Authors: Roddy Doyle
Two Pints
Also by Roddy Doyle
Fiction
The Commitments
The Snapper
The Van
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
The Woman Who Walked Into Doors
A Star Called Henry
Oh, Play That Thing
Paula Spencer
The Deportees
The Dead Republic
Bullfighting
Non-Fiction
Rory & Ita
Plays
Brownbread
War
Guess Who’s Coming for the Dinner
The Woman Who Walked Into Doors
The Government Inspector
(translation)
For Children
The Giggler Treatment
Rover Saves Christmas
The Meanwhile Adventures
Wilderness
Her Mother’s Face
A Greyhound of a Girl
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF CANADA
Copyright © 2012 Roddy Doyle
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2012 by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, and simultaneously in the United Kingdom by Jonathan Cape, a division of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., London. Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited.
Knopf Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Doyle, Roddy, 1958–
Two pints [electronic resource] / Roddy Doyle.
Short stories.
Electronic monograph in HTML format.
eISBN: 978-0-345-80768-7
I. Title.
PR6054.O95T86 2012 823’.914 C2012-906166-2
Cover design by Julia Connolly
v3.1
For my brother, Shane
Contents
24-5-11
—
THA’ WAS A
great few days.
— Brilliant.
— She’s a great oul’ one. For her age, like.
— Fuckin’ amazin’. Great energy.
— An’ B’rack. He must’ve kissed every fuckin’ baby in Offaly.
— An’ did yeh see the way he skulled tha’ pint?
— No doubtin’ his fuckin’ roots, an’ anyway.
— An’ the speech.
— Brilliant.
— ‘Yes, we can’ – whatever it is in Irish. He made the effort.
— What is it again?
— Haven’t a clue. But it’s funny, isn’t it? Such a simple thing – a few speeches and smilin’ faces. A bit of hope. An’ it feels like we’re over the worst, we’ve turned a corner.
— Exactly. It’s great.
— We’re still fucked but, aren’t we?
— Bollixed.
31-5-11
—
YOU KNOW YOUR
man Gaddafi?
— From the chipper?
— No. The Libyan nut.
— What about him?
— You know the way they’re lookin’ for a country to take him?
— I’m not in the mood for fuckin’ politics.
— He should come here.
— Wha’?!
— A state visit, like. The hat-trick. It’d be great. The few words of Irish, green jacket at the airport, kiss a few babies.
— He’d strangle the fuckin’ babies.
— Not if he’s looked after properly. It’d keep the buzz goin’. And the Shinners wouldn’t object this time. He could bring the Semtex himself – save on the post.
— Good point. Where’s Libya, annyway?
— I don’t know – the desert.
— Which one?
— Wha’?
— Which desert?
— The fuckin’ sandy one. Ask fuckin’ Peter O’Toole.
6-6-11
—
D’YEH KNOW WHO’D
make a fuckin’ great president?
— Who?
— Your one who does the weather.
— Which one?
— The glamorous one – looks like she used to hang around with the Human League.
— She’s lovely. Yeh’d give
her
one.
— I would, yeah. If I worked in the meteorological service. No, but she’d be great for the state visits an’ tha’. She’d be able to point to the clouds an’ say, ‘That’s a cold front comin’ in from the south-west, Your Majesty. But it’ll have fucked off by this afternoon.’ Impress them, yeh know – a scientist in the Áras. An’ she’s a woman as well. They’re always better at visitin’ the homeless an’ lookin’ like they give a shite. An’ she’s a gay icon.
— What’s a gay fuckin’ icon?
— Somethin’ all the gays like.
— Wha’? Like chicken curry?
— No – I don’t know. I think it’s more people – singers – women. Madonna an’ tha’.
— Can she sing as well?
— Who?
— The weather one.
— More than likely.
— She could sing ‘It’s Rainin’ Men’ at the whatsit – the fuckin’ inauguration.
— Good idea. An’ at the airport, when the IMF fuckers are gettin’ off the plane.
12-6-11
—
DID YOU HEAR
your man, the Senator, on the radio there?
— I fuckin’ hate the radio. Which one?
— The one that’s running for President. He was goin’ on abou’ Plato.
— The footballer?
— The ancient Greek – there’s no footballer called Plato.
— I bet there is.
— Fuck up an’ listen.
— In Brazil, somewhere.
— Shut up. He was sayin’ abou’ Plato. Young fellas came to him. Offerin’ themselves, like. In return for sharing the wisdom of his fuckin’ years. It was common enough – in ancient Greece.
