by Roddy Doyle
— Not as far as I know.
— So. Just to be clear. Pat Kenny doesn’t work for RTE annymore.
— No.
— Well, my God. Where’s he gone?
— Newstalk.
— An’ come here. Seriously. Are we supposed to give a fuck?
— Yeah.
— But do we?
— No.
— No, we don’t.
14-8-13
— Thirty-five grand.
— What about it?
— It’d buy yeh a lot of gargle.
— It fuckin’ would.
— Thirty-five thousand cans of Dutch Gold. Just for example.
— Fuck – I’m not sure that’s an attractive thought annymore.
— I’m just givin’ yeh a simple picture. An idea of the scale o’ the thing.
— You’re talkin’ about the amount o’ booze tha’ got delivered to the Garda station in Belmullet.
— In 2007 – yeah.
— Who gave it to them again?
— Shell – or some gang o’ cunts workin’ for Shell.
— The Garda inquiry said there was no evidence.
— ’Course not. They fuckin’ drank it, didn’t they?
— Wha’ did they do with the empties?
— Threw them in the fuckin’ sea on their way to hammerin’ the heads off the protesters.
— Tha’ makes sense.
— It’s efficient. But yeh know the really mad thing about it?
— Wha’?
— There was only ten Guards in the station.
— That’s, like, three an’ a half thousands’ worth of drink per pig.
— Yep.
— Does tha’ include mixers?
— Good question.
— Or crisps an’ nuts.
— I know wha’ yeh mean. Accessories, like.
— Were yeh ever in Belmullet?
— No – thank fuck.
— Yeh’d need a lot o’ free jar to survive a year in tha’ fuckin’ kip.
20-8-13
— See Elmore Leonard died.
— The singer?
— The writer.
— Which one was he?
— American, brilliant – Get Shorty.
— Was tha’ him?
— Yeah. Look at me.
— Wha’?
— He wrote loads o’ them. Look at me.
— Wha’?
— Out o’ Sight, Jackie Brown, Rum Punch, Killshot. Look at me.
— I am lookin’ at you. Why d’yeh keep fuckin’ sayin’ tha’?
— It’s a quote.
— Wha’?
— It’s a line. John Travolta says it.
— In Get Shorty.
— Yeah – good. Yeh know it.
— I do, yeah. ’Course. An’ I’m goin’ to make an educated guess here. Look at me.
— Wha’?
— I bet it’s the only line yeh remember from the fuckin’ fillum.
— No, it isn’t.
— Go on, so. Give us one.
— Fuck off.
— There. I knew it – yeh cunt.
— Wha’?
— Yeh couldn’t think of another line.
— I just did.
— Wha’?
— Fuck off.
— Tha’ doesn’t count. Tha’ line is in nearly every fillum worth watchin’ tha’ was ever made. Taxi Driver, The Godfather, Adam an’ Paul, Bambi—
— Fuckin’ Bambi?!
— The rabbit says it, if you’re listenin’ carefully – when the young prince’s birth is announced.
— Fuck off.
— He’s a bit of a Shinner, tha’ rabbit.
— Look at me.
— Wha’?
— It’s your round.
24-8-13
— D’yeh remember ‘Kitty Ricketts’?
— I fuckin’ married her.
— The song.
— The song, the attitude, the whole fuckin’ shebang.
— The song – stop messin’. Yeh know what I fuckin’ mean.
— I do, yeah.
— You remember it.
— Yeah.
— It was brilliant, wasn’t it?
— Yeah – brilliant. There were great songs back then.
— Great gigs as well.
— Yeah, yeah. The Blades, The Atrix.
— The Radiators from Space.
— Songs about Dublin.
— Made us proud, didn’t it?
— Still does.
— The fella tha’ wrote tha’ one, ‘Kitty Ricketts’.
— Philip Chevron – yeah.
— There’s a testimonial for him tonigh’.
— Football?
— In the Olympia.
— Football in the Olympia? Fuckin’ brilliant. The Radiators from Space versus A Republic of Ireland Eleven – from space.
— Niall Quinn up in the gods.
— His natural fuckin’ habitat.
— Eamon Dunphy on drums.
— Tha’ makes sense.
— Philip Chevron on the left wing.
— With his mazy runs an’ silky skills. Slashin’ at his opponents’ shins with his guitar.
— He isn’t well.
— Yeah.
— Yeh know wha’ tha’ means – ‘isn’t well’? For men our age, like.
— I do – yeah.
— Okay.
— Chevron, but. What sort of a name is tha’?
— It’s Irish. He dropped the O.
— O’Chevron?
— Exactly. It means son of the unfortunate fucker who couldn’t get the odds together to emigrate.
— Here, look it. We don’t normally do this. But we’ll lift the glass for Philip, will we?
— No – we won’t.
— Why not?
— Cos punks don’t do tha’ shite.
28-8-13
— Could you ever see the Irish Army usin’ chemical weapons?
— Well, I could see them goin’ into Limerick with a bottle o’ Harpic.
— Seriously.
— Why?
— Well – like. The Syrians gassin’ their own people.
