Two Pints

by Roddy Doyle

  — Shevchenko, wha’.

  — Amazin’. At his age.

  — An’ he was fuckin’ brutal when he was at Chelsea.

  — Ah but, when you’re playin’ for your country.

  — Fuckin’ McGeady was playin’ for his country.

  — We won’t go there.

  — Tha’ cunt should be playin’ for fuckin’ Narnia.

  — Shevchenko, but.

  — Yeah.

  — He— Don’t get me wrong now. An’ listen. This is between ourselves.

  — Go on.

  — Well, like. I’ve never fancied a man in me life.

  — Go on.

  — But. If I ever did fancy a man – if I could. It’d be Shevchenko.

  — I’m the same with Torres.

  — You fancy Torres?

  — I do, yeah.

  — But he’s shite. You’re always sayin’ it.

  — He is. It’s fuckin’ tragic. But it’s more of a paternal thing, I think. I just want to cuddle him. Tell him it’ll be grand, he’s not half as shite as he looks. Is it the same with you an’ Shevchenko?

  — Not really – no.

  — Grand.

  — Wha’ about the Irish lads? Could yeh see yourself cuddlin’ anny o’ them?

  — It’s your round.

  21-6-12

  — YOU MUST’VE GIVEN Torres a fair oul’ cuddle before our match against Spain, did yeh?

  — Fuck off, you.

  — You must’ve well an’ truly—

  — One more fuckin’ word an’ I’ll be lettin’ your missis know you’re thinkin’ of Andriy Shevchenko every night when you’re slidin’ into the fuckin’ bed.

  — Keep your voice down, for fuck—

  — Fuck off.

  — It’s not true.

  — Just fuck off.

  — It’s not.

  — Grand.

  — Wha’ d’yeh think of Theo Walcott?

  — As a footballer?

  — Ah, for fuck sake! Yes! As a fuckin’ footballer!

  — Yeh know what’s happened?

  — Keep your fuckin’ voice down.

  — You’ve ruined it.

  — Wha’ – how?

  — With your Shevchenko revelations. We’ll never be able to talk about the football again. There’s the quarter-finals, the semis, the final, the new season comin’ up – the rest of our fuckin’ lives. It’s Brokeback fuckin’ Mountain.

  — Not at all – calm down. Listen. Wha’ d’yeh think of Ronaldo?

  — Selfish little step-over cunt. There’s no disputin’ his talent but he doesn’t give a shite about his team. He plays for Ronaldo an’ he disappears on the big occasions.

  — Brilliant. Great analysis. Wasn’t so hard, was it?

  — No.

  — So. Movin’ on. Wha’ d’yeh make of Oxlade-Chamberlain?

  — He’s—

  — Yeah – go on.

  — He’s lovely.

  27-6-12

  — SEE THE QUEEN is back.

  — Wha’ queen?

  — The Queen of fuckin’ England. What other queen is there?

  — Where is she?

  — Here.

  — Where?

  — The North.

  — That’s not here.

  — Yes, it is.

  — No, it isn’t. It’s England.

  — Northern Ireland is England?

  — Yeah.

  — That’s fuckin’ mad.

  — It belongs to England.

  — No, it—

  — Do you want it?

  — No.

  — Shut up then. What’s she doin’ up there, an’anyway?

  — Shakin’ hands with McGuinness.

  — God love her. At least his hands’ll be nice an’ soft.

  — Wha’?

  — The gun oil.

  — Ah, for fuck sake—

  — They all use it up there. It’s great for the hands. All the massage parlours – they use it.

  — I’m not listenin’.

  — They butter their fuckin’ bread with it.

  — Not listenin’.

  — Will he tell her a joke?

  — Wha’?

  — McGuinness.

  — I doubt it.

  — Get her to laugh, like he did with Paisley. Here, Your Majesty, did yeh hear the one abou’ the priest an’ the donkey?

  — He says he won’t be callin’ her Your Majesty.

  — That’s a pity. Cos it’s a great joke. An’ she loves donkeys.

  — Horses.

  — Same thing.

  9-7-12

  — SEE THE WEATHER in England?