— Wha’ kind o’ wisdom?
— I don’t know – Remember to put the bins ou’ the night before collection day. The bits of cop-on yeh pick up. In exchange for your moment of pleasure.
— Your moment of pleasure could go on all day, if you were talkin’ abou’ puttin’ the fuckin’ bins ou’ while you were havin’ it.
— Tha’ was what I was thinkin’.
— The whole country would grind to a fuckin’ standstill.
— I was thinkin’ that as well.
— No wonder Greece is in fuckin’ bits.
— I’m with yeh.
— Could they not have, like, just gone for a pint?
17-6-11
—
SEE YOUR MAN
in America who twittered his dick.
— Wha’?
— The politician. Congressman or somethin’.
— Ah, not fuckin’ politics again.
— No, listen. He sent his langer to some woman – by Twitter, yeh know?
— Cheaper than post, I suppose.
— A photograph, like.
— Wha’ was he fuckin’ up to?
— I’m not sure. I couldn’t really figure it ou’.
— Well, I couldn’t see any of our gang pullin’ a stunt like tha’, could you?
— They wouldn’t have broadband, where most of them come from. The bog an’ tha’.
— That’s true.
— But I’ll tell yeh one thing. They would, if they thought it would get them a few votes.
— That’s true as well. Vote for me an’ I’ll come round to your house.
— Was it in the paper, was it?
— It was, yeah.
— Bet it didn’t say langer or dick.
— No. Genitalia.
— It does nothin’ for me, tha’ word.
— I know what yeh mean. Are you on Twitter, yourself?
— Fuck off.
24-6-11
—
WE’RE AFTER GETTIN’
the Sky in.
— Anny good?
— Brilliant. The HD, yeh know. You can see fuckin’ everythin’. On the news, like.
— Ah fuck off now. Yeh don’t need HD to watch the fuckin’ news.
— Will yeh just listen. Open your fuckin’ head – for once.
— Go on.
— The riots.
— They’re back.
— Big time. The Syrians. The Greeks.
— Fuckin’ wasters.
— An’ our own gang – above.
— An’ the riots are better on HD, are they?
— It’s not tha’. Some o’ those black an’ white riots – from the 60s. They’re still brilliant. But it’s the extra stuff.
— Wha’ extra stuff?
— Well, like. I was watchin’ the one in Belfast there. The first one. With the sound down. Mute, like. And I could still tell which side they were on. The young fellas throwin’ the stones an’ tha’. I knew they were fuckin’ loyalists. Immediately.
— How?
— The tattoos. I could see every fuckin’ one. Clear as if they were on me own arm here. UDA, No Surrender, The Pope’s a Cunt – an’ what have you.
— Sounds good. Does it make the fuckin’ economy look better as well?
— Fuck off.
5-7-11
—
HOW’S THE HD
workin’ out for yeh?
— Jesus, man, I’ll tell yeh. It’s fuckin’ exhaustin’.
— How come?
— It’s too real. Yeh can’t relax. Every fuckin’ spot an’ ear hair. Your man, Richard Keys – they didn’t sack him just cos he’s a cunt. Tha’ was just the excuse.
— He is a cunt, but.
— Ah yeah – no argument. But they got rid of him – the real reason – because he has hairy hands. A fuckin’ werewolf interviewin’ Beckham or wha’ever. They couldn’t have it. That’s why they’re all gettin’ Brazilians.
— On Sky Sports?!
— The gee hair, m’n – what’s the official name for it? Pubic. It’s Vietnam on HD.
— What fuckin’ channels have yeh got?
— Yeh’d expect fuckin’ Rambo to jump ou’ – with his bandanna. Men as well – they’re all gettin’ it done. So I’m told an’anyway.
— Wha’?
— Gettin’ the hair off. Arse hair as well. Drug dealers an’ tha’.
— Wha?!
— In case they’re caught on
Prime Time Investigates
. With the drugs hidden up there, like.
— They want to be lookin’ their best.
— Exactly.
— It’s not somethin’ yeh’d want to do for a livin’ but, is it?
— God, no – Jesus. If it can’t go in the glove compartment, it isn’t goin’ annywhere.
7-7-11
—
WOULD YOU BE
bothered hackin’?
— Hackin’?
— Yeah. Could yeh be bothered readin’ your man, the black prostitute fella – what’s his name? Hugh Grant. Would yeh really want to read his fuckin’ texts?