Two More Pints (2 page)

— Fuck off.

— D'yeh read much?

— Wha'? Books an' tha'?

— Yeah.

— A bit. History – I like. The Nazis an' tha'. Why?

— I wouldn't mind readin' your man Mitt Romney's new one.

— He has a book?

—
Binders Full o' Women.

— Great fuckin' title.

— It's kind of a man's version o'
Fifty Shades o' Grey
. Far as I can make ou'.

— What's it abou'?

— The Governor of Massachew—. The one the Bee Gees used to sing about. Annyway, the women—

— The binders o' them.

— Yeah – exactly. They're attracted to him and they want to ride the arse off him.

— Grand.

— Cos he's a bollix.

— Sounds realistic. A bit strange, but, isn't it? A presidential candidate havin' a book like that ou' a few weeks before the election.

— He's after the men's book club vote, I'd say.

— Could be his downfall, but.

— How?

— The word – binders. Remember our own presidential fella who mentioned the brown envelope in the debate an' tha' was the end of him?

— Yeah.

— Well, binders might be Mitt's brown envelope.

— He's fucked.

— An' not like the fella in his book.

—
Brown Envelopes Full o' Women
. Would yeh buy tha' one?

— Jesus, m'n, you're makin' me weak.

— Which way are yeh votin'?

— I can't vote, bud.

— How come?

— I'm not American.

— Not tha' one. Our own one – the referendum, like.

— Another one? It's not fuckin' Europe again, is it?

— No—

— Fuckin' Hitler had the right idea there—

— Relax, for fuck sake. Take a fuckin' chill pill. This one is abou' protectin' children's rights.

— What's the point o' tha'? Jimmy's Savile's dead.

— It's not about Jimmy Savile.

— I know. There's Gary Glitter ou' there as well, an' the rest of them.

— No, listen—

— No, you listen. They – children, like – they already have their Xboxes an' their – fuckin' – tha' place where the young fellas nearly show off their tackle.

— Abercrombie an' Fitch.

— That's the one – in town. They have tha'. Wha' do they want rights for as well?

— You're just bein' thick.

— Ah, I know. Kids are grand. Take them away from their mothers. It's for the best.

— I'm not listenin'.

— An'annyway, it looks like the American election mightn't be goin' ahead now.

— How come?

— It's rainin'.

— Wha' did yeh make of the result last night?

— Glad to see the back of them.

— Who?

— Man City, the fuckin'—

— No, no. I mean in America.

— The presidential yoke?

— Yeah.

— Our man got in.

— Good oul' B'rack.

— I love the way he talks.

— Wha'?

— The way he talks – the speeches, like.

— Is this one o' your Andriy Shevchenko moments?

— Fuck off – no. I'm just sayin'. Him an' Morgan Freeman. An' your man, the dead one. Martin Luther King. They're great fuckin' talkers.

— They're all black.

— That's part of it, yeah. It's the style o' the thing.

— Wha' the fuck are you on?

— No, listen. ‘We have picked ourselves up.' He stops an' they cheer. ‘We have fought our way back.' Same again. ‘An' we
KNOW
in our hearts.' They're goin' fuckin' mad. ‘Tha' for the United States of America.' He makes them wait, then, ‘The-best-is-yet-to-come.' It's fuckin' brilliant, tha'. ‘The-best-is-yet-to-come.'

— It
is
a Shevchenko moment.

— It fuckin' isn't. Not with Michelle beside him.

— Now you're makin' sense.

— Gorgeous.

— Fuckin' gorgeous.

— The election, but. What's a swing state?

— I'm not sure, but you should probably think o' fuckin' movin' to one.

— Are yeh votin' Yes or No tomorrow?

— Well. I had one small doubt, but I think I'm covered.

— Wha'?

— Well, every Stephen's Day I dangle the grandkids by their feet over the side o' the pedestrian bridge in Fairview. It's a family tradition. Hot chocolate after.

