Two More Pints (5 page)

— Fuckin' Christianity. I'm tellin' yeh. All these fuckin' players – you've seen them. They bless themselves goin' on the pitch, or look up to the sky – talkin' to God, like. An' the first thing they do is rake their studs down some poor fucker's shins. Or they dive – they hit the deck like they're bein' ridden by a bear. But it's grand, because they're Christians an' they talk to God an' he's obviously told them they can kick an' cheat an' pull jerseys as much as they like. They're fuckin' crusaders. An' Suárez was just showin' God how much he loved him.

— By bitin' Ivanovic?

— Exactly. It was fuckin' heroic.

— See they're talkin' about legislatin' for the right to an abortion in the event of your team bein' relegated.

— Fuck off – you're sick.

— Serious. I heard it on the radio – I think I did, annyway.

— Fuck off.

— But it has to be actual relegation, not just fear o' relegation – or the
ideation
o' relegation.

— I'm not listenin'.

— An' it'll have to go before a panel of three people. Two doctors – an obstetrician, like, an' a psychiatrist. An' one o' the lads from
Match of the Day
.

— Fuck off.

— So I heard. If there's a genuine prospect of the team bein' relegated an' the woman wants an abortion, the HSE will call in Alan Shearer—

— Fuckin' Shearer?!

— Or Dion Dublin.

— Ah, for fuck sake. It's fuckin' typical. What's wrong with one of our own punters?

— So. If I'm right—. You think it's okay for a woman to have an abortion if she gets the all-clear from Brian Kerr or Kenny Cunningham.

— Yeah – no. Fuck off.

— Or Lawrenson.

— Fuck off.

— Or Roy Keane.

— She'd listen to Roy.

— See he's gone.

— Jimmy Tarbuck?

— Fuck off – Sir Alex.

— An' for the same reason.

— Don't start now.

— Why d'yeh think he held on to Giggs and fuckin' Scholes for so long?

— You're fuckin' sick.

— Buyin' their silence. They were only little lads when they were forced to join tha' fuckin' club. Fuckin' kidnapped they were.

— I'm not listenin'.

— On their way to Chelsea.

— Wake me up when you're done.

— An' poor little Beckham as well. But Posh rescued him, thank God.

— Are yeh finished?

— Go on.

— It's the end of an era.

— Is tha' the best yeh can do?

— Well, it fuckin' is.

— Okay – grand. What is a fuckin' era, annyway?

— I don't know. A long time – ages – fuck off.

— Why's he leavin'?

— His hip.

— His fuckin' hip?

— He's havin' it replaced.

— Why can't he fuckin' limp like the rest of us? An' who's replacin' him?

— Mourinho.

— Wha'?! José? Fuck off. He's comin' back to us.

— Not accordin' to the bookies.

— Fuck the bookies. Tell yeh wha' – Sir Alex can have my hip. If it'll make him change his mind. D'yeh have a saw on yeh?

— So. Beckham retired.

— Tha' cunt retired years ago.

— Ah, for fuck sake – relax. Just accept it. He was a great player.

— He wasn't great. He was okay for a couple o' years. Before he met Spice Rack or wha'ever her fuckin' name is.

— God, you're a fuckin' eejit.

— An' I'll tell yeh exactly why he retired.

— G'wan. Why?

— To upstage Angelina.

— Wha'?!

— They couldn't cope – him an' Posh – with all the attention she was gettin' an' all the praise. An' Posh didn't have an illness or a condition of her own to announce, cancer or depression or a second hole in her arse or annythin'. So he says, ‘Fuck it, love, I'll announce me retirement.'

— Actually. You're probably righ'.

— I'm definitely righ'.

— Would you tattoo your kids' names on the back of your neck?

— They wouldn't fit.

— I suppose it wouldn't be too bad if the name was Romeo or Brooklyn. But your man over there – Badger.

— What abou' him?

— The tattoo.

— Where?

— On the back of his fuckin' neck

— That's not a tattoo. That's just dirt.

