Two Pints (4 page)

— 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 stopped 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.

— I’m serious.

— Well, like – what’s there to think?

— Which one would yeh prefer? If yeh had to choose, like?

— Well, definitely not the balls.

— We’re too old for tha’ one.

— Really?

— Yeah.

— Fuckin’ great. How d’yeh know, but?

— Me cousin. He had to have a medical an’ they told him, an’ he’s the same age as us.

— That’s great. What’s left?

— Bowels.

— God, no.

— It’s not usually fatal.

— Don’t care. I’d prefer the lungs.

— That’s one o’ the worst.

— I don’t give a shite. It has more style.

— Wha’?!

— Okay. Listen. Say you’re chattin’ to a bird. Your missis has died or somethin’. Whatever – and you’re chattin’ to this woman. You tell her you have lung cancer, you’re home an’ dry. She’ll think you’re Humphrey Bogart. But tell her you’ve bowel cancer?

— She’s gone.

— Exactly.

— What about prostate?

— I’m not even sure what it is. What’s it do?

— Don’t know. Me cousin said it’s the one we should be worried about. At our age, like.

— What’s the test?

— Finger up the hole.

— Doctor’s finger?

— Yeah, has to be a doctor. It’s fifty quid extra for two fingers. The cousin said.

1-2-12

—
WOULD YOU EVER
let yourself be digitally enhanced?

— Wha’?

— Would you ever—

— I heard yeh, but wha’ the fuck are yeh talkin’ abou’?

— You’re chosen to be the face of L’Oréal.

— Me?

— Yeah. So—

— L’Oréal. That’s the butter tha’ spreads straight from the fridge.

— No—

— Wha’ would they want my fuckin’ face for?

— It’s not – You know fuckin’ well what it is.

— Go on. They’ve called to the house an’ asked me to be their face. An’ I’ve said, Yeah. Have I?

— Yeah.

— Grand. Go on.

— So they do the shoot – the filmin’, like.

— ‘Because you’re worth it.’ How was tha’?

— Very good.

— Did it give yeh the horn?

— Not really.

— Okay. I’ll put the pint closer to me lips. Because you’re well fuckin’ worth it. Better?

— I felt a bit of a tingle tha’ time, alrigh’. But annyway, they decide to digitally enhance yeh. Like they did with Rachel Weisz.

— Rachel – ?

— Stay with me. They decide to make yeh look younger.

— Wha’? Fifty-four, like?

— Forty.

— Fuckin’ great.

— Is it not unethical, but?

— What age is Rachel?

— Forty-two.

— Does she go for younger men?

— She might.

— Well then. Unethical, me hole.

12-2-12

—
POOR OUL’ WHITNEY
, wha’.

— Sad.

— Desperate.

— She was a great young one.

— She was forty-eight.

— But she was always a young one. D’yeh know what I mean?

— An’ forty-eight’s young these days annyway.

— True. She’s at home, fuckin’ devastated.

— Whitney?

— Stop bein’ thick. The wife. She felt a special – I don’t know – a link, I suppose. Our youngest, Kevin, yeh know – he was conceived after we saw
The Bodyguard
.

— In the fuckin’ cinema?

— No, we made it home. Well – the front garden.

— Nice one.

— We stopped at the boozer – here actually, upstairs. An’ the chipper.

— Romantic.

— Fuck off. The chips were her idea.

— The ride was yours, but, was it?

— No, no. She took the initiative there as well. Thing was, she thought the fillum was the best thing she’d ever seen an’ I thought it was a load o’ shite.

— Bet you didn’t tell her that.

— I forgot. So anyway, Kevin arrived the nine months later.

— Hang on. Kevin Costner.

— Exactly; yeah.

— An’ if he’d been a girl, it would’ve been—

— Whitney; yeah.

— Ah God. I’m sorry for your troubles, bud.

— Thanks.

24-2-12

—
D’YEH KNOW THE
way they’re thinkin’ o’ frackin’ Leitrim?

— I can’t believe I understood tha’ question. But, yeah.

— An’ you know what frackin’ involves, do yeh?

— Kind o’ – yeah.

— Well, young Damien reckons we’d find gas in our back if we fracked it.

— Does he?

— So he says. All the animals we’ve buried ou’ there. The hyena an’ tha’. Remember?

— I do, yeah.

— Well, he says there should be enough gas to supply our road. So, like – I left him to it.

— Hang on. Young Damien is frackin’ your back garden?

— Yeah.

— What’s he usin’.

— Her Magimix.

— Is she happy with tha’?

— She doesn’t know. She’s still over at Whitney’s funeral.

— So she went?

— She did, yeah. Cleaned ou’ the fuckin’ credit union. But I’m worried. About the frackin’, like.

— Why?

— Well, it’s – like – controversial, isn’ it? An’ dangerous. I don’t want to, yeh know, impede young Damien’s natural curiosity, but we could’ve gas comin’ out the fuckin’ taps. There was a fella, a geologist like, on
Prime Time
last nigh’. An’ he said we aren’t even spellin’ it right. He said there’s no ‘K’.