— Ah, fuck off. Is this one o’ those ‘we’re nicer than the Arabs’ conversations?
— No—.
— Cos we’re not.
— I know. Although our music’s better.
— Not by much.
— Okay. But the gassin’ an’ tha’. An’ the Yanks an’ the Brits plannin’ on—
— The French as well.
— Never mind the French. They’re all mouth, those fuckers. But do none of them have kids or mas or – just, families?
— People they love.
— Exactly. Have they no fuckin’ imaginations?
— I nearly gassed the kids once.
— I’m serious.
— I know. They’ll tell us they’re doin’ it for the good of the world but wha’ they’ll actually be doin’ is destroyin’ families.
— That’s it – it’s desperate. If they – Obama an’ Cameron an’ the headbangers – if they’d think of a great family moment, yeh know, everyone laughin’ or something, before they do—. D’yeh know what it is? I’m scared.
— I know wha’ yeh mean.
— Do yeh?
— I think so.
30-8-13
— See Seamus Heaney died.
— Saw tha’. Sad.
— Did yeh ever meet him?
— Don’t be fuckin’ thick. Where would I have met Seamus Heaney?
— That’s the thing, but. He looked like someone yeh’d know.
— I know wha’ yeh mean – the eyebrows an’ tha’.
— He always looked like he liked laughin’.
— One o’ the lads.
— Except for the fuckin’ poetry.
— Wha’ would possess a man like tha’ to throw his life away on poetry?
>
— Exactly.
— Although, fair enough – he won the Nobel Prize for it.
— He’d probably have won it annyway.
— For wha’ – for fuck sake?
— I don’t know. Football, plumbin’ – annythin’. Tha’ was wha’ was special about him. He was brilliant but he looked like he came from around the corner. The poetry, but.
— I feel a confession comin’ on.
— I was givin’ one o’ the grandkids a hand with the homework.
— Go on.
— She had to write about one of his poems. ‘Mid-Term Break’, it’s called.
— Yeah, go on.
— Well, it was fuckin’ unbelievable. Just shatterin’ – brilliant. About a child’s funeral.
— ‘A four foot box, a foot for every year.’
— You read it as well.
— You’re not the only man in the shop with grandkids.
10-9-13
— See fruit’s bad for yeh.
— I always said it.
— All tha’ one-in-five bolloxology.
— Fuckin’ scientists – they’re fuckin’ eejits. How could fuckin’ kiwis be good for yeh?
— She’s fuckin’ furious – at home. She’s thinkin’ o’ suin’.
— Suin’ who?
— Fuckin’ everyone – far as I can make ou’. Says she’s suffered permanent spinal damage carryin’ all them bananas home from SuperValu.
— So – she’s suin’ Africa? The country of origin, like?
— Africa’s not a country – strictly speakin’.
— Okay—
— An’ in fairness to the Africans, I don’t think they came up with this one-in-five shite. They’d have different priorities, I’d say. I think what’s really got her goat is the fact tha’ she can’t claim tha’ the blackcurrant in her rum an’ black is one of her daily five. She’ll have to replace it with celery or broccoli or somethin’.
— Vegetables are still officially healthy, are they?
— For the time bein’.
— I hate them.
— Yeah. Little green cunts.
— Useless.
— It’s gas but, isn’t it? How we get suckered in. Some prick in a white coat says if you eat all o’ your peas Gina Lollobrigida will sit on your face.
— An’ we fall for it.
— Every fuckin’ time.
11-9-13
— So Trap’s gone.
— He was never here.
— Ah now, that’s a bit fuckin’ harsh.
— I’m only statin’ a fact. His interpreter—
— Manuela Spinelli.
— Exactly. Yeh know the way she stood beside him, noddin’ at everythin’ he said—
— It was kind o’ sexy.
— It fuckin’ was. Exactly wha’ yeh want in a woman. Anyway. The very first press conference, when he got the job, like. He says somethin’ in Italian. An’ she’s noddin’ away but you can see it in her eyes.
— Wha’?
— Panic.
— Okay. Why?
— Cos he thinks he’s in Iceland.
— Wha’?!
— He thinks he’s the new manager of Iceland. Tha’ he’s in Copenhagen.
— Reykjavik.
— Exactly.
— Fuck off.
— I’m serious – you fuck off. Look at it on YouTube. She decides – yeh can see it clearly, in her eyes, like – she decides not to give the game away, and she starts goin’ on about how he’s lookin’ forward to workin’ with the Irish lads, when he’s actually sayin’ he’s a big fan o’ Björk an’ he can’t wait to see the fuckin’ volcanoes.
— Fuckin’ hell.
— An’ she’s been at it ever since. Basically.
— She’s – Jesus. Did she choose the teams as well?
— Someone had to.
17-9-13
— D’yeh think there’ll ever be a mad fella with a gun in Ireland like they have them in America?
— Did yeh miss the fuckin’ Troubles?
— Yeh know what I mean, but.
— The country’s full o’ mad cunts with guns. They’re always shootin’ one another.
— Yeah – one another. The drug fellas an’ tha’. But that’s just business, isn’t it?
— S’pose.
