The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  A lot of the German spirits were sickly sweet and syrupy but we’d settled on one that had a ‘bit of bite, bitte!’, and it rounded us off quite nicely.

  We staggered outward and homeward. Someone started up a chorus of ‘we’re German, and I hope you like German too’ by Bob Marley. I then made the mistake of telling the lads about ‘alles, alles, who the fuck is über alles?’ the night before and they ended up singing it the whole way home, probably not a good idea. Spud was half walking-half being carried by me, but he joined in where he could find the breath between hiccups. Andrea went her separate way and we slurred our ‘goodnoish’s. We arrived back at the place and all was quiet and dark.

  “Oh, shit!” exclaimed Brian rooting through his trousers.

  “Wha?”

  “There’s a hole in me pocket!”

  “Dear Liza, Dear Liza.”

  “Ah Ha Ha!! Well, fix it dear Henry, dear Henry.”

  “No, shut the fuck up, I’ve lost the friggin’ keys.”

  Brian was panicking, going through his pockets over and over.

  “Oh shit!”

  “Who the fuck is über alles now? Eh?”

  “FUCK!! Don’t tell me we’re locked out.”

  “Calm down, Brian, you’ll sober yourself up.”

  “Which window is Darko and Bootso’s room?”

  “I think they’re at the back.”

  “That’s our window up there.”

  “Well, that’s just fuckin’ great! Why don’t you throw some stones at it and see if ye can wake yourself up.”

  “Fuck it man, let’s just sleep here.”

  Brian paced up, Tony paced down, Spud lit up and I sat down, but nothing worked. We tried at the pub but it was after 2:30am so it was deserted. Eventually we hammered on the door to see if anyone would let us in and surprisingly enough that’s what happened. After what seemed like an eternity, but probably no more than ten minutes, the door opened and we got in. The next thing I remember it’s morning ...

  Helmut gave us a terrible talking-to, we’d woken up some business guy to let us in and pretty much scared the shit out of him, plus we were always drunk and the rooms smelled like shit. We’d assembled in our room and stood there with bowed heads as Helmut gave us the oul’ ‘pull-up-yer-socks’ routine. First loudly, then repeated a bit quieter and finally, once more at speaking level. Jesus! The room didn’t smell that bad. My head was still spinning from that last bit-o-bite-bitte and I was swaying like a drunk in a midnight choir. Our defence rested without calling any witnesses, the only evidence we introduced were the lost keys (which only served to draw an exasperated exhalation from the prosecution) so we just stood silently and took our dressing down like four men sentenced to be hungover from the neck up until dead.

  Strangely enough, our sentence was to be invited to a barbeque. Helmut calmed down and quite nicely invited us to his place in the afternoon. The weather was nice and it was his birthday!

  The mood lightened quite quickly.

  “Oh, happy birthday!” we all said half heartedly.

  “Sank you ... so, you vill meet with Scott at two o’clock downstairs, ya? Is gut?”

  “Yeah, great, thanks Helmut.”

  He paused.

  “Oh, and you vill need some different keys, no?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

  “Eh ... actually,” goes Spud, “they’re here,” he says, drawing the keys from his pocket sheepishly.

  The fuckin’ eejit!!

  We all glared at him. He felt the glares and decided to walk out of the room using Helmut as cover. They walked out together, chatting away about Helmut getting old, and us three slumped onto the nearest beds.

  “That fucker had the keys all along.”

  “I promise you gentlemen, I will swing for that cretin.”

  “... and do you know why the room smells like shit?”

  “This one?”

  “No, ours, it doesn’t smell like shit, it smells like piss. That fucker pissed in the wardrobe last night.”

  “You’re kidding!!”

  “Not at all, I wake up around six o’clock and he’s banging around the room. He goes over to the wardrobe and opens it, I’m saying ‘Spud, what are you doing?’ Then I hear he’s having a piss, into the fuckin’ wardrobe.”

  “Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Yeah, I go to jump up but then he closes the wardrobe and goes back to bed. I’m not sure he even remembers.”

  “So he doesn’t know about it?”

  “I guess not, Helmut woke us and we came straight in here.”