  — Fuck the weather in England. We’ve loads of our own.

  — It’s unbelievable.

  — Desperate.

  — Fuckin’ relentless.

  — But I’ll tell yeh. It’s handy enough for the polar bear.

  — The polar bear?

  — Young Damien’s.

  — You gave in.

  — Ah, yeah.

  — You’re a gobshite.

  — Ah now. He’s grand. He’s only a pup.

  — Young Damien?

  — The bear.

  — It’s a cub.

  — Wha’?

  — Not a pup. Seals have pups.

  — Don’t remind me.

  — Is the bear in the house with yis?

  — God, no. He’s ou’ the back. An’ happy enough, in all the rain an’ tha’.

  — Wha’ d’yis feed him?

  — You can smell it, can yeh?

  — Wha’?

  — I rubbed half a lemon all over meself. Stung like fuck as well.

  — Why did yeh do tha’?

  — To get rid o’ the smell.

  — Wha’ smell?

  — Whale.

  — Jesus, m’n. Did yeh buy him a fuckin’ whale as well?

  — No way – no. We heard it on the news. A dead whale on the beach.

  — Where?

  — Sligo.

  — Yeh went to fuckin’ Sligo?

  — That’s where the fuckin’ whale was. They don’t sell them in SuperValu.

  — Yeh spent the day cuttin’ up a whale?

  — Most of it was gone by the time we got there. But we got a good vanful.

  16-7-12

  — SEE YOUR MAN from Deep Purple died.

  — Cancer again. Did yeh like them?

  — No. Well, yeah. They were brilliant.

  — ‘Smoke on the Water’.

  — Tha’ one takes me back.

  — Go on.

  — I was seventeen.

  — Like Janis Ian.

  — Fuck off. I was in this place called Club 74.

  — I remember it.

  — ‘Smoke on the Water’ was playin’ an’ I was with this young one, an’ she had a few rum an’ blacks in her. Annyway, her tongue was all over me face. But she eventually finds me mouth. So – grand. The national anthem comes on and I say, We’ll give it a miss, will we? An’ we’re out o’ there an’ straight into St Anne’s.

  — Now we’re talkin’.

  — Listen. She leans back against a tree. Her own idea, now. One thing leads to another – I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. An’ I’ll tell yeh, when I—

  — Came.

  — Exactly. I thought I’d never stop. Premier Dairies couldn’t’ve kept up with the demand.

  — An’ what about her?

  — She’d gone.

  — Wha’?

  — She wasn’t there.

  — So, hang on – wha’? You’re tellin’ me yeh rode the arse off a tree?

  — Basically.

  — Jaysis. Wha’ sort of tree was it?

  — Don’t know. I don’t know much abou’ trees.

  19-7-12

  — IT’S WAS MAGNUMS all round in our place tonigh’.

  — How come?

  — My young one’s fella – young Damien�
�s dad, like. I told yeh about him.

  — Yeah.

  — He got ou’ today.

  — Great.

  — An’ he already has a job.

  — Go ’way. Doin’ wha’?

  — Security.

  — Great. Where?

  — The Olympics. In London, like.

  — Fuckin’ hell. How did tha’ happen?

  — Well, the security company tha’ got the contract—

  — G4S.

  — They’ve been makin’ a balls of it. Their own staff aren’t turnin’ up an’ the army lads over there don’t want the gig either cos they signed up to shoot Iraqis an’ tha’.

  — Grand. So what’ll he be guardin’?

  — Sand.

  — Fuckin’ sand?

  — The beach volleyball sand. It’s special. They don’t use the stuff off the beach. The Yanks would object to broken glass an’ condoms an’ tha’. The stadium isn’t ready but the sand is.

  — So he’ll be guardin’ sand.

  — No.

  — Hang on, you – no?

  — He sold it.

  — Wha’?

  — He’s buddies with a chap who knows a fella who’s got the job fixin’ some o’ them houses with the pyrite, yeh know. So they’re headin’ over to London with a lurry.

  — What’ll the poor beach volleyball young ones do?

