The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  Tony just ignored Spud, “In French, rice is ‘riz’, and so the paper was deemed Riz ... La Croix ... rice, the cross ... Rizla Cross, that’s why there is a cross on the pack. Here, look ...”

  “Is that right?” exclaimed Brian seeming both surprised and shocked, “that’s a fuckin’ great story, tell that again.”

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid, my good man.”

  Brian went over the story again in his head.

  “Jaysus, look at yer man here with his oregano,” said Spud watching Tony eventually assemble three papers with licking, folding, tearing and sticking.

  “Tell Darko that it’s oregano.”

  “Wha? ... What are ye makin’ a swan?”

  “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? You insufferable pest.”

  “Right,” mumbled Spud getting up with a pissed off look on his face, “I’ll just fuck off over here then.”

  “I was just about to suggest that,” mumbled Tony back. I was chewing the fat with Ivan, though I noticed that Darko didn’t call him Ivan.

  “Your English is pretty good.”

  “Yours too,” he replied with the utmost sincerity. He paused a second then asked me “what language you speak in Earland?”

  “English,” I threw back with a ‘duh’ tone that was a bit cheeky.

  “Why you don’t have own language?”

  “We do, but only in small areas in the west, fishermen and islanders ... but no, we speak English in Ireland.”

  “The English killed it off.”

  “Well, nearly.”

  “Well, practically.”

  “Can you speak this .... Earish?”

  “Yeah, well, a little bit,” I said.

  Brian snorted, “and this coming from the man who thought ‘T na G’ was one of the Spice Girls,” he said, recalling a memorably confusing conversation that I’d rather forgotten.

  “What did you say your name was again?” I asked turning to Ivan and changing the subject.

  “Ivan.”

  “Then what does he keep calling you? I said taking the doobie from Darko.

  “Aaah, Bootso, that’s his joke name,” explained Darko exhaling, “everybody call him that.”

  “His nickname? Well why didn’t you say that? Here I am calling him Oivan like a gobshite. What’s Bootso mean anyways?”

  “It’s a name of one cheese in ex-Yugoslavia, it’s a picture on the box of little boy with blond hairs and blue eyes and Bootso was like that when he ...”

  “Yeah, when he was a kid,” I interrupted, “and what do you think of all this Bootso?”

  “Ah, is ok with me. Is true, I look like him, HA HA HA.”

  “Brian,” said Spud, “would you buy a cheese called Bootso?”

  “Heh Heh, yeah, Buy Our Lovely Cheese, It Smells Like Old Boots – oh.”

  “HA HA! Smells like old Boo ... no, not you, Bootso.”

  “Ah Ha Ha.”

  “What was it? Goat cheese?”

  “What?”

  “Goat cheese? Cheese from the goat?”

  “No, no, it is in a little box with ...”

  “Yeah yeah, with the little Bootso on it with fuckin’ blond eyes and blue hair on it ...”

  “Ah Ha, did you say blue eyes and blond hair? No, blond ... eyes and blue hair.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Yes you did, didn’t he Foy?”

  “Dunno, read it back.”

  “And you,” said Bootso, pointing accusingly at Spud, “what means your name?”

  “Spud? It means ‘Potato’.”

  “Why? Because you are ugly?” said Darko without the slightest trace of humour in his voice or face.

  “HEY!! I’m not fuckin’ ugly!”

  “Ah, I don’t know, you’re not my type, sorry,” this time he was kidding.

  “Ha Ha Ha Ha.”

  “Why they call you potato?”

  “Murphy, that’s my name, Spud Murphy is a famous name, from a poem ...”

  “Eh? ... in my country we call you ‘Krumpitch’ Ha Ha Ha.”

  “or ‘Krumpiritsa’ Ha Ha, you sound like a brandy made from potatoes.”

  “Hey, that’s poitín, brandy from potatoes.”

  “You have poitín in Croatia?”

  “What is this putcheen?”

  “Irish moonshine.”

  “Homemade potato whiskey.”

  “NO SHIT!! You drink this??? Pitchku matrinu!!” he said with a disgusted look on his face.

