The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  We attracted some glances as we oiled up and tuned up, and then some claps as we kicked off with ‘The Bird Set’. Having the pipes there filled in any gaps we had last night and the sound was complete. Pipes, fiddle, flute and guitar was to my mind, the perfect combination. The pub was a big echoey barn of a place and the sound didn’t carry too well, but from where I was sitting it was fucking great. More pints were ordered and Tony did a couple of gorgeous new hornpipes riddled with triplets, with just him and Spud.

  The rest of the gig was fairly uneventful except for a couple of dancers that sprang up like mushrooms on shite during a set of reels. Firstly this girl, dancing like a Riverdancer, arms straight down and rigid, chin up, buck-leppin’ around the floor like an ad for Bord Fáilte. Then, just as she finished and we were about to, this oul’ fella’ gets up and does this comedic version of what yer one just did. I don’t know if he was half cut or if that was the way he did it but it was gas, almost tripping over himself, stamping his foot and laughing.

  I thought he showed up yer one no end with her po-faced fleadh cheoil professional thingy but she was laughing with everyone else and after a while got back up and the two of them danced around the floor, like Beauty & the Beast, but it was great. We must’ve played about twenty reels for them and there was no sign of a let up when Brian shouted out ‘Caliope House’. I glanced at Tony, “that’s a jig,” I said. “I know,” he replied smiling, “JIG ... D!” We went into ‘Caliope House’ and both the dancers and the clapping public were caught unawares but caught on fairly sharpish and they all went mad. I could hardly play I was laughing so much and the hairs on my neck stood up and I could feel my face flushing. Suddenly, the dancers got tired and stopped, so we did too, in the middle of a tune but the crowd were going nuts anyway. “Fuck me! That was fuckin’ great,” said Spud when it finally fell silent, and he was right.

  We took a wee break and Spud noticed that in the dancer’s group across the way the chicks outnumbered the guys and with a bit of elementary maths he figured that he could be on to something. He disappeared off to the jax and then muscled in to thank the dancer on the way back. That was the last we saw of him for the next twenty minutes. Meanwhile back at the ranch, the other dancer, Shay, came over with a round for us, which was fierce nice of him altogether. He used to play the fiddle years ago but got some tendon strain that put paid to that, shocking story. But he got up and thanked us, and we thanked him then he thanked us again and we thanked him for the pints and he said “no bother” and that was that. Nice guy, hilarious dancer.

  By the time Spud got back, me and Brian had divvied up his pint from Shay and we were gearing up for more. We had about half an hour to go, so Paul went up and ordered a round, (including himself, of course) and then Spud stood up.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d just like to make a short announcement. Me good friend Blaithín, over there, is having a birthday today, her sixteenth, she’s barely legal, sweet sixteen and never been shagged ...”

  “Ah, for crying out loud,” sighed Tony, dropping his face into his hands.

  “... and is getting warmed up for her party up in the town tonight. She’ll be out on the razz later lookin’ for sixteen guys, so mothers, lock up yer sons, wha’? Ha Ha! She’s a little flower, so she is. So, we’d just like to wish Blaithín a very Happy Birthday and while we sing for Blaithín and the lads play a few tunes for her, I’ll be going among yiz looking for a small donation so we can ALL have a happy Blaithín’s birthday. Please give generously, yiz know ye want to. Thanks very much.”

  Then he started us off, “HA-PI-BER-DAY-TO-YOU,” and we all kept it going despite not being in the mood at all. About half the pub joined in half-heartedly while Spud went amongst them with a pint glass that was filling up with change.

  Tony turned to Brian when we’d finished, “are we allowed to do a hat?”

  “Dunno. Fuck it.”

  “Fuck him, that was a bit out of order.”

  “C’mon, let’s play a few tunes while he’s out there.”

  We tore into a set of reels, ‘The Galtee Rangers’ I think, and ‘Farewell to Ireland’ and then tore into Spud when we finished. Tony led the charge.

  “Good grief, was it really necessary to make a remark like that about a sixteen year old girl?”

  “Yeah, and I’m not sure we can get away with doing the hat here anyway.”

