The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  Buck was an awful cunt at a session ‘cos he flouted these rules with impunity. Playing one tune on its own about eight or nine times, ten tunes all played once or twice each, or jumping from a reel to a jig to a hornpipe was a typical Buckley set.

  Buck and Mick started up a conversation about the night before. Buck had been playing support to a stand-up comedy show with a couple of guys over on the Northside. He said that the funniest thing in the whole show was the fact that they had trad music as a supporting act which didn’t seem to make much sense but the free bar after the show more than made up for it.

  “P.J. got fuckin’ buckled and brought her home, like, the stupid cunt.”

  I had just got back from the bar with another pint of recovery and this seemed like an as appropriate time as any to join the conversation.

  “Who was this?” I asked.

  “P.J. Furlong, y’know him, plays the flute like he wears boxing gloves and drinks like you do!” said Buck with a snide snigger.

  “No, who did he bring home?”

  “Ah, oul’ poxy Polly from Australia, a right oul’ slapper.”

  “Do I know her?” I asked, she sounded interesting.

  “Ah, probably, she’s in here now and again, usually off her face, she used to go with John Cole until he found her shagging one of his brothers, Ha Ha Ha!”

  “Mono-Polly,” interjected Mick.

  “Yeah, yeah,” came back Buck, “Coley calls her Mono-poly, ‘cos she’s a dog, an old boot and if you take a chance you’ll probably get your hands on her community chest, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “Ah Ha Ha Ha,” I had a good laugh at that, nice one Coley.

  “Yeah,” I said sticking to the theme, “me and Brian were out last night with a mate of Brian’s from Galway whose mother shagged Georgie Best in a night club in the seventies.”

  “Ah, sure who didn’t,” said Buck.

  “Wha’, did you shag him as well, Buck?” enquired Mick laughing.

  “I fuckin’ would if he asked me nicely,” came back Buck smiling. Mick was disgusted. He liked his humour soft and non-threatening.

  “One of the three great geniuses from the north,” continued Dave.

  “The others being?”

  “Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins and Van ‘The Man’ Morrison.”

  There were mutters of approval around the table.

  “Yeah ... and all three of them are dirty orange protestant bastards!!” roared Buck finishing Dave’s sentence for him and the mutters turned to raucous laughter.

  Mick ‘tut-tut’-ed.

  “You can always rely on Buckley to lower the tone at the table, tut-tut.”

  “What about Seamus Heaney?” I asked, “The Nobel prize must count for something.”

  “We’re talking about the fine arts here,” said Dave jumping back in, “football, snooker, rock ’n’ roll and you bring up poetry ... Poetry!! Ha Ha Ha.”

  “Yeah,” said Buck, “now who’s lowering the tone at the table?”

  I sniggered along, actually we all did except Mick who had gotten himself embroiled in a conversation with a foreign looking gentleman at the next table.

  In walked Brian, he looked like I felt an hour ago.

  “Ah for fuck’s sake, now we’ll see how low the tone can go, like,” said Buck.

  “Good morning gentlemen,” said Brian, “Mr. Buckley, Mr. Foy, Mr. Dave, young fella’ with the guitar.”

  “Good morning??” said Buck, his intonation shooting up like a rocket, “this gobshite thinks he’s in New York ... afternoon, Brian, afternoon!”

  Brian sat down between me and the guitarist, and shouted across the room for the barman to “stick on a pint of Carlsberg” for him.

  “How’s it going lads?” asked Brian rhetorically.

  “For your information, Brian, my name is Hewson,” said Dave who obviously objected to being called ‘Mr. Dave’.

  “Your name is Hewson?” exclaimed Brian, “Dave Hewson? ... any relation to yer man with the shades?”

  “Nope, none at all,” sighed Dave with a wearisome tone.

  “My name is Murphy,” said the young fella’ getting in on the act, “Spud Murphy.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” said Buck, “it’s the Irish James Bond, Ha Ha Ha, the name’sh Murphy, Shpud Murphy, Ha Ha Ha.”

  We all had a laugh at that and even the young fella’ ... Spud, joined in.

