The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  “Slavonia.”

  “Where the fuck is Slavonia anyways? I have to make sure I never go there.”

  “It’s in Croatia, in the west.”

  “I thought it was a country.”

  “That is Slovenia.”

  “Yeah? ... and Slovakia?”

  “That is one other country, near Republic Czech.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Slav ... een ... akia?”

  “I think that one only exist in your head, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “And what is it? Pure ethanol? A cleaning product?”

  “No, no, it’s loza, one type of rackya. It is very common in our country, it is made from grapes.”

  “You have different types of that shit?? Fuck me!! ... Ah, so what I’m feeling now is the wrath of grapes?” They didn’t get it. Grape and grain, that would explain it.

  Now we had some chit-chat and I had them back onside a bit I asked them to fill in the spaces for me. Not that I really wanted to know, I was embarrassed enough already, but I thought I should have some idea of what I was apologising for.

  “Ah, you wanted to fuck with Brian’s girl.”

  I knew it!

  “Yes, you pulled her and shouted ‘you fuck her yesterday, now I want to fuck’, and you touch her tits, it was really bad, you mustn’t drink that shit.”

  “You said it was good stuff.”

  “Yes, but you were drunk already and you drink too fast.”

  “OK, well we finished the bottle anyway so there’ll be no more rackya for me, that’s for sure ... Jesus, what a tit I am.” I looked around but Andrea didn’t appear to be on today.

  “... then you shouted something to your friend that I don’t understand and it was almost a fight.”

  “OK, I think I’ve heard enough ... listen, I’m sorry lads, that’s all I can say.”

  “Ah, don’t worry, it was funny for me, Ha Ha Ha ... sorry.”

  “When do you go to Frankfurt?”

  “Frankfurt? I dunno, after next weekend, why?”

  “Spid this morning say you go to play in Frankfurt today.”

  “Spud! not Spid.”

  “Aha, Spood, OK”

  Oh Shit! He was right, we had a gig in Frankfurt sometime this weekend. For a second I wondered if they’d gone without me, even hoped they’d gone without me, but I remembered the instruments upstairs, packed and ready to go. And here was I drinking with these purveyors of senseless liquids. I’d better get my shit together.

  We finished up our pints and I tried to remember the last time I went for a pint and managed to keep it in the singular, probably never.

  Coming out of the pub we spied a trio of full bellies coming towards us.

  “Fuck’s sake Foy, don’t tell me your fuckin’ garglin’ already, not after last night.”

  “I owed the lads an apology,” I said with droopy eyes.

  “Jaysus, don’t fuckin’ start messin’. C’mon we have to head to Frankfurt.”

  “What? Already? It’s only ... what time is it?”

  “Well, we fancy havin’ a bit of a dander around the place if we get the chance, and sure, what the fuck are we gonna do here?”

  Great, that was all I needed.

  We said cheerio to the lads in case we didn’t see them again, they were just waiting for some confirmation of something before heading home.

  “... and don’t drink any rackya, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “I wouldn’t drink that shit again if it was a cure for cancer.”

  We got our stuff and headed to the station, which was only a ten-minute walk away. Tony went to get the tickets and me and Spud eyed the station cafe but didn’t dare ‘cos Brian was still in a bit of a mood.

  When we got on the train, Brian went to the jax so I followed and waited until he came out.

  “Hey Brian, I was talking to the lads and they filled me in on the details of last night, so I just wanted to say sorry now that I know what I’m being sorry about.”

  “Forget about it man, it’s water under the bridge.”

  “I was just too fuckin’ drunk, you know I didn’t mean any offense.”

  “Don’t worry about it, it’s forgotten. Just make sure you apologise to Andrea.”

  “Oh yeah, don’t worry about that, I will when we get back. If you talk to her, give her an advance apology for me.”

  “C’mon, let’s go back in.”

  “Ok, cheers ... an’ anyway, you know I wouldn’t go up Grafton Street after you so don’t worry about it.”

  Back in the carriage Spud was breakin’ his bollix laughing.

  “These guys here have had the pleasure, ask them who Ben Fitz is.”

  “Ben Fitz? ah for fuck’s sake.”

  “Please don’t tell me he’s here.”