  “Hey Darko,” enquired Brian, “is it true that in your language you have the same word for shepherd and pimp?”

  We had a couple of smokes and then went out to hit the town, though in actual fact we were closer to hitting the pavement, face first. Darko and Bootso brought us to a bar they knew that wasn’t too far out of the way but it was a bit up market and civilised for the state we were in so we only had the one drink and headed off again towards more familiar territory.

  By this stage, it was after one and ‘The Stable’ was a riot, being Saturday an’ all.

  There was no chance of a table or any chairs so we squeezed into a corner that had a shelf lining the wall so at least we didn’t have to stand there holding our drinks.

  “Good thing too,” said Brian, “you were never one for either standing or holding your drink, Heh Heh Heh.”

  “Good one.”

  Bootso and Darko weren’t long about taking up mooch positions on the makeshift dancefloor and Spud wasn’t long about joining them. Brian took his drink and went around ligging with whichever of the locals he recognized.

  Myself and Tony were left standing, shitfaced.

  Tony looked at me and said “I think I shall make my way back to the hostel.”

  “Yeah?” I said, “Why? Did you follow through?”

  “Well, let us just say that the evening’s bonhomie has given way to an arousal of misanthropic sentiments and I would rather spend the rest of the night at the residence.”

  Whatever the fuck that meant.

  “Are you in possession of the gear?” he asked.

  I wasn’t, but I wasn’t long in getting some of it off Spud and giving it to Tony.

  “Are you sure you can remember the way back?” I asked him, actually wondering if I would know the way back myself.

  “Oh, yes,” he said in all seriousness, “I left a trail of breadcrumbs on the way here.”

  Tony headed off and I went to the bar, collecting Spud and Bootso on the way.

  “Where’s gick-face?” asked Spud looking around.

  “I think he’s going home to have a ménage-à-un, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t, but fuck it. MORE PINTS FUCKER!!!”

  We were outside for a while and things started to fade in and out, sitting on a car bonnet, talking to a German couple, pissing in some alleyway, Riverdancing.

  Spud was starting to wane for a while but after voiding his stomach between two parked cars he found a second wind and got another few in.

  We were probably there a couple of hours, inside, outside, drinking, smoking, dancing, but it felt like a relatively short time.

  Dancing. Good grief, no!! not dancing ...

  Brian’s quare one came in a one stage and he latched himself onto her in hope of an easy ride.

  Lucky cunt!

  Me and Spud were having the craic with Darko and Bootso.

  “So, what are you lads doin’ here anyways, business? drugs? Ukrainian girls? Ah Ha Ha,” I was hoping I was joking.

  “Ah, we have some business here, transport, that kind of thing.”

  Their vagueness made Spud all the curiouser and he wouldn’t let them go with that. Spud could nag a priest into revealing a confession, if only to make him fuck off, so eventually they fore came.

  “... but you can’t say anything, OK?”

  “OK,” this had better be good.

  “My brother, OK?” started Darko to OK nods, “he works in Zagreb for one big German company ... Some
times they send machines to Germany ... they send with a post company and it is very expensive, they must pay travel and osiguranye, eh, insurance, it is very bloody expensive.” I was losing interest now that it wasn’t drugs or girls, but he continued and I had to feign interest from here on in.

  “My brother, he doesn’t send it with this company. He keep the money and we bring the machine here in our van ... we get money and my brother get money. The company, they get their machine in Germany, everyone is happy.”

  “Wow.”

  “So ... no Ukrainian girls?”

  “I’m sorry Mr Crumpir, no Ukrainian girls, Ha Ha Ha.”

  Good scam.

  Brian appeared,

  “There was a young fiddler called Foy,

  who let out a big long sigh,

  said, as I lie here,

  after a fifteenth beer,

  I can feel that the end is nigh.”

  “Hey, good un, thas not badaoll.”

  Brian was, by now, well ahead in the Limerick stakes.