— But look – it says ‘John Paul'.

— Coincidence.

— Fuck off.

— An' annyway, it's spelt wrong – look. ‘John Pal'.

— Were yeh ever breathalysed?

— Yeah.

— Did yeh pass it?

— No – failed. Fuckin' miserably. But I wasn't drivin'.

— Wha'?

— I wasn't even in a fuckin' car.

— Wha'?!

— I was walkin' home – from here. An' I swerved into the wrong garden an' up to the wrong fuckin' door. An', like, the key wouldn't turn for me. I was so locked, it never occurred to me that I was tryin' to get into the wrong house.

— Whose gaff was it?

— Widow McCarthy's.

— She's not a widow.

— Married to tha' cunt, she might as well be. Annyway, she phoned the Guards. An' that's how they found me – with me key in your woman's lock.

— But yeh weren't in a car.

— No. But the Guard says if I'd been drivin' and I'd taken a wrong turn like tha', I'd've killed meself. An' he breathalysed me, to prove his point.

— Fuckin' eejit.

— Ah, he was grand.

— But – come here. Alan Shatter.

— An' his fuckin' asthma.

— I had asthma – when I was younger, like. An' if I couldn't've done a breathalyser, I'd've either been on me way to A&E or fuckin' dead.

— So, he's lyin' through his arse.

— He can manage tha'. His arse doesn't have asthma.

— What's wrong?

— Nothin'.

— Is someone after dyin'?

— No.

— Well, there's something wrong with yeh. I can tell. Come on, ou' with it.

— Well—

— Yeah?

— Mourinho's back.

— I know. I expected you to be dancin' on the fuckin' counter.

— Well, I'm not.

— But you like Mourinho.

— I fuckin' love Mourinho.

— So, what's the problem?

— Well. I made a pact.

— With the fuckin' devil?

— No. God.

— Mourinho?

— No, the other one. The hairy one, like – the real one, I suppose you'd call him.

— Just – hang on. Just so I'm clear here. You made a pact with God.

— Yeah.

— Do you even believe in God?

— Not really. But – I don't know. I kind o' do.

— Wha' was the pact?

— I'd give up the drink if Mourinho went back to Chelsea.

— For fuck sake. When?

— At me cousin's funeral there, a month ago. In the church. On me knees, like. I said, I might as well give it a go while I'm down here.

— But, look it, Mourinho was on his way long before tha'.

— Ah, I know.

— An' did God actually answer yeh?

— Not really.

— Annythin' in writin'?

— No.

— Fuck'm, so. You'll have a pint.

— Okay. Grand. Yeah. Thanks.

— Poor oul' Mandela.

— Yeah.

— He's on the way ou'.

— D'yeh know wha', but? He should never've left the Four Tops.

— Fuck off now – just fuck off.

— Okay – sorry. Sorry.

— Okay. D'yeh remember the time he was in town? He was gettin' the freedom o' the city or somethin'.

— Same day the Irish team came home from the World Cup. Italia '90.

— That's righ'. You were with me, yeah?

— Yeah, 'course. We'd most o' the kids with us.

— The ones tha' were born.

— Some fuckin' day.

— I had two o' mine on me shoulders. All fuckin' day. I don't think I ever recovered.

— Great day, but.

— Brilliant. Seein' him. My kids still remember it.

— Good to have done it, so. Gone in, like.

— ‘Ooh aah, Paul McGrath's da'. D'yeh remember?

— Brilliant.

— An' him walkin' out o' jail. D'yeh remember tha'?

— Amazin'.

— The dignity, like.

— My cousin. Danno. A mad cunt. He was up in court. Did I ever tell yeh this?

— When was this?

— 'Bout the same time – back then. Anyway, the judge says to him, ‘Why did yeh rob the bookie's?' An' Danno says back, ‘So I can walk out o' jail like Nelson Mandela.'

— See Tony Soprano died.

— Sad, tha'.

— Only a young fella really.

