Two More Pints

by Roddy Doyle

— There was one abou’ sittin’ under the apple tree.

  — Give us a few bars.

  — No – fuck off. Not here.

  — Ah, go on. Did he play it a lot?

  — He did, yeah. Specially after me ma died.

  — Ah shite – sorry.

  — No, you’re grand – you’re grand. It’s your round by the way. The barman wants yeh.

  4-2-13

  — See Richard the Third was found dead in a car park.

  — Who?

  — Richard the Third.

  — Who was he?

  — The King of England.

  — Wha’ happened the fuckin’ Queen?

  — Before her.

  — He was her da?

  — I think so, yeah. Grandda maybe. Annyway, they found him.

  — They took their fuckin’ time.

  — Yeah – yeah. I’d like to think that if I got lost my gang’d try a bit fuckin’ harder.

  — He was probably a bit of a cunt.

  — Safe bet. They’re all cunts.

  — Wha’ happened him annyway?

  — He couldn’t find his car.

  — So he just lay down an’ fuckin’ died?

  — Well, like. If you’re used to people doin’ everythin’ for yeh—

  — Ah, fuck off.

  — I’m only messin’. He was in a fight. Swords an’ all.

  — The car park was in fuckin’ Swords?

  — No – the fight. There were swords. He was brutally hacked – accordin’ to the English guards.

  — How do they know it was him? He must’ve been there for ages.

  — His DNA.

  — What about it?

  — It was 45 per cent horse.

  — Ah well, then he was definitely one o’ the British royal family.

  — Science is incredible, isn’t it?

  — Brilliant.

  5-2-13

  — See the Trogg died.

  — I saw tha’, yeah. Reg Presley.

  — With a name like tha’ he was never goin’ to be a plumber, was he?

  — It wasn’t his real name.

  — Was it not?

  — No. His real one was Reg Ball.

  — You were a bit of a fan, were yeh?

  — I was, yeah. I was only a kid when ‘Wild Thing’ came ou’—

  — It made your heart sing.

  — That’s the one. One of me brothers had the record an’ he left it behind when he got married, so it was always in the house.

  — Great song.

  — Brilliant song. Still.

  — Could you get away with it now?

  — Wha’?

  — Callin’ a woman a wild thing.

  — I don’t see why not. I called my missis exactly tha’ this morning after the news.

  — An’ she was grand with it?

  — Fuckin’ delighted. I put me arms around her – I was a bit emotional, like. An’ I sang it to her.

  — Nice.

  — In the kitchen.

  — An’ tell us – without invadin’ your privacy. Did it develop into a bit of a Jack Nicholson, Jessica Lange moment? On the table.

  — Not exactly, no. But she put an extra dollop o’ jam into me porridge.

  — For fuck sake.

  — Blackcurrant.

  — Nice.

  7-2-13

  — So. Anglo’s gone.

  — Liquidated.

  — Great fuckin’ word.

  — But—

  — Wha’?

  — Is it good news or bad news?

  — That’s the fuckin’ problem, isn’t it? We don’t really know.

  — An’ no one else does either. Not one o’ those cunts on the telly or the radio has a fuckin’ clue.

  — ’Cept your man, the economist fella. Constantin.

  — Constantin Gurdgiev.

  — Him – yeah. He looks like he knows wha’ he’s on abou’.

  — Only because he’s the only one tha’ doesn’t look like he’s tryin’ to sell yeh his wife or a second-hand Hiace. His face, like.

  — Buster Keaton.

  — Exactly.

  — So, does he think we’re any better off?

  — I couldn’t really understand him. But he said none o’ those Anglo season ticket holders—

  — Bondholders.

  — Yeah. None o’ them should’ve got their money back. They could fuck off with their promissory notes.

  — Did he say tha’?

  — More or less.

  — He’s one o’ the lads, so. One thing, but.

  — Wha’?

  — Yeh know the way no one really gives a shite abou’ the horse DNA in the burgers?

  — Yeah.

  — Well, it’s the same with this Anglo shite, isn’t it? They can’t scare us annymore.