  “The name is Bond, Seamus O’Bond, Ah Ha Ha Ha!”

  “Double-O a seacht.”

  “Licence to drink.”

  “A pint of Guinnesh ... shaken not shtirred, Ha Ha Ha Ha!”

  “She shells she shells on the she shore.”

  Mick turned back to the table and greeted Brian.

  “Hello Brian,” he said coldly, they didn’t like each other much, “I thought I noticed the room getting a bit colder.”

  “Hey, it’s Mick Mac on the doodle sack … nice to see you too Mick.”

  It seemed to be about time we played some more tunes. Brian hopped off to the bar and Dave played a nice set of jigs. I started to feel normal again, just a little woozy and merry but at least the hangover was being suppressed. Actually, I think it was being sweated out through the palms of my hands. I had to take it easy, I was playing a session tonight and I couldn’t get too locked. Maybe Brian would come and back me up, that cunt could drink all day and still play tunes all night. He would be my safety net, as many’s the time before. Brian informed me that he’d arranged to meet Whatsisname, Paul, here at some stage this afternoon to discuss Galway. Great!

  The afternoon continued with pints and tunes and a couple of songs from Spud the young fella’. I asked him why he was called ‘Spud’ and he said it was from some poem we did in school.

  “Oh yeah, ‘Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, it’s with Spud Murphy in the grave’? Ah Ha Ha Ha.”

  Spud laughed back. “Nice one. Nah, it was ‘something some- thing Spud Murphy’s trolley’, somethin’ like that. I can’t even remember anymore.”

  Yeah, I remembered that, or at least it sounded familiar. Spud was a cool guy.

  About half-two we sent him out to do the bottle. Doing the bottle is a shit job, well, for most of us anyway, but Spud seemed to like it. Doing the bottle involved going round the punters in the pub with a basket, or a plate, or an empty glass, or even the traditional ‘hat’ and asking for a contribution for the music. For this you needed ‘bottle’, hence the name. It was an honour usually reserved for the youngest/most inexperienced/most useless/stupidest musician at the table. If you get a lot of foreigners you’re on a winner, especially Americans or Germans. Italians are the worst, English the best (God forgive me!), but this morning we had nearly all locals as far as I could see. Spud would have his work cut out. As our guitarist was out collecting funds for further debauchery, Mick elected to do one of his partypieces, a long drawn out pipering showcase that I didn’t much care for. It was much more interesting to watch Spud extract the euro from the punters. His style was great, he seemed to assess the potential of each group or table before he came to them and then he adopted a stance suited to that particular pitch. First, with a group of suits he was pally, knowing they had money and would probably try to out-do each other once the first contribution went in. Fifty cent, one and a half euro, two euro and the final insult/victory, five euro from the guy with the nicest suit.

  “Thanks lads, enjoy the game, and make sure you’re in a state to remember it, Ha Ha!” Next up a couple of middle-aged ladies, who already looked intimidated so Spud put on the charm.

  “Excuse me ladies, we’re having a little collection for the musicians, all contributions gleefully accepted,” then the hat is thrust in front of their faces with an authority that says it’s not going anywhere until something is put in it.

  “Do youse not get paid by the bar?” she asked as she gave her two cents. “Ah, a couple of the lads do, but the rest of us are here out of the goodness of our hearts to brighten up your Sunday morning, thanks very m
uch ...” Then sotto voce, “oul’ biddy.”

  Guys and gals. “How’s it goin’ lads, eh, we’re having a collection for the musicians.” Hands are thrust into pockets all round the table. They trawl their pockets at length with little intention of drawing anything out of it until eventually one of them drops a euro into the hat and there’s a sigh around the table of ‘ah, thank God that’s over, now let’s put this embarrassing episode behind us’. But Spud doesn’t let go, anyone putting their hand in their pocket was now obligated to contribute. They were like fish on a hook and Spud was reeling them in. Then he caught the eye of a guy who was too involved with one of the girls to be delving in his pockets.

  “How’s it goin’ head, would you ever take that girl out of your face and show her how generous you are.” They all coughed up fairly lively after that and Spud moved on.