  They were talking about the world’s greatest fuckin’ eejits, just the thing to lighten the mood a bit.

  Ben Fitz was a sometime regular in Fitzer’s and a legendary figure in terms of being a pain-in-the-arse leech. He was in a permanent state of having a conversation with himself, but for it to be officially termed a conversation he needed someone there to listen to him, otherwise he’d just look like a fruit-case, which, after you’d listened to him for five minutes or so you realised that, in actual fact, he was. Trying to butt in on this unilateral dialogue was hazardous. He was liable to give you a dirty look as if to say ‘how dare you interrupt me while I’m talking to myself’ and just continue talking anyway. Poxy moron.

  “... That fuckin’ headbanger, I think he’s the most boring cunt I ever met.”

  “Yeah, and he has the alcohol tolerance of a twelve year old Muslim girl ... one pint an’ he’s wrecked.”

  “That’s not his tolerance, that’s fuckin’ knockin’ back a naggin of vodka in the jax.”

  “He does not!!”

  “He fuckin’ does! He comes in, orders a pint and then goes up to the jax an’ knocks back half a naggin he has in his pocket. Then another pint an’ the other half, an’ he’s gee-eyed by half time.”

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  “Yeah, and he used to drink in the pub across from Hollis St. hospital ‘cos every day you’d have all the new fathers coming in and buying pints and cigars for everyone in the bar.”

  “Jaaaaysus, that’s good thinkin’ innit?”

  “Yeah, but he’s a boring cunt anyway, you’d get repetitive stress syndrome listening to him at the best o’ times, tellin’ ye the same fuckin’ story over an’ over.”

  “Heh Heh, yeah, I heard that sheep count him when they want to go to sleep.”

  “Ha Ha! Good one, hey, did yiz hear about the shepherd who got the sack?”

  “Go on.”

  “Every time he counted the sheep he fell asleep, Ha Ha!”

  “If you tell another joke like that I’m going to beat the shit out of ye.”

  ...

  “There are some right tits around alright.”

  ...

  “I remember a young fiddler ... who used to join us occasionally in ‘The Parkhead’ ... once asked me why I was so tired ... which I was on this particular occasion ... and I told him that I had been up late the previous night reading ‘The 39 Steps’ by John Buchan ... and, Haw Haw Haw ... he looked at me, quite shocked ... and he said ‘really? I didn’t know you were an alcoholic.”

  HAHAHAHAHA!

  “I don’t get it.”

  “LOOK! Ass Fart!!! Ha Ha!”

  We looked out the window and saw a sign reading ‘Ausfahrt’ fly by.

  “Hey, that’s you Spud.”

  “Fuck you, I never fart!”

  “Aha, so that must be how it comes out as your breath, Heh Heh Heh.”

  “I repeat ... Fuck You!!”

  “What was the sign we saw the other day, Foy?”

  “Oh yeah ... eh ... Sparkasse.”

  “Yeah, Sparkasse, Heh Heh Heh.”

  “Spark Ass? What was it? A curry house?”

  “No, some kind of bank I think.”

  “Great, S
parkasse, The bank that guarantees you’ll get your arse burnt!”

  Ha Ha Ha Ha!

  We arrived in Frankfurt and I was led to the bar which was about three circles around the train station area and back. I was like a casualty of war, slowing the others down. That fabled one pint hadn’t done me any good at all. Maybe a few more would’ve anaesthetised the pain away but the one was just adding insult to injury.

  We eventually found ... wait for it ... ‘The Dubliner’. I ask ye! Rosie O’Grady’s, The Dubliner, Finnegan’s Wake, The Four Green Fields, The Oscar Wilde, all these bloody places have the same fuckin’ names. Though actually, this was quite a classy place, nice wooden beams everywhere and cubby-corners with candles on the tables, some Loreena McKennitt or Enya gently wafting out of the speakers. It suited my mood.

  Brian dealt with the barman, then the boss, and then a round came down which was much appreciated. They had finished serving dinner a few hours before and Brian managed to get us four plates of what was left over, mostly roast beef and spuds. As the lads had eaten already I polished off whatever Tony and Brian couldn’t. Then we bought ourselves a round just to say thanks.

