuckin’ eejit, Hoddle. But Rafa fuckin’ Benitez – ah, fuck. I’ll be watchin’ them tomorrow—

  — Don’t watch it.

  — I fuckin’ have to. An’ I’ll be shoutin’ at the telly – ‘Fuck off back to Spain, yeh scouse cunt.’ An’ yeh know what’ll happen?

  — Wha’?

  — Torres will score two an’ the next time I’m down here I’ll be callin’ him Rafa.

  4-12-12

  — See Kate Middleton’s pregnant.

  — Who’s the da?

  — Ah, stop it now. She’s a nice young one.

  — Serious. Who is it? I always forget.

  — It’s – fuck. I forget now, meself. His name, like.

  — Just to be clear. She’s not the one on I’m A Fuckin’ Celebrity Get Me Ant And Dec Are A Pair O’ Twats Out O’ Here?

  — No.

  — Or the one with the cookery book.

  — I don’t think so – no.

  — Grand. Tha’ narrows it down.

  — William.

  — Wha’?

  — That’s who’s she’s married to.

  — William who?

  — Prince William.

  — Okay. An’ he’s the da, is he?

  — Yeah.

  — Yeh sure?

  — Ah, fuck off now.

  — Did yeh never watch The fuckin’ Tudors, did yeh not?

  — That’s just telly.

  — They’d get up on annythin’, them royals.

  — Annyway. She’s pregnant.

  — So wha’?

  — Ah, lay off.

  — I’m serious. So wha’?

  — Well, it’s just a bit o’ good news—

  — It isn’t news at all. It’s only fuckin’ gossip.

  — Well, d’yeh want to talk abou’ tomorrow’s Budget instead?

  — It might be twins, apparently.

  — Cos o’ the strength o’ the mornin’ sickness.

  — Spot on, yeah.

  — How were yeh feelin’, yourself, this mornin’?

  — Ah Jesus, man – fuckin’ triplets. Definitely. All boys.

  5-12-12

  — Take a look at tha’.

  — What is it?

  — A property tax voucher.

  — A wha’?

  — I was listenin’ to the news there. The Budget, like. An’ they’re goin’ on abou’ the property tax. An’ I just thought – Bingo. Last year I bought a goat – online, like.

  — For young Damien.

  — Exactly, yeah. A stockin’ filler. But annyway. I’d actually bought the goat for some family in fuckin’ Somalia or somewhere. An’ all I got was a voucher an’ a picture of a fuckin’ goat. You with me?

  — Eh—

  — So annyway, the oul’ brainwave. I get young Damien to give me a hand. I do up a PDF—

  — A wha’?

  — Stay with me. I bring the memory stick up to the late-night chemist, to the chap at the back who does the photographs. He’s got a state-o’-the-art photocopier in there with him. So he does me five thousand copies.

  — It’s a lovely job. How’s it work but?

  — This one here, look. For fifty euro. Yeah?

  — Yeah.

  — Yeh give – whoever – the voucher an’ a photograph of the thing you were goin’ to give them before they announced the fuckin’ property tax.

  — Brilliant.

  — Two euro a pop, includin’ the envelope.

  9-12-12

  — See the spacer died.

  — Wha’ spacer?

  — The Sky at Night fella.

  — Bobby Moore.

  — Patrick Moore.

  — That’s him, yeah. Did he die?

  — Yeah.

  — That’s a bit sad. He was good, wasn’t he?

  — Brilliant. Very English as well.

  — How d’yeh mean?

  — Well, like – he’d look into his telescope an’ his eyebrows would go mad cos he was so excited abou’ all the fuckin’ stars an’ the planets an’ tha’. An’ the words—

  — They fuckin’ poured out of him.

  — Exactly. It was brilliant. But if he’d been Irish, he’d just’ve said, So wha’? They’re only fuckin’ stars. There’s no way it would’ve been the longest-runnin’ programme in the history o’ television if it’d been Irish.

  — You might be righ’.

  — Think about it. Our attitude is just shite.

  — I remember once, but. He was goin’ on abou’ how the light from stars took millions o’ years to reach here and how the light we saw might be comin’ from stars tha’ were long dead – cos it took so long, like. An’ well—

  — Wha’?

  — Maybe he died years ago an’ we’re only findin’ out about it now.

  16-12-12

  — Did yeh go past my place on your way?

  — I did, yeah.

  — Notice annythin’?

  — It’s still there.

  — You’ll need to be a bit more fuckin’ specific.

  — Lovely tree.

  — No.

  — Big Santy in the garden.

  — Union Jack.

  — Wha’?

  — The flag. Hangin’ off the chimney.

  — Well, it’s fuckin’ night-time. So, no, I didn’t—. Are yeh serious?

  — I am, yeah.

  — You’ve the flag o’ Britain on top o’ your house?

  — Yeah.

  - - - Why?

  — The Shinners in Belfast voted to get rid of it, off the top o’ City Hall – yeah?

  — The riots an’ tha’.

  — Yeah. Except for fifteen days o’ the year. So I bought one.

  — A Union Jack?

  — Off eBay, yeah.

  — Okay, grand. Fuckin’ why, but?

  — Show the cunts it works both ways. I’m hangin’ me flag for fifteen days o’ the year. Paddy’s Day, Easter Monday. All the biggies.

  — Why today?

  — Excitement. When I opened the package, like. I was straight out to the ladder.

  — Jaysis.

  — Sure, it’s Christmas.

  — What abou’ Continuity Carl across the way? You’re not worried he’ll lob a petrol bomb at yis?

  — With his one remainin’ hand.

  — Yeah.

  — No. Tha’ fucker wouldn’t take tha’ hand ou’ of his tracksuit bottoms for an Ireland free.

  22-12-12

  — Anny idea wha’ you’re gettin’ for Christmas?

  — Bottle o’ the Brad Pitt stuff.

  — Wha’?

  — Inevitable.

  — Wha’?

  — If it works for Brad, it’ll work for me. Slap a bit on after I shave an’ I’ll be beatin’ the women off me.

  — Hang on—

  — Poor oul’ Brad. Angelina’s too busy with all them orphans she bought in S
omalia.

  — 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.

  31-12-12

  — 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.

  14-1-13

  — 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.

  15-1-13

  — 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.

  18-1-13

  — 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.

  26-1-13

  — See Heffo died.

  — Sad.

  — Heffo’s Army, wha’.

  — Good days.

  — Were yeh o
ne 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.

  31-1-13

  — 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.