  The next thing I remember me and Spud are chatting up these two young ones at the bar, pretty unsuccessfully it must be said. You always know two minutes into a chat-up if you’re goin’ to get anywhere or not, and we knew bloody well that it was going nowhere, being in an advanced state of drunkenness and all. But hope sprang eternal and if they hadn’t got bored and left we’d probably still be there trying not to slur our speech or dribble for their amusement. As it happened we suddenly found ourselves alone and too pissed-up for decent society so we decided to fuck off home.

  Spud was great drinking company, constantly entertaining and unpredictable. First he started to goose step down the middle of the street with his finger under his nose which was probably not a very smart thing to do but it seemed funny at the time and the streets were thankfully empty anyway. Then he launched into a full blooded rendition of the national anthem ...

  “DEUTSCHLAND DEUTSCHLAND ÜBER ALLES ...” and I took it from there ...

  “ALLES! ALLES! WHO THE FUCK IS ÜBER ALLES?” we both stopped and creased ourselves over in stitches, “AH HA HA HA HA.”

  Then a voice came from somewhere above that echoed around the street, presumably telling us to shut the fuck up and that the police were on their way. Whatever he said we shut the fuck up and scampered home, half running half staggering, still breaking our bollixes.

  When we got back to the gaff we went straight to our rooms with a ‘seeyendemornin’, but when I tip-toed noisily into the room I found that Tony was still awake. He was after being roused by Brian, on a spliff hunt, who was now in with the Croatian lads having a smoke.

  Supper! Super! Us two loopers!

  I tip-toed back out and crossed the hall, I entered the guys room without knocking. The three lads were there in a thick cannabis fog, with the barmaid clinging to Brians arm as he told some story to entertained ears.

  “Fuck’s sake,” I said, “it’s a Moroccan sauna.”

  “Hey Foy, you made it home, what were the chances eh? You want some of this? ... Hey, can you explain what ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ means?”

  “Dunno, but I think I’m having one, cheers.”

  “Fuck, where’s Spud? Don’t tell me he got lucky.”

  “Fuck no! He went to bed with an ice-pack on his liver,” I said after inhaling deeply, “HOLY JAYSUS, what’s that?” I’d spied a bottle.

  “This is me new best friend, rackya, otherwise known as Jacob’s ladder. Here, try some, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “This is a very good rackya from my friend in Slavonia,” growled Darko as he passed me half a bottle of clear liquid.

  I put it to my nose but before I could smell it it burned my eyes.

  “Whoah, what the fuck ...” it was obviously alcoholic so I took a swig and it immediately burned the whole inside of my mouth and then body, leaving my teeth sizzling. I must’ve grimaced because Darko and Bootso cracked up and Brian just nodded knowingly.

  My first thought was that I’d been set up and I’d just drank fuckin’ anti-freeze or something, but then the lads each took a swig so I took another one just to confirm my first impressions.

  I felt funny. I looked at them and then around the room. Everything tilted back and forth. A line had been crossed.

  I woke up on a floor, in a pool of my own making. It was pretty bad. I looked around. I was in the Croats’ room. It stank of alcohol, sleep and gastric juices ... and it was still almost dark outside. I lifted myself out of my mess and noticed that I’d been drawn around with chalk and the outline of my body could be seen on the carpet, like a fucking murder scene. I almost laughed. The pool of vomit at the head made it look even more realistic. I was topless and my shirt was on the floor beside me. I picked it up and slipped it back on and mentally checked my sphincter for any pain. I then quietly left the room trying not to wake the shapes in the beds.

  Back in the room I went into the bathroom, stripped off and cleaned the side of my head and my body with a towel. The fuckin’ stuff was dried hard into my hair. I then went to bed and covered my head and wished I was dead, or at the very least, in a deep recovering sleep.

  I tried to stay asleep for as long as I could but eventually I had to poke my head out over the covers and drag my weary corpse from the sheets if not the bed. I sat there, dazed. I was fucking starving but in no fit shape to eat anything.

  Tony was reading.

  “What time is it?” I asked him barely recognising my voice.

  “Time to stay in bed,” he answered without taking his eyes from the book, “Brian was in, he’s livid.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t remember?” he said putting down the book and looking at me with some gravity.

  Oh fuck! “No, what happened?” I was now fully awake.