  Of course, we never got to have our ‘dander’ around the town as we sat there and had an easy couple of pints until it was nearly time for kick-off. “Oh, I have a new one ...”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “OK, let’s see, erm, OK ...

  If you drink some shit from Croatia,

  in the end the bloody stuff makes ye,

  act like a dick,

  and sleep in your sick,

  and then your best mate hates ye.”

  “Heh Heh Heh, brilliant! The great white hope returns!”

  “Did you just make that up now?”

  “Nah, on the train earlier, fuck it!”

  “I don’t hate you Foy, come on.”

  “Cheers ... well yer one does.”

  “Ah, she’ll be grand, she gave as good as she got.”

  “What? What did she give?”

  “You don’t remember? You were properly anaesthetised, weren’t ye? Fuck’s sake, when ye grabbed her tit she gave ye an almighty slap across the jaw.”

  “YEAH? Fuck’s sake, I don’t remember that, stupid cow! ... Ye see, I told ye she was a slapper, Ah Ha Ha.”

  “Heh Heh Heh, good one, a slapper, Heh Heh, anyway ... you weren’t the only one to make a fuckin’ tit of yourself last night ... ah ... I don’t know if I should tell yiz this.”

  “Wha’? Some more craic?”

  “Ah no, it’s too embarrassing.”

  Well, there was no going back now. Then there were lots of g’won-g’wons and ye-will-ye-wills until he had to relent.

  “Ah fuck it, alright, but I don’t want this to get around, right?”

  “No, not at all. Don’t worry about that, just between us ... go on.”

  “Well, it’s quite funny actually. I woke up really early ‘cos I needed a jimmy, right? ...”

  “Why did ye have to wake up? Ha Ha!”

  “Shut the fuck up Spud, for fuck’s sake.”

  “... and I went to the jax and started pissing ... but it was really quiet, so I looked down and me fuckin’ dick is HUGE!! ...”

  “Yeah, yeah, mine too.”

  “No, seriously, it was the size of a fuckin’ fist, and it was gettin’ BIGGER!”

  “Wha’?”

  “... and then ye woke up.”

  “No, I was still wearing the fuckin’ CONDOM!!”

  Well, we nearly broke our bollixes laughing, I could just imagine his face, AH HA HA HA!

  “... and that’s not the worst bit, I got such a fuckin’ fright that I went ‘Aaaahh’ and took me hand away, and of course, the fuckin’ condom shoots off like a rocket, off behind the bowl, back-sprayin’ me with bleedin’ piss ‘n’ gyp!!! HEH HEH HEH!”

  By now, Spud was on the ground, weeping! Even Tony was bent over double.

  “I was fuckin’ soaking! Heh Heh Heh.”

  “HA HA HA HA HA!! Ye fuckin’ eejit, brilliant! That’s the best story I’ve heard in ages.”

  Of course, Andrea came in when she heard him shouting and swearing, and there he was on his knees, getting the rubber, still pumping piss, from behind the jax. We fuckin’ laughed ourselves silly.

  As gig time approached we were introduced to some of the ex-pats that frequented this particular locale and swapped stories with them for a while. They were mostly English, mostly engineers or teachers and mostly tossers.

  “So you’re ‘Irish Mist’ are you?”

  “No, we’re the Shamrock Rovers.” It galled Brian to say it but that’s what it said on the posters.

  “Sounds like Irish Mist to me,” and they all started laughing. We did too, out of politeness but with no idea of what we were laughing at.

  “Hey, John,” one of them shouted to the barman, “Irish Mist,” and pointed to us.

  “No, sorry guys, I’m just kidding ... but there was a band that came over from Ireland years ago that were called Irish Mist, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “Yeah? .... Is that funny?”

  “Ah, you don’t know? ‘Mist’ in German means ‘shit’, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “No shit? I mean, no mist? Heh Heh.”

  “Irish Mist, that’s a drink.”

  “Yeah, a liqueur or something poncey like that, but the krauts love it. ‘Two Irish Mists Ha Ha Ha, ja, das ist wunderbar, I’m drinking Irish Mist, Ha Ha Ha’ ... wankers!”

  “... and a band came over and called themselves that? Haw Haw.”

  “Well, not for very long I suppose, Heh Heh.”