  “Great!”

  Spud had gone for a long walk (hopefully off a short pier) so it was left to us to go buy a present that would say both ‘happy birthday’ and ‘sorry for the mess’.

  “Let’s get him a bottle of whiskey.”

  “Yeah, and some carpet cleaner.”

  Ha Ha Ha!!

  We happened upon a small bookshop and got the first book we found by an Irish author, ‘Waiting for Godot’ by Beckett.

  “Apparently Godot never arrives ...”

  “Spoilers!! Ye cunt!”

  We also picked up a bottle of something light and fizzy that could be popped open at a party and a bottle of something a little stronger for the adults, to be stashed away until a time of need. Then we went for a coffee. Yes, a coffee, and some horrible watery German milk.

  By this time it was heading towards two, so we headed back to the hostel to see if Spud would show his face.

  And show his face he did. It was a mealy little red face mouthing apologies which were eventually and grudgingly accepted all round.

  We spruced up a bit and headed downstairs to meet Scotty.

  Of course, the inevitable happened and Scotty had to work another half hour so we had a pint to while away that darned half hour. When he did eventually finish he escorted us about ten minutes up the road to Helmut’s gaff and then went back to work.

  There are times in life when your social class is suddenly made painfully obvious to you and then shoved into your face like a custard pie at a clown convention. This was one of them. We were four very working-class lads entering a very uppermiddle-class world. It was a very large place, probably about five or six bedrooms, old style redbrick and gravel at the front with Helmut’s big car on it, classy. We went in through the enormous door and pretty much straight through the fancily decorated house, under arches and chandeliers, saying hello to whoever caught our eyes until we came out into a large walled garden out the back.

  “Wow, nice place!”

  There was patio furniture everywhere, tables of food, half drunk glasses of champagne, a lawn swarming with kids and people in suits standing in small groups trying to balance drinks and paper plates of hors d’oeuvres. In a word ... Hell!

  We found Helmut and gave him his presents. He was impressed with the book, and the inscriptions made him laugh so all was well again. He said thank you and showed us where the food was and then we let him go back to his friends.

  We found an empty table and staked our claim on it, then went for plates of German tit bits, and four cans of cold beer.

  Back at the table we sat down with our beers and our piledhigh paper plates and tucked into both.

  “Tell me, Mr Spud, have you ever urinated on a lion?”

  “Ye wha’?”

  “Have you ever urinated on a lion?”

  “No, why?” said Spud who’d stopped chewing temporarily with confusion.

  “How about a witch? ...”

  “Did I piss on a witch? Are ye off yer fuckin’ nut?”

  “... because you bloody well pissed in the wardrobe last night, that’s why your room has that putrid odour.”

  “WHA? No I didn’t.”

  “Actually you did, Spud. You were sleepwalking or something. I tried to wake you, but you just went back to bed.”

  “No fuckin’ way man, I don’t remember tha’ ... are ye serious?”

  “Mm-mm, ‘
fraid so Spud, you’ll have to clean it up later. Helmut’s right, the room stinks.”

  Spud was speechless for the first time since I’d known him,

  “ ... and what about you the other night with yer Johnny jump off, sprayin’ piss ‘n’ jism all over the place?”

  “I cleaned that up the next morning, so you can bloody well clean up your mess too,” said Brian angrily.

  “Yeah ... well ... we’ll see about tha’ ... duty is in the eye of the beholder!” said Spud still not sure if they were pulling his leg or not.

  “That’s ‘beauty’!! Ye fuckin’ eejit!!” we all shouted together.

  Brian was looking deadly serious, but he suddenly burst into laughter, “Johnny jump off? Heh Heh Heh!! Good one man.”

  We ate and we drank and chewed the fat, but with Spud and Tony being openly hostile to one another it was more than a little uncomfortable.

  “The noise of those kids.”

  “Imagine having one of those all the time.”

  “Jesus, yeah ... Brian, you wanna have kids, don’t ye?”

  “Well, yeah, but not right now thanks, I’m finishing this beer.”

  “I’d hate to have kids.”

  “I’m sure that will change someday, when you have them ... just try finding a parent who regrets having their children, you won’t be able.”