  — ’Cept Buster.

  — Fair enough. He’s a bit fuckin’ scary.

  10-2-13

  — What’s wrong?

  — I stuck twenty euro on a horse.

  — An’ it lost.

  — No, it won.

  — Wha’?

  — Listen. Me cousin texts me – yesterday. Stick a few quid on Paddy’s Boyband, in the four o’clock at Leopardstown. So I do. An’ he wins.

  — The horse.

  — Yes, the fuckin’ horse. So. I go into Paddy Power’s – just now. An’ the young one at the hatch tells me he’s disqualified. He failed a fuckin’ test.

  — Dopin’.

  — No. DNA. They found traces of horse DNA.

  — In the horse?

  — 73 per cent.

  — Hang on – fuck off. The horse was only 73 per cent horse?

  — Yeah.

  — But—. Wha’? 27 per cent of the horse wasn’t fuckin’ horse?

  — Yeah.

  — Wha’ was it?

  — Beef.

  — Fuckin’ beef?

  — Here’s me theory, righ’. They’ve been puttin’ horse DNA into the beefburgers, yeah?

  — Okay.

  — So there’s the problem. They need to get rid of the beef they took ou’ of the burgers to make room for the horse.

  — Hang on—

  — So they shove it into the horses.

  — Shove?

  — Inject – I’d say.

  — Fuckin’ hell. How can a horse that’s more than a quarter cow win a fuckin’ race?

  — We’ve been underestimatin’ cows for years.

  — Are you fuckin’ havin’ me on? - - - Are yeh?

  13-2-13

  — Pope’s gone.

  — Fuckin’ tragic.

  — There’s a thing.

  — Wha’?

  — Wha’ was his name?

  — Jesus—. I can’t remember. I never really got the hang of it.

  — Gas but, isn’t it? Can you imagine – back in school, say? Not rememberin’ the Pope’s name. We’d’ve been murdered.

  — Shows yeh how times’ve changed.

  — Gas.

  — An’ he resigned. I didn’t know they could do tha’.

  — He’s frail. I heard a lad on the radio. Why he resigned, like. Wha’ d’yeh think tha’ means?

  — He’s gay.

  — Ah stop it. You’re not usin’ your imagination.

  — That’s wha’ she says, at home.

  — Why?

  — We won’t go there. He’s frail.

  — Yeah. But what’s it mean?

  — Go on.

  — Say – tonigh’. We have a few pints more than the normal. How will yeh feel tomorrow?

  — Shite.

  — Grand. An’ as well as tha’ you’ll feel a bit—?

  - - - Frail.

  — Good man.

  — So, you’re sayin’ he drinks.

  — It’s a theory.

  — He’s one o’ the lads.

  — Far-fetched. But is it impossible?

  — No.

  — After w
ork, like. He puts on jeans an’ a jumper.

  — An’ has a few cans.

  — But he can’t cope annymore.

  — Mass in the mornin’s.

  — Meetin’ African nuns.

  — Fuck it, he says.

  — In German.

  — I’m out o’ here.

  27-2-13

  — See they found traces o’ greyhound DNA in the horse meat they’ve been puttin’ in the burgers.

  — Borin’.

  — Borin’?

  — I’ve moved on.

  — Well, before yeh do—

  — Go on.

  — There was a chap on the radio – a food scientist. An’ he says, if yeh handle a piece o’ meat you leave traces of your DNA on it.

  — So?

  — So? For fuck sake – listen. I had a bit o’ steak earlier. I handled it an’ the missis handled it.

  — Why both o’ yis?

  — We’re makin’ the dinner together these days. Some shite she read at the dentist’s. Adds excitement to the fuckin’ marriage.

  — How?

  — Movin’ on. The butcher handled it.

  — Wearing the plastic gloves.

  — I’ve no proof o’ tha’. He gave the wife a hug before he left the house. You’re sittin’ up now, yeh cunt.

  — I fuckin’ am. It’s the name of a book, I think.

  — Wha’?

