The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  “The snack service will be around after take-off,” she said visibly making a mental note to seriously restrict our exposure to any more alcohol.

  Spud turned to me and said “take off? I think she’s gonna give me a flyin’ continental fuck.”

  “I’m sure she couldn’t give one of those ... keep it fuckin’ cool or she won’t serve us at all.”

  The stewardess was true to her word and after a drunken, dizzying take off they came along the aisle with the snack trolley. I ordered a light snack of a baby Johnnie Walker, Spud and Brian had beer and Tony a sandwich and a small bottle of white wine.

  “Wino up the front,” sang Brian to Tony, who was in the seat in front of us three.

  Before the trolley had done its first round we beckoned the stewardess for our second. Actually, I’d been ready for mine since before it had left our row.

  This time I had beer to stretch it out a little bit, and stretched out it was because I fell promptly and soundly asleep and didn’t wake until I was woken, just over the German border.

  Tony had dozed as well, listening to his mp3. Brian and Spud, predictably enough continued drinking whatever the stewards would give them until they would give them no more.

  We got off the plane and found ourselves wobbling slightly at passport control which was a Euro-anachronism, given that we didn’t technically need passports anymore.

  “I’ve nothing to declare but my drunkenness,” said Brian smirkingly slipping his passport under the glass panel. The monumental humourlessness of the German race was apparent as the stoney faced border guard looked him up and down and questioned his motives for visiting Germany.

  “Playing music in pubs,” said Brian staring to regret his smart-arsedness.

  We all passed by without further incident and proceeded to baggage pick-up.

  Frankfurt airport was fucking ginormous and it took us fucking ages to get ourselves with our bags and instruments to the bus depot area. We got the bus fairly lively and as soon as we arrived at the train station we headed straight for the café bar to top up our ever approaching hangovers.

  “Time to sample the local muck,” I said to no-one in particular. “Who can speak German?”

  “Eyen, svai, try ..... Shit, what’s four? fuck it,” said Spud desperately and went to the bar. He stuck up four fingers, pointed to the beer tap and said, in his best German, “eh, four beers please.” The woman behind the bar pulled four glasses of beer, put them on the counter then held up four fingers, pointed to his pocket and said “bitte, fear euro.”

  We broke our bollixes laughing and Spud sat down beaming, plonking the plonk on the table, “there you go, that wasn’t so hard was it?”

  “Good man Spud, I didn’t know you spoke German, heh heh heh.”

  We savaged the beers and pooled our German.

  “Bitte.”

  “Danke.”

  “Bier.”

  “The blitz.”

  “Fuck off, Foy, whatever you do ...”

  “I know, I know, I won’t, Ah Ha Ha.”

  “Deutschland Deutschland Über Alles ...” sang Tony quietly.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “That’s the bleedin’ national anthem.”

  “... Germany, Germany, above all,” he finished to impressed nods all round.

  “Heidelberg, isn’t tha’ the airship that crashed?”

  “I dunno, could be.”

  “It is, yeah. We did that in school, the allies shot it down.”

  “Why would you call a town after a crashed ship? That’s like calling your town Titanic or something ...”

  “I’d say the ship was probably called after the town.”

  “Yep, that would make more sense alright.”

  “... or maybe it’s where Heidi comes from!”

  We promptly finished our little poofy German beers, bagged up and headed outside to find a train to Heidelberg. After staring at the departures board for ten minutes Tony came back with bad news.

  “I’ve just spoken to the girl in Touristeninformation, who, thankfully, is an Anglophone and it appears we’ve equivocated. This is Hauptbahnhof and we should be in Sudbahnhof ...”

  “I thought this was Frankfurt?” murmured Spud perplexedly.

  “Shit! Wha’ ...”

  “There’s a bus connecting the stations, departing from directly outside, every fifteen minutes. Let’s make haste ...”

  “Fuck me! Tony, well done.”

  We grabbed our stuff and went outside to wait for the bus.

  “Jaysus, we’re in New York,” I exclaimed as the impressive Frankfurt skyline came into view.

  “... and me without a camera, c’mon.”