— Nice.

— So. My worry was tha' if the thing is passed an' children get their rights, then they'd have the righ' to dangle me.

— It'd take a fair few six-year-olds to hold on to you.

— Tha' was the worry. But I was assured, by a chap handin' out the leaflets, that tha' possibility is covered under existin' weights and measures legislation. The holder of the legs must be four times heavier than the holdee. So I'm grand. An' then as well—

— Wha'?

— I seen tha' prick on the telly.

— Which one?

— The bald fella with the long hair. Yeh know him?

— The oul' ‘if-Jesus-had-lived-a-bit-longer' look.

— That's him. He came last in the Eurovision.

— It's some fuckin' achievement.

— Anyway, he made a remark abou' foster-parents. Suggested tha' they're in it for the money. An' I says to myself, tha' cynical cunt would say annythin' for a No vote. So fuck him – I'm votin' Yes.

- - - -

- - -

- - - - - -

— So, look it.

— Wha'?

— We're goin' to have to get past this.

- - Okay.

— I'll say it – I don't mind.

— Okay.

— Just the once.

— Okay.

— An' then we can move on.

— Grand. Go on.

— Righ' – okay. Yeh ready?

— Yeah – go on.

- - - Abortion.

- - -

— Tha' wasn't too bad.

— No.

— We're over the hump.

— Yeah.

— Grand.

- - -

- - - -

- - Is—?

— Yeah?

— Is it okay if we have another pint now?

— Fire away, yeah.

— Thanks.

— See the Pope says there were no donkeys in the stable.

— Rafa Benitez.

— Was he in the fuckin' stable?

— Rafa fuckin' Benitez.

— Good man.

— Rafa fuckin' cuntin' Benitez.

— Get it out o' your system.

— I mean – how can he get away with it?

— Who?

— Tha' Russian—. What's the word for a rich Russian fella – begins with ‘o'?

— Cunt.

— How can he just play with my fuckin' heart?

— D'yeh want a hug?

— Fuck off. Look it. I've been followin' Chelsea twenty years longer than I've known my missis.

— That's two fuckin' disasters, so.

— Fuck off. Look. In all the years – all the managers an' tha'. Goin' way back. To the '60s, like. Tommy Docherty, Dave Sexton. I've never liked it when the manager was sacked. Never. But I never felt any hostility towards the new man comin' in. Even tha' fuckin' eejit, Hoddle. But Rafa fuckin' Benitez – ah, fuck. I'll be watchin' them tomorrow—

— Don't watch it.

— I fuckin' have to. An' I'll be shoutin' at the telly – ‘Fuck off back to Spain, yeh scouse cunt.' An' yeh know what'll happen?

— Wha'?

— Torres will score two an' the next time I'm down here I'll be callin' him Rafa.

— See Kate Middleton's pregnant.

— Who's the da?

— Ah, stop it now. She's a nice young one.

— Serious. Who is it? I always forget.

— It's – fuck. I forget now, meself. His name, like.

— Just to be clear. She's not the one on
I'm A Fuckin' Celebrity Get Me Ant And Dec Are A Pair O' Twats Out O' Here
?

— No.

— Or the one with the cookery book.

— I don't think so – no.

— Grand. Tha' narrows it down.

— William.

— Wha'?

— That's who's she's married to.

— William who?

— Prince William.

— Okay. An' he's the da, is he?

— Yeah.

— Yeh sure?

— Ah, fuck off now.

— Did yeh never watch
The
fuckin'
Tudors
, did yeh not?

— That's just telly.

— They'd get up on annythin', them royals.

— Annyway. She's pregnant.

— So wha'?

— Ah, lay off.

— I'm serious. So wha'?

— Well, it's just a bit o' good news—

— It isn't news at all. It's only fuckin' gossip.

— Well, d'yeh want to talk abou' tomorrow's Budget instead?

— It might be twins, apparently.

