— An’ Lou.
— You’re positive about this now?
— Yeah. He’s definitely dead. It was in the news.
— Fuck.
— He was good.
—He was fuckin’ brilliant. Remember tha’ one, ‘Vicious’?
— I do, yeah.
— I smashed me ankle cos o’ tha’ song.
— How come?
— Dancin’. Fell off me fuckin’ platforms.
— Yeh wore platforms?
— Once. Bought the fuckin’ things tha’ day. Executin’ one o’ me dance moves on the kitchen floor – an’ gone. Jesus, m’n, the fuckin’ pain. It still gives me grief when the weather’s damp.
— Great song, but.
— No argument. Tha’ whole album, Transformer – one o’ the best.
— ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ – he shaved his legs an’ became a she.’
— When yeh hear words like tha’, when you’re a teenager. In the early 70s, like.
— Did yeh ever shave your legs?
— No. Decided against.
— Same here. How’s the ankle?
— Fuckin’ killin’ me.
3-11-13
— See the chap with no arms was convicted for arms possession.
— Wha’ the fuck are you on about now?
— It was in the news. The body parts they found in Meath. An arm found in the woods an’ the torso in the river an’ tha’.
— What exactly is a fuckin’ torso, an’annyway?
— I know what yeh mean – where does it start an’ end. Annyway, they named the fella that owned the various bits – the Guards did. They knew him, an’ he had a prior conviction for arms possession. It’d make yeh laugh.
— No.
— No. You’re probably righ’. It’s ironic, but.
— Everythin’s fuckin’ ironic. Isn’t it? These days. Do we even know what it fuckin’ means?
— Only kind of.
— I forgot me keys – oooooh, that’s fuckin’ ironic.
— Calm down, for fuck sake. Yeh goin’ home early to watch Love/Hate?
— Fuckin’ sure. Have to watch it live.
— Best thing ever on Irish telly.
— No argument. Come here, they’ll probably find an arm that used to be owned by a fella tha’ did time for arms possession.
— That’d be a bit far-fetched.
— True. But the lads diggin’ up your man’s dead ma last week was brilliant, wasn’t it?
— Class.
6-11-13
— See Yasser Arafat was poisoned.
— Was he? Hang on but – is he not dead?
— I just told yeh. He was poisoned.
— A good while – did he not die ages ago?
— 2004.
— So, why – just to be clear. He was the Palestinian fella, yeah?
— Yeah.
— With the scarf.
— That’s Yasser.
— So, why did it take so long to find this ou’? Was it the HSE did the tests?
— They had to dig him up – exhume him, like – to prove it.
— Wha’ was it – Chinese?
— Why would the fuckin’ Chinese poison Yasser Arafat? No, the smart money’s on the Israelis.
— No – the food, I meant.
— Chinese food?
— Yeah.
— For fuck sake.
— Are yeh seriously tellin’ me there isn’t a Chinese takeaway in Bethlehem?
— Listen—
— Kung Po Camel.
— It was radioactive polonium.
— Then it was the Russians. That’s their department. Or—
— Wha’?
— The Shinners.
— Sinn Féin killed Yasser Arafat?
— Maybe.
— Come on – fuckin’ how?
— Shergar.
— The horse?
— They sold him to the Chinese.
— The Palestinian Chinese?
— An’ the Russians injected the stuff into Shergar. The Kung Po camel was really Kung Po poisoned racehorse.
— What abou’ the Israelis?
— They hadn’t a clue.
7-11-13
— Was Gerry Adams in the IRA?
— Is he dead?
— No. Was he in the RA?
— He keeps sayin’ he wasn’t.
— He’s lyin’.
— How d’yeh know?
— It’s obvious.
— But how can yeh know? For certain, like. Were you in the IRA?
— Don’t be fuckin’ thick. Yeh might as well ask me did I play for Tranmere Rovers.
— Now you’re the one bein’ fuckin’ thick. Tranmere Rovers never shot an’ ‘disappeared’ innocent people. Did they?
— Not as far as we know. But, look it, John Aldridge managed them for a while an’ Aldo would never do annythin’ like tha’. Or anny of the Italia 90 squad.
— What about Roy?
— Roy wasn’t in Italy.
— But Adams.
— He’s lyin’.
— Yeah. Why, but?
— He’s been sayin’ it for fuckin’ years. It’s part of the story – the fuckin’ narrative.
— So he can’t back down?
— He can. But he won’t. But I’ll tell yeh wha’ he can do.
— Wha’?
— He can fuck off to his cottage in Donegal an’ live with his memories.
— Retire?
— Yep. Get off the stage an’ let Mary Lou an’ the other young fella take over. It must kill all those relatives every time tha’ lyin’ prick opens his mouth.
5-12-13
— See Ireland is the best country in the world for business.
— Fuck that drivel.
— It’s official – it was in a magazine.
— Shoot?
— Forbes.
— Yeh know wha’ that fuckin’ means then? Just change ‘best country’ to ‘country where you can do what yeh want and no one’ll give much of a fuck’, then you’ll know why we’re top o’ the list.
— Ah now, that’s a bit cynical.
— ‘Young, educated workforce’ means ‘no tax’.
— Okay, okay – sit down. Where are we on Nigella?
— We’re not on Nigella. That’s the problem. She’s a great young one.
— She’s fifty-three.
— Exactly.
— She took cocaine.
— Even better. I love her. Anyway, she only took the cocaine when her first husband was dyin’.
— So she says.
— Yeh doubt her? Yeh cunt. When my first wife died—
— Hang on, hang on – fuck. Wha’ first wife? Were you married before?
— No.
— Then what the fuck are yeh on abou’?
— Empathy.
— Wha’?!
— I imagined I had a first wife, dyin’, like – just to see if I’d snort cocaine as well.
— And did yeh?
— Ah, yeah.
— Wha’ was she like?
— The first wife?
— Yeah.
— Lovely.
— A bit like Nigella – was she?
— A bit, yeah.
— Just like mine, so.
6-12-13
— See Mandela’s after pushin’ Nigella off the front pages.
— Anyone else, I’d’ve been furious.
— Great man.
— That’s puttin’ it fuckin’ mildly. Just walkin’ out of tha’ jail – d’yeh remember?
— I never thought somethin’ as ordinary as watchin’ someone goin’ for a walk could be so incredible.
— D’you remember the Dunne Stores women?
— The strikers? I do, yeah. The wife’s cousin was one o’ them.
— Amazin’, really. There we were, eatin’ South African oranges an’
tha’—
— Outspan.
— That’s right – Jesus. And your woman on the checkout—
— Was it Mary Manning?
— Think so. She refuses to handle them. An’ she’s suspended an’ there’s the strike an’ we all stop buyin’ the oranges an’ then the government bans them.
— Tha’ would’ve been before Mandela got out o’ jail.
— Yeah. Great fuckin’ women.
— Nigella would’ve joined them.
— Probably, yeah. And d’you remember the day he came to Dublin?
— Same day the Irish team came home from Italy.
— That’s righ’ – Italia 90.
— Best tribute to him really, isn’t it? The best Irish footballer ever an’ the best politician in the world, side by side in the one chant.
— OOH AHH PAUL McGRATH’S DA – SAY OOH AAH PAUL McGRATH’S DA.
18-12-13
— 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?
- - -
28-12-13
— 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.
31-12-13
— 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.
5-1-14
— 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.
13-1-14
— 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.
31-1-14
— 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.
11-2-14
— 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.