  — The Butcher’s Wife.

  — I bet it’s a good one. Annyway. I had me steak, so I ate the cow, meself, the wife, the butcher, the butcher’s wife an’ maybe her sister, if the rumours are true. An’ that’s borin’, is it?

  — Which sister?

  — Does it matter?

  — It kind o’ does, yeah.

  8-3-13

  — See the French bird says there’s good news on the horizon.

  — Wha’ French bird?

  — Your woman with the scarf. The IMF boss – what’s her fuckin’ name.

  — Madame Lagarde.

  — That’s the one. She’s very happy with us. We’ve been very good, apparently.

  — It’s International Women’s Day.

  — Yeah. So?

  — Yeh just called the head of the IMF the French bird.

  — She is fuckin’ French. Unless she’s just messin’. Wha’ d’yeh think the good news is? She didn’t say.

  — Yeh can’t call the head of the IM fuckin’ F a bird.

  — Why not? Hang on – I’ve sussed it. You’ve done it again, haven’t yeh?

  — Wha’? No – fuck off.

  — Go on, yeh cunt. You’ve fallen in love with her.

  — Fuck off.

  — Jesus, every time. A woman in any sort of authority – an’ you’re fuckin’ smitten.

  — You’re talkin’ shite.

  — Your woman, Bhutto.

  — She was gorgeous.

  — Okay.

  — An’ tragic.

  — Yeah, yeah. But Condoleezza?

  — She was lonely.

  — For fuck sake. An’ Hillary?

  — She could’ve done better than Bill.

  — Wha’ – you?

  — No – fuck off. Not necessarily.

  — Does your missis know you’re in love with half the world’s politicians?

  — She’s gone.

  — Fuck – where?

  — Chavez’s funeral.

  — For fuck sake.

  — Well, she let me go to Benazir’s.

  — Fair enough.

  12-3-13

  — Would you take penalty points for your missis?

  — Not ‘would’, bud. Did.

  — Did yeh?

  — A few years back. When we went from miles to the other yokes.

  — Kilometres.

  — Yeah.

  — Wha’ happened?

  — She took the van down to the chipper.

  — Why didn’t she just walk?

  — Big order, an’ her back was at her. So anyway, a couple o’ Gardas seen her burnin’ the rubber on the way back. An’ they order her to stop. But she panics – so she said. The priority was to get the chips home.

  — The maternal instinct.

  — Yeah, yeah. So the fuckin’ Guards ring the bell—

  — Oh fuck.

  — An’ she said I’d been the one drivin’.

  — Did they believe her?

  — No.

  — Where were you?

  — Out the back. So, annyway. The day we’re up in the district court, she drags me down to the fuckin’ hairdresser. Gay Larry – d’yeh know him?

  — I do, yeah.

  — A fuckin’ genius. By the time he’s finished with us we’re fuckin’ twins. An’ we stand side by side in the court, same hair, an’ in our leisure gear, yeh know. An’ the judge – he just gives up.

  — Brilliant.

  — But—

  — Wha’?

  — He fuckin’ winked at me.

  — The cunt.

  — Fuckin’ ugly as well.

  13-3-13

  — He isn’t black.

  — Who? Stevie Wonder?

  — The Pope.

  — The fuckin’ Pope?

  — He isn’t black.

  — Is he – like – is he supposed to be?

  — Yeah.

  — Well, he’s only new. Give him a chance. What’s the problem?

  — Cheltenham.

  — Wha’?

  — I was in Paddy Power’s earlier – stuck a tenner on Back In Focus in the openin’ race.

  — Hang on – he won.

  — Yeah, but—

  — Wha’?

  — It was a double. Back In Focus to win the National Hunt Chase an’ a black pope by the end of the day. Hundred to one.

  — Fuckin’ hell. An’ Black Pope wasn’t a horse?