  “Bus stop is over here.”

  Four, by now visibly intoxicated, young Irish men stood and swayed at the bus stop for the next ten minutes.

  “Look, there’s a bar over there, why don’t we ...”

  “No chance! Anyway, this could be our bus now.”

  It was, and after loading luggage and cases, paying for tickets, maintaining balance for another fifteen minutes, staring at gorgeous German schoolgirl, recognizing new train station, unloading cases and luggage and then finding the nearest bar before checking the departure board, we felt like we deserved another poofy little German beer or two.

  “More poofy little German beers?” I complained as Brian returned from the bar.

  “How d’ye ask for a pint in German?”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to look into that one fairly lively.”

  We assessed our situation as we drank our beers. 4pm, 80 km to H-berg, about a gallon inside each of us … but fuck it. Locked! We finished our beers, and as Tony had done the decent thing in going to check on the train, me and Spud drained his as well.

  It’s an interesting contradiction that the more you drink, the thirstier you get, hence the little beers started to look littler, and poofier. So I went up to the bar to replace all four beers. I felt my German was coming along nicely, what with the ‘bitte’ and ‘danke’ lark, so I ventured to try to get bigger beers. Sign language and thirsty eyes proved a success where ‘big’ and ‘grande’ failed and I walked proudly back to the table with the first instalment.

  “Fair play to ye Foy, what’s ‘pint’ in German.”

  I demonstrated my sign language.

  “Good stuff, I’ll have to remember that one.”

  Tony came back.

  “The train leaves one hour and ten minutes hence. We should arrive in Heidelberg approximately fifty minutes later.”

  “Thanks very much mister train announcer, now sit down and drink your fuckin’ beer,” drooled Spud drunkenly.

  Tony stared at him, he obviously didn’t like Spud’s tone and was about to mention it to him. People just didn’t talk to Tony like that.

  “BIG fuckin’ beer,” I threw out happily, hoping to ease any potential tension.

  “VERY BIG beer,” mumbled Brian backing me up.

  Tony sat down, “Here, I got four tickets, you owe me twelve deutsche marks each.”

  “Wha’?”

  “I don’t have deutsche marks, do you?”

  “There aren’t any bleedin’ deutsche marks, ye spaz.”

  Tony enjoyed that, “Have you gentlemen been drinking? Haw Haw.”

  “Poxy German beer keeps vanishing,” mumbled Spud, apparently to his near empty glass, “WAITER!”

  “Hey, Spud, shut the fuck up!!!”

  “Let’s try not to attract too much attention to ourselves, eh?” I pleaded.

  “Hey,” said Spud, sitting up with a start, “we have a bottle of whiskey there.”

  “That’s a present.”

  “Yeah, for a guy with an Irish pub who has fuckin’ cases of the stuff in his cellar.”

  “That’s true actually ... whose idea was it to buy Helmut a bottle of Jemmy?” I enquired feeling silly all of a sudden.

  “I think it was yours, actually.”

  He was right, then I felt
sillier and it seemed to make sense to remove any proof of said silliness, but Spud was ahead of me.

  “Just a little top up,” he said as he whipped out the bottle and, despite resigned protests from Tony and Brian, opened it and topped up his beer with at least a double.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Fuck it yeah, throw a drop in there,” I said not wanting to be left behind by Spud.

  Now, the next bits are a bit sketchy to say the least, but Spud must’ve been as subtle as a flying mallet ‘cos shortly after that we were asked to leave the establishment with the German equivalent of ‘Sir, you’re making a scene’. I’m also pretty sure we knocked over a chair or two dragging our bags, our cases and ourselves out onto the platforms.

  “It’s OK,” said Brian, “we’re Irish!”

  We thought it best to remove ourselves from decent society and found a quiet corner out of everyone’s way, near the left luggage room and the toilets. We squatted down and/or sat on our bags. Brian thought, sensibly, that it was about time to make contact with Helmut and sent him a message saying our arrival was imminent. I don’t know if he ever got the message but we felt a little better that it was sent.