  Tony the philosopher could always cut a conversation dead, plus he was stealing my lines, the fucker.

  ...

  “Anyway, I’m still too young,” sighed Spud holding his beer up to his face, “I’m not mentally prepared to be a father.”

  “You’re not mentally prepared to be a son!”

  “Would you fuckin’ give over insulting me, ye prick!”

  “I’m not insulting you, I’m describing you.”

  “That’s it, Tony, I’m bloody sick of your fuckin’ shit.”

  “Have you ever been tested for Tourette’s syndrome?”

  “There he fuckin’ goes again, taking the bleedin’ piss out me.”

  “Haw Haw Haw, I rest my case.”

  “Why don’t you just fuck off back to Tír na Gobshite!”

  Spud got up and stormed off in the direction of the beer table.

  “Ah, ease up Tony. There’s no point in arguing.”

  “Yeah, give it a rest, man.”

  “I intend to, but he is as culpable as I am in this matter. If it weren’t for his wanton carelessness ...”

  “Yeah, I know, but just don’t push it, c’mon.”

  ...

  “Tír na Gobshite?? Heh Heh Heh, where does he get them from?”

  Spud came back with four full cans and began clearing away the old ones and the empty plates. He was visibly furious and chose the female method of venting anger, he cleared up.

  “Are you finished with that?”

  “No, leave it there, I’m picking at it.”

  “Is this can empty? We don’t want to have a table full of bleedin’ empties, do we?”

  “Here, wait, I’ll finish it.”

  “Here, pass me that plate n’ shit ... is this finished?”

  “Oh, stop your incessant mothering.”

  There was a second of still calm, then ... Thwack!

  Spud slammed his hand into Tony’s face, hitting him half on the nose, half on the forehead, half on the cheek and half on the eye. There was a flash of shock, a moment of silence, an instant of anticipation, then Tony suddenly spun and angrily jabbed at Spud’s midriff. This had little effect, except to put Spud on his guard but looked good for the cameras. Tony stood up, and went for Spud, who was already by now in some form of martial art stance. Now, when I say ‘went for’, what I mean is that they started flapping at each other like two dogs swimming towards each other. Screwed up faces, chins in the air and paddling each other with open palms. Oh, the shame! People think of the Irish as hard fighting men, shirt sleeves rolled up, bare fist, last man standing, and all that. But this wasn’t the Fightin’ Irish, this was the Paddlin’ Paddies!!

  A woman squealed, people stood up, a glass smashed, men shouted, children’s eyes were shielded and a space appeared around the combatants. There was gick an’ feathers everywhere. Me and Brian quickly waded in and grabbed the two of them, holding them away from each other as they kicked and pushed. Things calmed a little, it was all over in about five seconds. Then Helmut appears.

  “VAS IST DIS? EINE KLEINE SCHADENFREUDE, GESUNTHEIT BITTE!! GOT IM HIMMEL!!! ... vot is happening here?? You are fighting?? I can’t believe!! Ven I already told you zis morning!! ... Vy do you hate me? ...Vy do you do zis to me? ... Vy are you fighting?”

  Tony relaxed and straightened his tie, so to speak.

  “I beg your apologies Helmut, I’m truly sorry. I just said something to Spud and he took it up the wrong way.”

  “Yer fuckin’ oul’ one takes it up the wrong way! Ye cunt ye!”

  “OK, zat is it!!” and then to the crowd, “... Hauptflughafen, das ist Irischen schweinhund,” he was rubbing his forehead with frustration and embarrassment, “mein leibling, ich bein ein Berliner, kindergarten zeitgeist luftballons, guten tag KarlHeinz Rummenigge, auf wiedersehen ...”

  The folks went back to their tables and talked about us in hushed disapproving tones. And with the commotion officially over, Helmut turned back to us with fury in his eyes.

  “OK, I don’t know vy you make trouble always but it is finished!! Do you hear? My meaning after, you are very bad boys, I vont you to go home ... to Ireland, tomorrow morning, so go back now and pack your bags at ze hostel, I am very angry ... and I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

  Shit! We’d gone too far this time.