— Fifty-one.

— Frightenin' – a bit. Isn't it?

— Yeah. He was fuckin' brilliant but, wasn't he?

— Amazin'.
The Sopranos
was the first television series I watched. As an adult, like.

— I know wha' yeh mean.

— The other shite was on but I never really watched any of it.
Dallas
an' all tha'. Fuckin' J.R. an' Bobby an' John Boy.

— Tha' was
The Waltons
.

— Doesn't matter – same fuckin' shite. An' the soaps were no better.

— Then Tony arrived.

— There were times I'd be lookin' at his face an' I'd know wha' he was thinkin'.

— Cos he was a man.

— Real, yeah.

— One o' the lads.

— Wouldn't go tha' far. Great actor, but.

— Brilliant. It's been a shite week, hasn't it?

— They're all shite. What else happened?

— Well, Michelle Obama. Goin' for a pint with fuckin' Bono. Wha' the fuck was she at?

— She could've come here.

— Exactly. Instead she had to listen to tha' prick scutterin' on abou' global poverty an' himself.

— Her loss.

— Big time. Yeh know what's tragic about it?

— Wha'?

— She went back to America without ever havin' tasted Tayto.

— Tony would've liked Tayto.

— He would.

— The Anglo tapes, wha'.

— Don't get me fuckin' started.

— I keep remindin' meself tha' it happened five years ago.

— But it doesn't help, sure it doesn't?

— No.

— ‘Get the money in, get the fuckin' money in.'

— Our money.

— Yeah.

— Laughin' at us, they were.

— Bastards.

— If it'd been us – people like us. Lyin' through our arses, commitin' fraud an' tha' – we'd be in the Joy now.

— We went to the wrong school.

— But we paid the fuckin' bill. It's sickenin'. Jesus, man, my young one was cryin' last nigh' – she was askin' us for the money to buy shoes for little Caitlin – the gran'daughter, like. For fuck sake.

— Your man who reported it – Paul Williams.

— He's good, yeah.

— He usually does the gangland guys, doesn't he?

— Yeah.

— An' he always uses their names – The General an' The Monk an' tha'.

— Why doesn't he do the same now?

— Yeah, exactly.

— Which one is the laugher?

— Bowe – I think.

— John ‘The Hyena' Bowe.

— Not bad – a bit gentle.

— The Fuckin' Hyena.

— Better. What abou' Fitzpatrick?

— Peter ‘The Thick-Lookin' Dopey Fuck' Fitzpatrick.

— Tha' captures the man alrigh'. An' Drumm?

— David ‘The Cunt' Drumm.

— Put it on his fuckin' birth cert.

— The fuckin' weather.

— What about it?

— The heat.

— It's not tha' bad.

— This is fuckin' Ireland. It's unnatural. It's – your man said it on the radio. It's an absolute drought.

— It hasn't rained for two weeks. So wha'?

— Well, it must be affectin' you. You've taken your hoodie off.

— That's nothin' to do with the weather. It's a security measure.

— Wha'?!

— I took it off in case some prick decides to shoot me when I'm walkin' past his house. D'yeh remember 1976, do yeh?

— I do, yeah.

— Tha' was weather.

— Un-fuckin'-believable.

— Our dog died o' the heat tha' summer.

— Ah.

— An' we didn't notice till October.

— What abou' the stink?

— We thought it was me da.

— Fuck off – you're messin' again. One thing, but.

— Wha'?

— The colour of the grass. With the heat an' tha'. And Ireland is famous for bein' green. We even have the four green fields – the provinces, like. An' all those republicans fightin' an' dyin' for the four green fields.

— Go on.

— Well, would they have got as worked up if the fields had been brown?

— What're yeh sayin'? We'd still be part o' the British Empire if the weather had been better?

— It's just a thought.

— See she had the baby.

— Who – the big girl from Paddy Power's?

— No. Kate Middleton.

— Who?

— Ah, don't fuckin' start again – pretendin' yeh don't know.