— They’re only a bit mad. Wha’ they are is cold-blooded businessmen an’ the madness is actually an asset. It’s wha’ you’d be lookin’ for in the job interview, like. ‘Would yeh work well as part of a team?’ ‘I’d shoot the fuckin’ team.’ ‘You’re in.’
— Okay.
— But the Americans. Like the latest one – a Buddhist with a history o’ violence. Yeh couldn’t make it up.
— Stop there now. Your man over there – don’t fuckin’ look!
— Tonto?
— Yeah – Tonto. He’s a fuckin’ Buddhist.
— Is he?
— Kind of a Catholic Buddhist, but yeah. An’ he has a history of violence. An’ here’s the point. He’s still violent. He’d kill us all now, except – why?
— He doesn’t want to be barred.
— And?
— He doesn’t have a gun.
— Exactly. There’s mad fellas everywhere but in America they give them guns.
4-10-13
— See Stephen Ireland’s granny died.
— About fuckin’ time.
— Jesus, man. That’s fuckin’ harsh.
— Yeah – okay. I’m sorry for her troubles.
— She’s dead.
— Grand. An’ it’s sad. But it can’t’ve been easy bein’ that prick’s granny. Sure, he announced she died – how long ago?
— Six years.
— Is it six?
— Yeah.
— Where did they fuckin’ go?
— Incredible, isn’t it? I can’t even remember now why exactly he said she’d died.
— Did he not say tha’ more than one granny died?
— A selection of them, yeah. They all denied it.
— Some fuckin’ tulip. Imagine not playin’ for your country.
— I’ve never played for me country, so I find it easy to imagine.
— Yeh know what I mean. You get the call—
— At my age?
— No, listen—
— I was always shite at football.
— Just listen. Yeh get the call. No. One of your grandkids – a few years down the line – gets called up to play for Ireland.
— Okay.
— You’d be chuffed.
— Oh yeah.
— But he says he can’t play cos his grandda’s after dyin’.
— Tha’ would be me, would it?
— Yeah.
— An’ I wouldn’t be dead.
— No.
— I think I’d see the funny side.
— Would yeh, but?
— No.
17-10-13
— See Dublin is the twentieth most reputable city in the world.
— Tha’ right? What’s above us? Baghdad, Limerick, the other African one – what’s it? – Kajagoogoo. An’ Damascus. Am I righ’?
— No, you’re way off. It’s based on reputation.
— Yeah.
— Good reputation.
— Good?
— Yeah.
— I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard ‘good’ go beside ‘reputation’. I remember, this cunt of a Christian Brother – this was me first day in secondary school – he grabbed me by the hair beside me ear an’ he said he’d heard I had a reputation an’, I’ll tell yeh, it wasn’t a fuckin’ compliment. There was nothin’ good about it. Stamped me for life, it did.
— Well—
— The wife even hesitated when the fuckin’ priest asked her if she wanted me to be her lawfully wedded husband.
— Did she?
— She looked at the best man – my fuckin’ best man – an
’ he nodded, an’ then she said, ‘I do.’ It was touch an’ go, but.
— Who was the best man?
— That’s a different story. But these fuckin’ polls. They’re all me hole, aren’t they?
— Hang on.
— Wha’?
— I was your best man.
— No, yeh weren’t. Were yeh?
— Think so.
— Fuck. Wha’ weddin’ am I rememberin’ then?
23-10-13
— Wha’ colour are your kids’ eyes?
— Ah Jesus. Is this me local or University Challenge?
— Okay. An easier one. How many kids have yeh? Is it the four?
— Think so, yeah. I get them confused with the grandkids.
— Same here. But you’ve four, yeah?
— Yeah.
— Grand. Movin’ on, so. Eye colour?
— Okay. Righ’. There’s three blues, like herself, an’ a brown.
— One brown?
— One kid, two fuckin’ eyes – both brown.
— Okay. Say the Guards came into your house an’ took him away cos one o’ your neighbours said he looked nothin’ like the other kids.
— Wha’ neighbour?
— Don’t worry about the fuckin’ neighbour. Stay with me. You’d have to show proof tha’ he was yours – a DNA test an’ tha’. An’ you’d be the first item on the mornin’ news an’ the RTE crime correspondent would be there, even though no crime was committed. It’d be fuckin’ appallin’.
— Yeah, but the blue-eyed kid in Greece—
— That’s the thing, but. Here, like. In fuckin’ Ireland. A blue-eyed kid in among the dark eyes. A little angel in with the gyppos. Must be stolen. But a dark-eyed kid in among all the fair hair? Where’s the fuckin’ crime correspondent then?
— At home.
27-10-13
— See Lou Reed died.
— Wha’?
— Lou Reed.
— He’s after dyin’?
— Yeah.
— He can’t’ve.
— I know wha’ yeh mean. But he has.
— But – he – ah, fuck it.
— Sorry.
— There are – listen. There are the ones tha’ die young—
— Like Hendrix.
— Yeah. Amy Winehouse an’ tha’. An’ there are the ones tha’ don’t die. Ever.
— Keith Richards.
— Exactly. An’ Iggy Pop.