  We just looked at each other. We had nothing to add to that, and we couldn’t really blame the guy.

  We got our stuff and quietly left saying sorry as we went.

  Outside, we still had more immediate problems, as in, Spud still wanted to kick Tony’s ass. I pulled Spud aside and Brian shielded Tony.

  “Spud! Relax! C’mon ... look, they’re looking out the windows at us. Let’s go, we’ll sort this out later.”

  “Fuckin’ right we will, what did he say about me fuckin’ me mother?”

  “He didn’t say fuck all about your mother, he said ‘mothering’, there’s a difference!”

  “He's a fuckin' poncey, big-headed, full-of-himself, superegoed CUNT!!”

  I calmed him down and we started to walk back towards the hostel, me and Spud in front, the other two far behind. We were all in shitty form.

  Kicked out of a barbeque, kicked out of the hostel, and now, kicked out of Germany!

  Back at the hostel I began to pack, then Tony arrives and does the same.

  “Did I or did I not warn you that he would see to us being forcibly ejected from this place?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess you did, Tony, well done.”

  We finished our packing in no time and sat back on our beds in silence. Then Brian came in.

  “How are things?”

  “How is he? Still in fightin’ mood?”

  “Yeah, but mainly ‘cos he just found out he pissed on his clothes, Heh Heh Heh!!”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, that was his place in the wardrobe, Heh Heh!! Anyway, who’s up for a drink?”

  “You’re joking!”

  “No, fuck it, last night here and all that.”

  “Fuck it, I’ll go with ye,” I said.

  “Is your roommate going?”

  “No, he’s clothes washing and in a state of embarrassed sulking.”

  “OK, let’s go.”

  We kept it local and went to a small corner café, where people stand at the bar and drink quick coffees or shorts. It also had tables and chairs at the back. We sat in the darker of two dark corners and ordered three big ones. The barman looked at us suspiciously, other customers stared at us, and I suddenly had the feeling that the whole of Heidelberg was talking about our shameful display at Helmut’s birthday barbeque.


  We talked about Spud and our predicament. I defended Spud, though I’m not quite sure why.

  “He’s not a bad guy, he just does stupid things. Usually he’s good craic, and a great musician.”

  “But you wouldn’t want your life in his hands.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, not unless your life was a bar of soap. Has he had a shower since we arrived? He stinks!”

  “Ah Ha Ha! No, he’s not the model of personal hygiene, is our Spud.”

  We had a few beers there. We didn’t have much to say and the third beer was drunk in silence so we went back to the hostel. We were drunk and depressed and ready to be run out of town.

  Back at the hostel we found Spud in high spirits. He was with the two Croats, who were leaving that night, and was determined to get them to go for a last drink.

  “Hey, here’s the lads too. C’mon, one quick pint for the road.”

  “Oh, ok, shta kash Bootso?”

  “Dobro, let’s go in the Irish bar?”

  “Eh, maybe ... better not ... today. Somewhere else.”

  “Let’s go back to where we were.”

  “It’s close.”

  “Ok, let’s go.”

  On the way to the bar, Spud calmly pulled Tony aside and cleared the air a little. His point being that they may not like each other but there’s no point fighting. It was just a dose of cabin fever. They shook hands and me and Brian sighed with relief.

  “So, we’ve been sacked.”

  “What? You lose your job?”

  “Yeah, these two had a fight at the boss’s birthday party and tomorrow we are being sent home in disgrace.”

  “Oh, fuck!”

  “Ah, we only had four days left anyway.”

  “We don’t know if he’ll pay us anything either.”

  “Ah, he seems honest enough like that, but he’s pretty pissed off too.”

  “Shit!”

  “You had a fight? Ha Ha Ha, like real Irish? Drinking and fighting and playing dakatadakata music. You guys are so funny!!”

  We had a good laugh with the lads. They had a great sense of humour. I was going to miss them being around.

  We drank about three or four pints. Darko was the designated driver but Bootso kept up with us. Then we went back to the hostel. We were pretty shit-faced by now so were only too eager to have an early nightcap when Brian dragged out the bottle of German holy water.