  We finished up the session with ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’, ‘Cooley’s’ and the obligatory ‘Bucks of Oranmore’. Savage! All the instrument groups nicely represented. By then it was around lunch time and all the punters started drifting onward or homeward for lunch. Soon we’d be sitting over our pints for another hour or two until the next session kicked off around four, but then a better offer came along. Buck had a bit of gear and had skinned it up in the jax so he invited Brian, myself and Spud outside for an oul’ toke. Great! that’s just what I need with me trying to keep myself on level ground for my session tonight, but fuck it, it was lunch time and I’d fuck all else to do.

  We divvied up the hat money and the lads got sorted from the barman. Instruments were packed away and slung over shoulders. Then we waited five minutes for Dave to finish yapping with the maid behind the bar. He was in good form and as he was holding the merchandise, he was in no rush. Little progress was being made with the maid but Dave enjoyed buttering up barmaids for months before going in for the kill, like a cat around hot milk.

  “He might as well go home and butter up his own cock,” said Brian, “the only blow he’s going to get today is in his top pocket and he’s fuckin’ dawdlin’ with that cow. ARE YE RIGHT, DAVE, ye cunt.”

  “She’s a fuckin’ ride that one,” proclaimed Dave when he emerged.

  “Are ye makin’ progress?” I asked.

  “I am.”

  “Ye are like fuck.”

  “I fuckin’ am, in about six months I’ll have her smilin’ at me and evertin’, Ha Ha Ha.”

  We headed down to the Liffey where we were in open space and could see for hundreds of yards in all directions. There weren’t too many around, it being Sunday lunchtime. We crossed the road and leaned against the wall. I leaned over and spat into the Liffey for no good reason other than it stank. The path on this side was too narrow for strollers and with the stinky Liffey behind us and the smoggy road in front of us we felt comfortable sparking up in broad daylight.

  “Nice few tunes this morning.”

  “I wouldn’t’ve come in if I knew Mick was on,” said Brian.

  “Ah, Mick’s alright.”

  “Ah, he just gives me a dirty look every time I open me mouth.”

  “Decent hat as well, fair play Spud,” I said jangling my pocket full of small change.

  “It’s a skill,” said Spud proudly.

  The joint came my way. I took a couple of blasts, and whoosh! I could feel the blood moving through my veins, tickling the inside of my skin, a nice feeling, by and large.

  “What’s the plan, Brian?” I asked.

  “Are ye on for a few more tune-eens and pint-eens? … or do I have to ask?”

  “You don’t and I am.”

  “I’m going for a bit of a nose bag, then I might drop into Kelly’s,” said Spud.

  “Who’s on in Kelly’s?”

  “Fintan Doyle and that crowd.”

  “What is it, ballads or tunes?”

  “It’s a pound-a-pint.”

  “Shurly you mean euro,” said Dave in a pretty good Kerry accent.

  “I do,” replied Spud in the same.

  “Well then it’s settled then, boy.”

  “Who’s on for some grub first? The munchies are kickin’ in,” asked Spud.

  “Not me, I just had the breakfasht,” I said.

  “Yeah, a liquid one,” said Brian with held breath and lungs full of good Moroccan smoke, “who wants the last of this?”

  “Let’s go to McDonald’s for a big-fuckoff-burger.”

  “Sure that’s only more liquid food,” I said, “pre-digested crud.”

  “Yeah,” said Brian doing the wanking gesture, “with the special sauce, Heh Heh Heh!”

  Spud and Dave went off for a sandwich or something cheap and carriable that would be paid for in small change while me and Brian went ahead to get some seats. But really, who were we kidding? Musicians always got seats.

  “What happened to Paul?” I asked.

  “Oh shit, I’ll call him.”

  For call, read SMS, ‘whr r u? were in kellys come on dwn’.

  “Do you know these heads playin’?” I asked Brian.

  “Don’t know, maybe.”