  “Well, fuck me,” exclaimed Spud defensively, “I’ll keep the money if yiz don’t want it. It was only a bit of a laugh, for fuck’s sake. What d’yis want me to do? Go back around an’ give them their money back? There’s a good seventy or eighty euro in there, a couple of tenners an’ all.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  I was staying well out of this. I was already a bit buckled and I could see that Spud was too. Then, as if the atmosphere wasn’t tense enough, one of Blaithín’s crowd came over.

  “Sorry lads, I’m not sure I understood something, were ye lads making a collection for me sister or for yerselves?”

  “Who’s yer sister? Blaithín?”

  “Sorry man, the collection was for the musicians.”

  “Well, maybe ye should’ve made that clearer, that’s my uncle down there and he put a tenner in there ‘cos he thought it was for Blaithín.”

  “Are yiz all related down here?”

  “SPUD, shut the FUCK up,” shouted Brian quietly. “Listen, man, sorry about that, no harm intended. We’ll get you a round, how about that? … and Spud here will sing a song for your sister.”

  “Oh ay, right, sound, fair enough,” he grumbled.

  Me and Brian headed off to get them their round and to make peace while Spud mumbled something that thankfully remained inaudible. Spud was wrecked and I could see him getting us into trouble.

  Spud launched into a suitably depressing version of ‘Black is the Colour’ (of Blaithín’s hair) and then we finished off with ‘The Langstern Pony’ and ‘Tom Billy’s’. As we were sitting there gabbing about the next item on the agenda (where to go for a few more pints) Brian got the goo for an air, which he played, and in the process, silenced the whole pub. There was this fucking gorgeous ‘A ’ in there somewhere and you could almost hear the goose bumps rising around the pub. “And on that melancholic note we shall take our leave,” roared Tony at the end as the crowd went wild. We packed up our instruments, stuffed them behind the bar and necked our pints. The TV was turned up again, we saluted Blaithín and her mates and we went forth into the night.

  “What? We’re getting paid tomorrow?”

  “That’s the deal, but the good news is it’s three hundred a session. We play tomorrow at nine ‘til eleven an’ that’s it.”

  “Great!”

  “Are ye sure he’ll cough up?”

  “Ah yeah,” said Paul, “he’s a sound enough character.”

  “So lads, where are we off to?”

  “The first fuckin’ pub we come across.”

  “No, no, let’s hit O’Grady’s. There’s usually a bit of craic there and it’s not far,” said Paul.

  “Jaysus lads, I had this fuckin’ great dream a while back.”

  “Wet was it?”

  “No, we were in a pub ...”

  “For a change.”

  “... watchin’ the world cup, and it was in Ireland, but instead of football it was a bands world cup, like a sing-off or somethin’, an’ I was all excited ‘cos U2 had beaten the Rolling Stones in the semi final.”

  “Ah Ha Ha, that’s cool, eating cheese were we?”

  “Yeah, and REM and Pink Floyd were in the other semi.”

  “Why don’t I ever have dreams like that?”

  We were in O’Grady’s. The place was black so we were lucky to get a space near a wall with a ledge for our pints. There were a few Dubs around for the match tomorrow so we were discussing football.

  “Speaking of football, what was that sketch? There were football players playing snooker, right? and every time they potted a ball they�
�d pull their jerseys over their heads, like this gobshite the other week, and run around the table doing cartwheels and kissing the other players. Fuckin’ gas.”

  “Heh Heh Heh, that’s gas.”

  “It sounds pythonesque.”

  “Yeah, in that case they should also have snooker players playing football, and ... Ah Ha Ha Ha ... every time the ball would come near them they’d stop, walk around it and look at it from every angle, y’know, wearing their waistcoats and shirts ...”

  We were breaking our bollixes laughing at this stage, I was doing the actions for emphasis in the limited space I had.

  “... then he’d put some chalk on the end of his boot and he’d gently tap it over to the other player.”

  “Heh Heh Heh! That is a fuckin’ Monty Python sketch.”

  “It wasn’t, I dreamt it.”

  Brian came back with the pints and we set them on our ledge, then they were tasted and approved of. We looked around at each other, contented. Mmmmm, country pints.