  — They’ll have to go to the fuckin’ beach.

  30-7-12

  — WERE YEH WATCHIN’ the women’s archery?

  — Missed it.

  — Big girls with bows an’ arrows.

  — Grand.

  — The bows – fuckin’ hell. They’re like out of a video game. The type o’ thing yeh’d bring with yeh into a room full o’ Batman fans.

  — Fuckin’ stop tha’.

  — Wha’?

  — Stop.

  — How’s the polar bear?

  — It’s interestin’.

  — Yeah?

  — Well, the weather’s picked up, so he’s strugglin’ a bit. She gives him the ice out of her fuckin’ mojitos an’ I was thinkin’ o’ bringin’ him in to watch the synchronised divin’. Thought it might remind him o’ home. The water an’ tha’.

  — Makes sense.

  — No.

  — No?

  — Not accordin’ to young Damien. He doesn’t know he’s a polar bear, Granda, he says. An’ he explains it me – his experiment, like.

  — Go on.

  — We’re – the humans, like – we’re the only ones tha’ know wha’ we are. The animals haven’t a clue. So why should a polar bear struggle in the heat if he doesn’t even know he’s supposed to be cold?

  — Hang on—

  — So we’re pretendin’ he’s a dog. See how it goes. Took him ou’ for a walk an’ all.

  — An’?

  — He killed a couple o’ dogs.

  — That’s encouragin’.

  — Young Damien was pleased enough.

  31-7-12

  — SEE MAEVE BINCHY died.

  — Sad tha’.

  — It is, isn’t it? D’yeh ever read any of her bukes?

  — No.

  — Me neither.

  — I read the covers. In the bed, like. Whenever she had her hands on a new Maeve Binchy buke, yeh knew it was goin’ to be a quiet fuckin’ night.

  — Same in our place.

  — Still, but. No hard feelin’s.

  — No.

  — I liked her on the radio.

  — Yeah. I was thinkin’ tha’ meself earlier, when the news was on, like. I was lookin’ ou’ the kitchen window. An’ young Damien was ou’ there, sittin’ in the deckchair, yeh know – takin’ notes. Watchin’ the polar bear peelin’ the skin off o’ Larry Hennessey’s new English bulldog. An’ I said to meself, Maeve would’ve seen the funny side o’ tha’.

  — I know wha’ yeh mean.

  — Wha’ for us would be just a normal everyday domestic scene. She would’ve made it look funny.

  — Exactly.

  8-8-12

  — YOU’RE IN EARLY.

  — So are you.

  — I need a fuckin’ pint.

  — You were watchin’ Katie Taylor, yeah?

  — Brilliant.

  — Fuckin’ brilliant.

  — Did yeh ever think watchin’ a girl boxin’ the head off another girl would make yeh feel so proud?

  — Gas, isn’t it?

  — Will she win the gold but?

  — Foregone conclusion.

  — No doubts at all?

  — None.

  — How come?

  — She’s from Bray.

  — Wha’?

  — Did yeh ever walk through Bray on a Saturday nigh’, did yeh?

  — No.

  — It’s either boxin’ or sprintin’.

  — Makes sense. See the Brits were claimin’ her, but. The Daily Telegraph or somethin’.

  — Never mind the Brits. We’ll start worryin’ if the Germans start claimin’ her.

  — Or the IMF – we’ll eliminate the debt in exchange for Katie Taylor.

  — No deal, lads. We’ll take the debt.

  — She’s ours.

  — She is.

  — An’ see your man, the showjumper – the one with the horse tha’ cheated – he’s doin’ well too.

  — Fuck’m.

  — Yeah.

  9-8-12

  — JESUS, MAN – ME heart.

  — It was close.

  — Jesus –

  — But she won.

  — She’s brilliant.

  — Just brilliant.

  — I love her.

  — Me too. Your man on the telly’s right. She’s a fuckin’ legend.

  — She’s a born-again Christian as well. Did yeh know tha’?

  — God is my shield – yeah. That’s what’s made her a gold medallist.

  — Wha’?

  — The religion.

  — Wha’?