  — No. Black Pope was a black fuckin’ pope. So, like – I’m watchin’ it on telly. White smoke. Fuckin’ great – he’s elected today. Then they’re sayin’ – the fuckin’ experts – they’re saying he’ll be Italian cos the election was so fast. An’ I’m thinkin’ unless they’ve elected Mario Balotelli I’m fucked. But then they announce he’s from Argentina. An’ I get a bit giddy. I kind o’ mix up Argentina an’ Brazil. There’s loads o’ black Brazilian footballers, so I’m still in with a chance. But then this white prick walks out onto the balcony.

  — Pope Frankie.

  — The bastard.

  25-3-13

  — My young one is in trouble. An’ her fella.

  — Ah, no.

  — The mortgage, yeh know.

  — They can’t handle it?

  — They’re fucked, God love them. They’ve been into the bank an’ tha’, to try an’ sort somethin’. But—

  — No joy?

  — It’s fuckin’ madness. Her fella was in the chipper last nigh’. He gives his order, then sees the onion rings an’ he tells Gaddafi he’ll have one. Then someone taps him on the shoulder an’ he turns, and this cunt in the queue says, ‘You can’t have the onion ring.’

  — Fuck off.

  — That’s exactly wha’ my young one’s fella says. An’ your man, the other fella, takes out his ID an’ flashes it. Bank of Ireland.

  — No!

  — An’ he proceeds to tell him he can have the chips – but only once a month. An’ he can’t have the onion ring. Ever. Or until the mortgage is fully paid.

  — Wha’ did your lad say?

  — He said the onion ring was one of his daily five an’ the prick from the bank could fuck off with himself.

  — Wha’ then?

  — The bank prick follows him home. Shouts in the letterbox, ‘Hope that’s not Sky Sports you’re watchin’!’

  — It’s fuckin’ harassment.

  — It’s the future.

  8-4-13

  — Jesus. It’s like New Year’s in here.

  — An’ it’s only a fuckin’ Monday. He wouldn’t tak
e money for the pints.

  — Who wouldn’t?

  — The miserable cunt tha’ owns this dump. The pints are for nothin’ till closin’. So he says.

  — Fuckin’ hell. It’s a pity Thatcher couldn’t die every fuckin’ day.

  — We’ll make the most of this one, so.

  — I never called a woman a cunt in me life.

  — Except Thatcher.

  — You’re the same?

  — I am. Yeh know what I hated most about her?

  — I won’t bother guessin’.

  — She made me think like a Provo.

  — Wha’?

  — Every time she opened her mouth about Ireland. With her ‘Out, out, out’. Remember?

  — I fuckin’ do.

  — An’ durin’ the hunger strikes. Every time she spoke. She hated us.

  — I always thought – she couldn’t figure out tha’ we weren’t British. She was a bit thick.

  — You’re probably righ’. Anyway—

  — She’s gone.

  — Cheers.

  — Cheers. Come here, but. Who d’yeh think she’s sittin’ beside in hell?

  — Some fucker with an accordion.

  — Playin’ ‘Kevin Barry’.

  — Out of tune.

  — For all fuckin’ eternity.

  — Longer.

  14-4-13

  — Anny news?

  — It’s war.

  — Oh, fuck. Korea?

  — Fuck Korea. At home – in the house, like. Herself.

  — Hate tha’. What’s the story?

  — She’s goin’ across to Thatcher’s funeral.

  — Wha’?!

  — I know – I fuckin’ know. I can’t fuckin’ believe it. She says – listen to this. She says she’s always modelled herself on Thatcher.

  — Fuckin’ hell. Did you ever notice?

  — Fuck, no – Jaysis, no. No, no. She’s lovely, sure. Isn’t she?

  — Go on.

  — Sure, she collected for the miners back in the day, an’ she named the fuckin’ dog Las Malvinas. But there’s no remindin’ her. She’s on the Holyhead boat tomorrow.

  — Jesus—

  — It’s un-fuckin’-believable. So I went on the counter-attack, o’ course.

  — Thatcher-style.

  — Fuck off. I was a bit mean, like. I told her I’d never seen a picture o’ Thatcher sittin’ up in the bed in a pink onesie, playin’ Texas holdem on her grandson’s tablet.