  Spud was totally shit faced by now. Well, we all were but Spud was getting messy. He started getting ratty with Tony who had, thankfully, assumed the leaders role seeing that Brian was swigging Jemmy straight from the bottle and then passing it to me.

  “You have got to be kidding,” exclaimed Tony at Spuds suggestion that we strike up a few tunes.

  “C’mon, we play a few tunes, make a few coppers and pass the time.”

  “Attract a few coppers, more like.”

  “Few tunes? Now? That would be a bloody sight for sore ears.”

  I must admit that I was on the cusp of thinking that it sounded like a good idea but mercifully, Tony was having none of it.

  “Wake up, gentlemen. We are in no fit state to be performing in a German train station.”

  “That’s ‘cos you’re a cunt,” mumbled Spud in Tony’s general direction.

  “My my, what a witty retort.”

  “My my, my arse ... I’m getting pretty fuckin’ sick of you trying to make me look stupid with your ... fuckin’ dictionary speak.”

  “Jesus wept lads, calm the fuck down.”

  “Mr. Potato here is going to get us all into trouble with this rambunctious behaviour.”

  “Yeah, Spud, re-fuckin’-lax yourself ... here, have some whiskey.”

  Brian broke the pregnant pause and declared he was off to check the train. He took a wander and found our train waiting on track three. Thankfully, we once again hoisted our bags and cases onto our backs and boarded the train to H-berg.

  Spud fell into his seat sulkily and was snoring big whiskey snores before we left the station.

  As we pulled out of Frankfurt, Brian nodded towards the space between the carriages. I smiled and we went out with Brian’s backpack containing the all important half-full bottle of Jemmy. I remember trying to initiate a conversation with some guy coming out of the jax about all Germans speaking English, but he was having none of it.

  “D’ye think the word ‘wander’ is short for ‘wee dander’?” I asked Brian.

  “Yeah ... that makes sense ... probably ... nah ... how the fuck would I know?”

  Tony then appeared and started a tirade about Spud’s antics. Somehow, he ended up using planets as an analogy.

  “People are like planets, most staying within a strong orbit ...”

  “Like Mercury ...”

  “Yes, like Mercury, and others are a little further from centre, straying just that little bit from the sun.”

  “Looser cannons ...”

  “Exactly, looser cannons, then others that barely retain any orbit whatsoever, like Pluto.”

  “The so-called planet.”

  “Yes, a so-called planet, which is liable to lose its grip on its orbit altogether and fly off into the Kuiper belt.”

  “So, what? He’s like Pluto, ready to lose contact with everyone else’s orbit?”

  “Actually, my supposition is that he’s more like a comet, in an orbit at odds with everyone else ... traversing the universe looking for something to crash into.”

  “I’d say he’s more like Pluto, Mickey Mouse’s dog.”

  Suddenly Tony assumed a look of panic and stared out the window, “Good grief, we are just arriving in Heidelberg.”

  “Fuck, already?”

  “Make sure Spud is awake.”

  “No, it’s ok, look! We’re only in Ausgang.”

  “Yeah, Tony, relax! Look at the sign, we’re in Ausgang.”

  “Ausgang means exit!! You ignorami, let’s go! Now!!”

  Shit. We had to try to sober up enough to at least be able to get off a bloody train.

  I remember the train had to be held ‘cos we had to fully rouse Spud and get our shit together which wasn’t very easy being as drunk as we were.

  Brian made sure the train didn’t pull away by being half on it and half off it.

  Helmut was there, with some people. We bundled ourselves out of the train and onto the platform. He stared at us apparently trying to figure out what was wrong with us, a look of amazement on his face.

  I suddenly realised where we were and handed the half bottle of Jemmy to Helmut, “Howaya Himmler, we gosha dis.”

  The next thing I remember I was in the foetal position trying to wrap my pounding head up in the rest of my body. At least it was a spacious bed and I wasn’t sharing it with anyone. I peeked through my eyelids and above the sheets. There was another bed in the room with a human form in it. The room was your basic guest-house room, granny curtains, mounted TV, empty writing desk and all of it was totally unfamiliar. I stuck my head back down and tried to sleep.