  We went into Kelly’s and had a gander. I’d never been in Kelly’s before. It was nice enough I suppose, overwhelmingly dark-brown and dirty-wooden, with about five different small rooms either up or down a couple of steps. The session was at the front, near the door and beside the bar. There was an oul’ fella’ with a guitar and a pint at a table with a ‘Resvered’ (sic) sign on it. We asked if he was playing and he answered in the affirmative so we grabbed a couple of stools and I went to the bar for a couple of creamy lovelies. The place was fairly full for a Sunday afternoon, especially for a place with no pub-grub. The ones that were there were mostly tourists or hardened drinkers on an extended Sunday morning pint-up. Three youngish American girls came in and asked if we were going to play some music. We also answered in the affirmative and got them to sit near us.

  “Where are you girls from?”

  “We’re from the states.”

  “Go’way!!! Which part?”

  “Kentucky.”

  “Oh, I know Kentucky.”

  “Really? Have you been there?”

  “No, but I’ve tried your chicken. It’s pretty good.”

  “Oh yeah, doesn’t that come with the special sauce?” I sniggered.

  “You mean Kentucky Fried Chicken? No, that doesn’t have sauce, but we got the coating ...” then all three in unison, “... with eleven different herbs and spices!!”

  “Actually, Foy here is a bit of a gourmet chef. He has his own special sauce.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he whips it up himself every night. Maybe he’ll give yiz a taste later if he’s lucky, Heh Heh Heh!”

  “Dublin Foy’d Chicken, Ah Ha Ha Ha.”

  Just then the rest of the crew came in. There was commotion as seats were arranged and instruments were plonked down or swung around. The punters held onto their glasses in case the unthinkable happened. Me and Brian held on with both hands. Then to make matters worse Dave and Spud arrived back glowing with full stomachs, and they brought Paul with them. Apparently Paul and Dave knew each other from somewhere. Well, Paul knew Dave and Dave at least pretended to remember Paul.

  On the way to the pub Paul had spotted Dave walking down Dame Street. He stopped him and asked him the time, Dave told him, to which Paul replied “Thanks, Dave.” Dave was a bit shocked at this and is all like “Who the fuck are you?” Paul explained their tenuous connection and Dave goes ...

  “Oh yeah, you had longer hair, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You had a face-lift, changed your name and got shorter?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Do you remember ‘Hairy Molly’?”

  “Ah, for fuck’s sake, say no more.”

  Myself and Brian knew ‘Wild’ Billy Hickey from way back when we used to do a Wednesday night out near Chapelizod, a disastrous gig that thankfully only lasted a few weeks. The gig ended when Billy went for some bodhràn p
layer who was talking during a song and bit him on the cheek, bloody mess, cops were called and everything. Though that was very much out of character, it must be said. Billy seemed to be the head honcho here, so at least we could mooch in on the session without waiting politely for an invitation. He was a real old timer, a fine singer but a moany old cunt of Olympic proportions who I’d never seen once with the merest sign of having drink taken despite gargling to beat the band ... literally.

  “Jaysus, I’m sick of this poxy place and playing for bloody tourists.”

  That was Billy.

  “Did ye get a pint for yourself, Foy? I hope you didn’t pay full price for that. I’ll bring it back up to the bar and get you a refund if you did, get ye yer pound back.”

  “Ah no, you’re grand Billy, sure it’s all euro these days anyway.”

  “Yeah, I’ll never get used that. They charged us a pound-apint here for years an’ now it’s one bleedin’ euro fifty, miserable bastards, pain in the arse.”

  Brian and Paul were chatting to the Americans, trying to fry some chicken you might say but the lads were tuning up so I got my fiddle out and rosined it heavily.

  “Are ye playin’ much, Billy?”

  “Am I shite, I was playin’ local this morning, here this afternoon, and one on Wednesday and that’s enough for me. I don’t want to be boring the arse off meself. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yeah, this is Spud. Spud ... Billy Hickey.”

  “How’s it goin’.”

  The tunes started up at the usual leisurely pace. There was only myself, Fintan the flute player, two guitars and a mandolin. Billy let Spud take the tunes and he sang the songs, as it should’ve been. Billy sang his usual Luke Kelly repertoire and was in fine voice. The Americans were buying Brian and Paul pints so I gave Brian a shout and played ‘The Hag with the Money’ into ‘Will You Come Home With Me’, but he didn’t get it.