  “You’d better ask Brian that,” and he raised his book again.

  I trawled my memories and had some flash images appear. Drinking and finishing the Jacob’s ladder, getting angry about something, someone being angry at me, my legs not working ... The rest was a blur, more feelings than images or memories. Something unpleasant had gone down, that’s for sure. I’d better find Brian.

  I went into the bathroom to find my clothes in a heap and only then remembered my pool of puke across the hall. I looked in the mirror and felt a horror come over me that was almost overwhelming.

  My blood was flowing cold, my stomach was churning and my brain was in a very dark place looking for light.

  I looked at myself with some disgust for a bit then got myself together and went and put some clothes on. I decided to try to fix whatever shit went down with Brian as soon as possible.

  I went to the room next door and found Spud sitting up, smoking a fag and Brian lying back on his bed, with his palms behind his head, looking none too happy.

  “Who’s a naughty boy then,” said Spud with a delighted grin on his poxy mug.

  “Listen Brian, I don’t know what happened last night, I don’t think I want to know, I just want to say sorry ... Tony told me you’re pissed off about something.”

  Brian stared at something that wasn’t me and didn’t reply, prolonging my discomfort.

  “This fucker shagged yer one in here last night, Ha Ha!” said Spud.

  We both ignored him.

  “Listen man, I’m sorry, whatever it was ... did I hit you or something? Tell me I didn’t fuckin’ hit anyone.”

  Brian just stared at something else that wasn’t me.

  “He fuckin’ shagged her there with me asleep over here, probably looking at my arse over her shoulder, Ha Ha! Dirty cunt.”

  “C’mon Brian, it was the rackya ... sorry man, I feel like shit.”

  “Probably used the tradesman’s entrance as well, Ha Ha! Tell us Brian, did you take her up the graily hole?”

  The graily hole??!! Brian burst out laughing. I was in such a state that Spud’s spoonerism went straight over my head but I owed him one, the tension was relieved a bit.

  “
Sorry Brian ... whatever the fuck I did ... I puked up all over meself, on the Croatians’ floor as well ... I feel like fuckin’ shite.”

  “Well go fuck some shite then ... ah, forget about it,” mumbled Brian as he shifted his weight, “you didn’t hit anyone, you were just being a prick, you should probably apologise to Andrea too.”

  Who the fuck was Andrea when she’s at home? ... Ah, yer one ... the bar girl. Fuck, there was always a woman involved. Anyway, I figured I’d done as much repair work as I could so I said cheers, excused myself and went back to my pit.

  Today was going to be a day of recovery, again! Shit, I’d have to apologise to Darko and Bootso too. Maybe I should get a standard apology printed up and just pass it out like flyers after any heavy session, especially when bloody Croatian ethanol is involved. Oh Fuck.

  By mid afternoon I was well enough to get myself upright and feel comfortable staying that way. The rooms were empty so I knocked in on Darko and Bootso.

  “Hey, you, crazy man.”

  “Hi guys, listen I’m very sorry about last night. Brian is pissed off at me ...”

  “Yes, me too! You were really in the dick, a real shitter.”

  “Well, puker actually, do you fancy a drink? I owe you one, to say sorry,” what the fuck was I thinking? It seemed my subconscious was speaking for itself.

  “Yeeees,” they said together and looking at each other like a vaudevillian double act, “but first you will clean the carpet in our room, it starts to smell bad.”

  The dirty fuckers just left the puke pool where I’d left it and I couldn’t really argue so I ended up on my knees cleaning up last night’s fun with pink toilet paper. I cleared up what I could and then we sprayed it with some deodorant. “There.”

  “This morning I think someone was killed last night but then I remember I draw around you with that white stuff, Ha Ha Ha.”

  Bootso had knicked some chalk from the menu blackboard in the pub and they’d had great gas drawing my outline on the carpet.

  “Yeah, good one, but if you did it then you can clean it too.”

  I managed to convince them into going downstairs where I got three pints in, one curer and two apologies, besides I wanted to know what the fuck happened.

  “Anyway, it’s your fault for giving me that bloody devil’s brew from ... bleedin’ ...”