  About ten minutes later Brian came in and sat at the desk, apparently Spud was snoring like a good thing. A simple process of elimination led me to the conclusion that the form in the bed must be Tony.

  “What time is it?” I asked looking at my watch.

  “Just after nine. Let’s go get some food, I’m starving.”

  “Tony ... TONY ... are ye awake? Let’s go get some nosh.”

  By the by we all roused ourselves with Brian’s help. Showers were insisted upon by certain parties and/or a change of clothes. We assembled and went downstairs and out into the German sun.

  The bar was just next door, which was handy but was closed. Heidelberg seemed like a small enough place, quaint and pretty with a river and a picture-postcard old castle on a nearby clifftop.

  “Wow, cool place!”

  The hangover was starting to kick in proper, “What the fuck are we doing up at ten in the morning anyways?”

  “Well, considering that you went to bed at nine o’clock last night ...”

  Last night was a subject being avoided by all concerned, at least until we felt a little more secure in the world.

  We soon found a small cafe place with cakes and sticky buns, where we made for a table with four mini-chairs scattered around it.

  “Spud, go up and ask the waitress if she has sticky buns ...”

  She came down and said something in German. A “coffee” plus four fingers and a “bitte” later and she repeated herself in fluent English, only this time with a smile. “Ok, what would you like? Only four coffees?” The smile, it seems, didn’t come with the German version.

  Coffee and cakes all round, except for Tony who wanted to try something from the menu, a Pflaumenstreuselkuchen mit sahnehaube, just because it had a great name,

  “She’s nice, isn’t she? ... I wonder if she does the gee.”

  “What did Helmut say?” I asked gingerly, broaching the subject for the first time.

  “Well he wasn’t too fuckin’ happy, and you calling him fucking Himmler didn’t help either.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “I don’t remember fuck all after the train,” I admitted, “What the fuck happened?”


  “Well, when we disembarked the train in such a sorry state Helmut was simply nonplussed, I can tell you. He was gaping with astonishment. It was really quite funny, well ... almost.”

  “Ha Ha Ha! Yeah, we must’ve looked like a bunch of aliens. Did ye see the two guys with him? Ha Ha!”

  “Yeah ... I tried to keep it together,” said Brian solemnly and seriously, “not sure I had much luck but I apologised to Helmut and he said it was OK ... even if it wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, let’s get him another bottle of whiskey to say sorry, Ha Ha!”

  “Don’t even joke, Spud.”

  “No, we just went to the pub, where you wanted to finish the bottle with Helmut, then we were all led upstairs and thrown on the beds. That’s it, pretty much.”

  “Not exactly, I remained below with Helmut for a civilised nightcap,” said Tony.

  “Oooooooooohhhhh, a nightcap.”

  “We just had one drink, he told me about the pub ... which he used to co-own with an associate, but bought him out some years ago. Now it’s just him and his good wife.”

  “He’s married??” said at least two of us together.

  “Yes, why wouldn’t he be? A fine woman called Eveline I believe, I met her briefly last night. She seemed to find it amusing that we’d arrived inebriated, so we’re on solid ground with her.”

  “And what about the other pub?”

  “Other pub? Aha, no, he has some interest in another pub in Düsseldorf, but we are not scheduled to play there.”

  Good stuff. I was still feeling a little shaken at not remembering so much of last night. Whiskey, you’re the divil!! I had a flash or two of being in the pub and thinking that another whiskey would be a good idea and then being half dragged up the stairs ... but ... fuck’s sake.

  “Young Foy went up in a plane,

  and drank himself out of his brain,

  ‘til a half pint of vomit,

  spewed out like a comet

  and fell as acid rain.”

  “Oh fuck me! Don’t tell me I hurled!!” I cried.

  “No,” Brian chuckled, “don’t worry, that’s just poetic licence.”

  “Oh, ok then ... nice one so ...”

  “And what’s the story with the digs?”

  “The hostel is part of the pub, it’s a place they use for business related visitors. Helmut and some of his business associates use it. There are only four rooms so ...”