  Paul and Brian started giving us the low down on the Galway scene, sessions and pubs, the mainstay of our social lives. Galway sounded and felt like a smaller more compact and relaxed version of Dublin, which had outgrown itself in recent years. It was nice to be in a backwater city again. None of us were so old that we didn’t remember Dublin before the tiger and we’d all witnessed the glass cages spring up along the quay, so to speak. Tony, being in his early thirties felt fully justified in singing ‘Dublin in the Rare Oul’ Times’, if he sang that was.

  “Any chance of finding a session tonight?” enquired Spud to immediate jeers of ‘no way’, ‘ah Jaysus’ and ‘fuck’s sake, we just finished playing’.

  I think we felt a little odd at socialising together without instruments in our hands. I’d never had a drink with either Spud or Tony outside of a session, but it was alright, they were good drinking company and we were on a busman’s holiday.

  Paul went for the second round. Tony as usual had some gear and had gotten a one-skinner together in the jax. Brian and Paul were having a conversation about city planning which Spud was trying to disrupt ‘cos it wasn’t interesting.

  “I’ll tell you about city planning, if you land on Mayfair build a hotel and four houses,”

  “Mono-Polly, hey Brian you know her, don’t you?”

  “Oh yeah, Polly-phonic.”

  “What about some gee?”

  “Yes, a fine, though crude, suggestion. Some female vaginas.”

  “We could head down to The Priory,” suggested Paul.

  “Yeah, there’s fuck all happening here.”

  We were between the majority of the pub and the jax, and with the bar still filling up and a constant traffic of full bladders brushing past us and empty ones coming back, we were getting increasingly uncomfortable. We agreed to finish up our bevs and head to the place where the chicks were at. Anyway, Tony had that bit of gear rolled up in his shirt pocket just waiting to be sparked up. My feet suddenly felt funny and when I looked down I noticed I was standing on my coat which had slipped off its perch.

  “Ah, fuck this for a game of soldiers, let’s get outta here.”

  “Yeah, c’mon lads, neck the fuckin’ things for Christ’s sake,” said Spud who was nursing an empty glass impatiently.

  “Make not haste, master Spud, time is not, thankfully, of the essence.”

  “C’mon the fuck, Shakespeare. Bring the bleedin’ thing with you if you can’t keep up with the pace. That’s the Jaysusin’ essence of the matter of fact.”

  We convinced Tony to bring his pint with him, then removed our coats from under our feet and threw them over our shoulders and prepared to hack our ways through the filling-bladdered masses.

  “Galway United!!!! Galway United!!!!” sang Spud as we passed a group of green and white hooped Rovers supporters on the way out, but it didn’t quite ring through being sung in a thick Dublin accent. We got outside and everyone fumbled desperately for fags and our cravings were seen to fairly lively.

  “Shall we adjourn to a more suitable location to partake of a bit of gear?”

  “Yeah, good thinkin’, Batman. Let’s head down to the bridge, it’s just around the corner down there.”

  We headed towards the bridge, giddy with the thought of our impending giddiness. We passed by a pub on the way and Paul suggested we pop our heads in to see what the craic was. As it happened, we had stumbled upon the Holy Grail. Chicks everywhere, seemingly in a big group.

  “A gaggle of giggling girls!!!!”

  “Oh my.”

  Paul’s alliteration was spot on. I wasn’t sure how many giggling girls constituted a ‘gaggle’ but this was a fuckin’ gaggle and a half.

  “Fuck me, it’s Blaithín’s birthday party!”

  “Jaaaaayyyysssuuuussss.”

  “An erroneous deduction, Mr Murphy, unless Galway tradition dictates that the birthday girl be obliged to wear a bridal veil and a strap-on dildo,” said Tony spotting the bride-to-be.

  “A hen night, better again.”

  “Gents, let us first take care of the question of the unsmoked gear and then we can return.”

  “No bad, no bad.”

  We headed back out in to the night air and tripped lightly along the ledge. Suddenly, Tony wasn’t with us. Looking back we saw he was hanging around outside the bar talking to some guy. A bouncer? Here? More likely a barman sneaking a quick fag. Me and Spud went back to escort him, by the oxters if necessary, but the problem was the pint he was still clutching.