— Cos o' the strength o' the mornin' sickness.

— Spot on, yeah.

— How were yeh feelin', yourself, this mornin'?

— Ah Jesus, man – fuckin' triplets. Definitely. All boys.

— Take a look at tha'.

— What is it?

— A property tax voucher.

— A wha'?

— I was listenin' to the news there. The Budget, like. An' they're goin' on abou' the property tax. An' I just thought – Bingo. Last year I bought a goat – online, like.

— For young Damien.

— Exactly, yeah. A stockin' filler. But annyway. I'd actually bought the goat for some family in fuckin' Somalia or somewhere. An' all I got was a voucher an' a picture of a fuckin' goat. You with me?

— Eh—

— So annyway, the oul' brainwave. I get young Damien to give me a hand. I do up a PDF—

— A wha'?

— Stay with me. I bring the memory stick up to the late-night chemist, to the chap at the back who does the photographs. He's got a state-o'-the-art photocopier in there with him. So he does me five thousand copies.

— It's a lovely job. How's it work but?

— This one here, look. For fifty euro. Yeah?

— Yeah.

— Yeh give – whoever – the voucher an' a photograph of the thing you were goin' to give them before they announced the fuckin' property tax.

— Brilliant.

— Two euro a pop, includin' the envelope.

— See the spacer died.

— Wha' spacer?

— The
Sky at Night
fella.

— Bobby Moore.

— Patrick Moore.

— That's him, yeah. Did he die?

— Yeah.

— That's a bit sad. He was good, wasn't he?

— Brilliant. Very English as well.

— How d'yeh mean?

— Well, like – he'd look into his telescope an' his eyebrows would go mad cos he was so excited abou' all the fuckin' stars an' the planets an' tha'. An' the words—

— They fuckin' poured out of him.

— Exactly. It was brilliant. But if he'd been Irish, he'd just've said, So wha'? They're only fuckin' stars. There's no way it would've been the longest-runnin' programme in the history o' television if it'd been Irish.

— You might be righ'.

— Think about it. Our attitude is just shite.

— I remember once, but. He was goin' on abou' how the light from stars took millions o' years to reach here and how the light we saw might be comin' from stars tha' were long dead – cos it took so long, like. An' well—

— Wha'?

— Maybe he died years ago an' we're only findin' out about it now.

— Did yeh go past my place on your way?

— I did, yeah.

— Notice annythin'?

— It's still there.

— You'll need to be a bit more fuckin' specific.

— Lovely tree.

— No.

— Big Santy in the garden.

— Union Jack.

— Wha'?

— The flag. Hangin' off the chimney.

— Well, it's fuckin' night-time. So, no, I didn't—. Are yeh serious?

— I am, yeah.

— You've the flag o' Britain on top o' your house?

— Yeah.

- - - Why?

— The Shinners in Belfast voted to get rid of it, off the top o' City Hall – yeah?

— The riots an' tha'.

— Yeah. Except for fifteen days o' the year. So I bought one.

— A Union Jack?

— Off eBay, yeah.

— Okay, grand. Fuckin' why, but?

— Show the cunts it works both ways. I'm hangin' me flag for fifteen days o' the year. Paddy's Day, Easter Monday. All the biggies.

— Why today?

— Excitement. When I opened the package, like. I was straight out to the ladder.

— Jaysis.

— Sure, it's Christmas.

— What abou' Continuity Carl across the way? You're not worried he'll lob a petrol bomb at yis?

— With his one remainin' hand.

— Yeah.

— No. Tha' fucker wouldn't take tha' hand ou' of his tracksuit bottoms for an Ireland free.

— Anny idea wha' you're gettin' for Christmas?

— Bottle o' the Brad Pitt stuff.

— Wha'?

— Inevitable.

— Wha'?

— If it works for Brad, it'll work for me. Slap a bit on after I shave an' I'll be beatin' the women off me.