  “That’s what we should’ve called ourselves, ‘Celtic Crud’, better than the bleedin’ Shamrock Rovers.”

  “That’s a football team innit?”

  “Yeah, someone said to me ‘The Shamrock Rovers are playing down in The Dub tonight’, an’ I thought, ‘what? in the pub? All eleven of them? Ha Ha Ha.”

  Speaking of which, it was nearly kick-off time.

  The pints weren’t doing me much good. Even though I was a bit pissed all I could think of was finishing this bloody gig and getting some more horizontal-time between me and that bloody devil’s brew.

  We played in a small roomy area away from the bar and cordoned off by a wooden fence thing. But the best thing was that it was small enough not to need any amplification so it was really just a session. A-fucking-men!

  We kicked-off with ‘The Morning Dew’ (or ‘The Mourning Jew’ as we called it since some gobshite once asked us what the Jew was in mourning for!) and just ran through our standards. It went down a bomb with both Sasanach and local alike.

  Every time we got near the end of a pint another round appeared from the audience. God bless the English!!

  As a result of constant cajoling and heckling we ended up doing all the ‘sorry-I-don’t-know-it’ songs, Dirty Old Town, The Wild Rover, The Leaving of Liverpool, Whiskey in the Jar, The Fields of Athenry and The Irish Rover TWICE! Spud was going fuckin’ ballistic but they wouldn’t leave him alone and as the pints were coming down like Essex knickers we couldn’t really complain or refuse.

  The best thing about that was that Spud was doing all the work and we were just sitting there laughing at him doing his alternative versions....

  Well, I’ve been a wild rover for many’s the year,

  and I spent all me money on black leather gear,

  and now I’m returnin’ to work as a whore,

  and I never will trick when I’m sober no more.

  Well, I went into a whore-house I used to frequent,

  and I told the landlady me mickey was bent,

  I asked her to spread it, she answered ‘I’m gay’,

  sure an oul’ cunt like hers I could shag every day.

  Well, I’ll go home to me parents, confess who I’ve done,

  and I’ll ask them to pardon their protestant son,

  and if they molest me as oft’ times before,

  then I never will bleedin’ bend ove
r no more.

  and it’s NO, NAY, NEVERRRRR,

  no, nay, never, no more,

  will I sing the fuckin’ bleedin’ ‘Wild Rover’,

  no, never, no more!!

  No-one noticed Spud’s version as the Germans were singing along in German, waving their beers to and fro, and the English guys were singing “and it’s Liv-er-poo-ool,” (or Man U-nited or We-est-Ha-am etc etc), “Liverpoo-ool F C,” something, something, something, “the world has ever seen.” ‘The Fields of Athenry’ also went from being a soft ballad to ‘The Fields of Anfield Road’, a hooligan’s chant. Spud was going fucking spare but in the end he just gave up and went with it ...

  Low lie the fields of Anfield Road,

  Where once we watched King Kenny score a goal,

  OH YEAH, HE SCORED A GOAL!

  Our love was on the wing,

  STEVIE G.!

  We had dreams and songs to sing,

  ISTANBUL!

  It’s so lonely round the fields of Anfield Road.

  I didn’t quite get what the fuck Istanbul had to do with Liverpool but it was suitably surreal so we all sang and shouted along. Great craic!

  We played a set of jigs and the guys were shouting requests that sounded more like orders over us, so from then on in it was song, song, song. One of the guys came up and did a poem too.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry? I didn’t know there were still people called Henry, and what are gonna sing for us Henry?”

  “Oh, I can’t sing, I’ll recite a poem.”

  “There was a young woman from Ealing? No?”

  “No, I don’t know that one.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, the one and only, Henry.”

  Henry positioned himself in the internationally recognized poetry-reciting stance, adopted his sub-Tom Cruise Oirish accent and went for it ...

  I was up to me ankles in shit, sir,

  ‘twas the peat contract down in the bog,

  when me spade it hit something quite hard, sir,

  ‘twas neither a stone nor a log.

  It was a chest of finest bog oak, sir,

  and I wondered just what it might hide,

  so I chanced me luck with the fairies,

  and I took just a wee peek inside.

  Now I know you’ll never believe me,

  for ‘twas almost too good to be true,

  but ‘twas an ancient old Irish French-letter,