  “... I am aware of that fact, but the point of the matter is that I am not removing anything from your premises. This particular pint is from O’Grady’s and therefore not subject to the rules and regulations of this establishment.”

  The barman looked confused for a second as he struggled to grasp Tony’s point and his official sounding delivery. “What? Do you work for the union or something?” He looked at us and at how Tony was grasping his pint and said “... ok ... fair enough ... go on,” and we went off to catch up with the lads.

  The Galway streets were heaving with roaming mobs, couples, weirdos, buskers and jugglers taking advantage of the drunken Saturday night crowds, and us, with fanny on our minds.

  “Oh yeah, I’m feeling lucky tonight, do you feel lucky, punk?”

  “Yeah, go ahead make my week.”

  “Make my year, more like.”

  Suddenly Brian burst into song, “I’ll be cummin’ in some quare one when she cums.”

  Tony roared, “WHEN SHE CUMS ...”

  Spud took up the challenge, “... she’ll be wearing no pyjamas when she cums ...”

  My turn, “... I’ll climb her like a mountain, me dick’ll be like a fountain ... AH HA HA HA.”

  Altogether, HA HA HA HA HA.

  Me and Spud couldn’t walk from laughing. We bent over double and had to be escorted along the road by Tony and Brian who weren’t much better themselves.

  “She’ll be blowin’ two fat llamas when she cums.”

  We made it to the bridge and lit up. We got some funny looks as people passed by. Some fuckin’ scanger came up and bummed a fag, which he got, then asked for a toke, for which he got only abuse from Spud and Paul.

  “Hey Brian, don’t be fuckin’ greedy tonight. You got your hole last weekend. Leave the easy targets for those in need.”

  “All’s fair in getting your hole and war.”

  “Jaysus lads, that’s a grand toke, a few tunes now wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Holy Jaysus, you gotta be kidding me.”

  “No, I love playin’ when I’m stoned, the dope takes over and plays for ye. I do be sittin’ there lookin’ at me fingers an’ wonderin’ how the fuck ...”

  “I only get that if I’ve been playin’ already, y’know, a halftime toke and I’m flying, but if I smoke and THEN start playin’ then I’m fucked.”

  “Not that that stops ye.”

  “Does it fuck.”

  “C’mon, let’s head back.”
>
  We headed back to the hen party passing back and forth the remains of the day. Brian was in campfire mood and burst into song, again.

  “Mná Mná.”

  Me, “du duuu du du du.”

  “Mná Mná.”

  “du du du du.”

  “Mná Mná.”

  “du duuu du du du, du du du, du du du, du du du du du.”

  Everyone together, “DU DU D-DUU DU.”

  “Would you be cognisant of the fact that that particular piece of music was originally composed for a Swedish soft-porn production?”

  “No it wasn’t, that’s from The Muppets.”

  “Believe what you will.”

  “Ah, Mná na hÉireann.”

  “If I could find you …” sang Paul.

  “That’s bleedin’ ‘Carrickfergus’ ye gobshite.”

  “Your fuckin’ oul’ one.”

  We got back to the pub and took up our positions somewhere in between the bar and the chicks. Whose-ever round it was went to the bar and the rest of us checked out the targets. They were all suitably pissed, and squawking like a hen-house with a fox in it, appropriately enough I suppose. They took up a couple of tables. There were veils, rubber presents and cocktails everywhere.

  The pints came down and were gotten stuck into. I realised I was bloody pissed about half way down, and I LIKED IT!!

  Spud identified a weakened member of the herd and made his move.

  “Who’s getting married?” was his opener.

  The girl looked at him sarcastically, “... the girl ... with the veil.”

  “Does her husband know she has a dick?”

  “No, do you know that you are one?”

  “Ha Ha! very good, here, what are you drinking?”

  Suddenly she was interested, “a cocktail.”

  “Well, if you’ve got the tail then I’ve got the cock,” came back Spud, the old charmer.

  Touché. Spud turned back to us as nonchalantly as he could and joined in the conversation.