  — No, listen. If she was a Catholic, righ’, she’d’ve been happy with the bronze.

  — Wha’?!

  — It’s always the same. We qualify for somethin’ or we get to a final or a semi-final and that’s grand – we’re there for the fuckin’ party. But the born-agains – Jesus.

  — You’re serious.

  — It was the same with the War of Independence. We won three-quarters o’ the country and then we said, That’ll do us. An’ we went home for our fuckin’ tea.

  — But if we’d been born-again Christians, we’d’ve kept goin’?

  — The fourth green field, yeah – no bother. And on into Scotland – an’ Iceland – an’ fuckin’ Zimbabwe.

  — Yeh might be righ’.

  — Think about it.

  — When was the last time we won a gold without cheatin’?

  — Twenty years – Michael Carruth.

  — So maybe honesty is the best policy.

  — Ah now – calm down.

  18-8-12

  — PUSSY RIOT.

  — That’s just middle age. It’ll sort itself ou’.

  — No. The Russian young ones. The group, like.

  — What abou’ them?

  — I can’t get me head around it. Hooliganism motivated by religious hatred. What the fuck is tha’?

  — It’s just the excuse.

  — Wha’?

  — It’s nothin’ to do with religion. They’re in jail cos Putin doesn’t like them.

  — Is that all?

  — Listen. Remember punk – back in the day, like?

  — The Sex Pistols. ‘God Save the Queen’ an’ tha’.

  — Exactly.

  — Brilliant.

  — I wasn’t mad about it meself. But annyway. It blew the other music away.

  — Glam rock.

  — Putin loves it.

  — Wha’?

  — Glam rock.

  — Fuck off.

  — Serious. He’s mad
into Gary Glitter.

  — Tha’ makes sense. They prob’ly like the same videos.

  — Ah now. Annyway. Fuckin’ Putin an’ the other cunts in the Politburo all have platforms an’ silver suits, an’ he mimes along to ‘I’m the Leader of the Gang’ an’ ‘Do Yeh Wanna Touch Me?’.

  — Ah, fuck off.

  — I’m tellin’ yeh. He’s been doin’ it for years. He fuckin’ hates punk.

  — An’ that’s why those young ones are in jail?

  — The Pistols made Gary Glitter look ridiculous an’ those three young ones make Putin look even more ridiculous.

  21-8-12

  — SEE THE TOP Gun fella died.

  — Tom Cruise?

  — No, the director. Tony Scott. Killed himself.

  — I seen that alrigh’. It’s sad.

  — It is, yeah. D’yeh ever see Top Gun?

  — God, no. No fuckin’ way. I put the foot down after Flashdance.

  — Good man.

  — Had to be done. Hand on me heart now – I’ve never seen a fillum with Tom Cruise in it.

  — None o’ them?

  — Not fuckin’ one.

  — Not even the Mission: Impossibles?

  — Is he in them?

  — Yeah – ’course.

  — Well, I’ve seen them alrigh’. But I never noticed him.

  — He’s there alrigh’.

  — For fuck sake. He was chargin’ around so much an’ bashin’ into glass, I never saw his fuckin’ face. Are yeh sure about this?

  — Yeah, yeah. He’s in all o’ them. He’s the star, like.

  — Fuck – I feel a bit violated now.

  — Still but. Those action fillums – it doesn’t really matter who’s in them, sure it doesn’t?

  — Unless it’s one o’ the Die Hards.

  — Ah, but they’re different.

  — Cos o’ Bruce.

  — He’s one o’ the lads.

  — Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.

  — He was in here takin’ notes before he went to Hollywood.

  — He fuckin’ was.

  3-9-12

  — HOW’S YOUNG DAMIEN gettin’ on?

  — Well –

  — Yeah?

  — He was a bit low in himself.

  — After yis buried the polar bear?

  — Maybe a life o’ science isn’t for me, Granda, he says. Broke me fuckin’ heart.

  — I can imagine.

  — So – yeah. But then. He starts cuttin’ up stuff – bits o’ cloth, like. An’ he asks for the lend of his granny’s sewin’ machine.

  — Oh Jesus.