The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  “Horizontal fencing?? Ye bleedin’ butt-buster ye.”

  “OK then, horizontal archery.”

  “... sincerely yours, the sessioneers at Fitzer’s.”

  “That’s it! The Sessioneers!”

  Just then John arrived down with four creamy pints that were ordered about twenty minutes ago.

  “If it’s going to take that long, John, you’d better stick on another four while you’re at it.”

  Brian picked up his pint, held it aloft and cried “DOWN IN ONE.”

  Oh shit.

  All the pints went up, “… AND ONE FOR ALL.”

  Glug,

  Glug,

  Glug,

  There was no way that pint was going down in one. I got a little over half way and gave up. Brian had already finished his and sat there grinning. It was like pouring it down a sink, it seemed to by-pass his throat and go straight into his gut. Spud came up for air with water in his eyes and ‘down in one’ for Aiden meant a whole mouthful in one, we’d all survived.

  “That wasn’t such a wise move.”

  I felt a bit sick and straightened my back so as to allow my stomach access to its full capacity. I looked over at John to make sure that another round wasn’t on its way for a while yet, when out of the light above John’s head came a flying packet of fags. A couple of hands tried to grasp them mid flight and missed. Its trajectory continued towards our table and onto our pints. It bounced off my glass and continued on its journey, finally coming to rest as it flew into Aiden’s half drunk pint. As this was happening, I was trying to catch the fucking thing to stop it doing any damage. Unfortunately, by the time my hand and the fags were in the same place it was already in Aiden’s glass. My hand hit the glass, the glass went horizontal and like a bowling pin it took its neighbours with it. Glass cracked, the table filled up with black foamy liquid. Beer and session detritus flowed over the edge of the table onto our laps. Chairs were pushed back noisily and everyone stood up simultaneously. I grabbed my half-pint quickly and lifted it to safety. “Ah for fuck’s sake!” could be heard up to three tables away, the most heartfelt coming from behind the bar. The sudden jerk and the sight of a table full of Guinness proved too much for my tender stomach and the nights entertainment came back to haunt me. Uueearuegh!!! Luckily my glass was still upright and close to hand so I refilled it and let it overflow and run over my hands, onto my shoes. “Ah for fuck’s sake!!” rang out again all round the pub. This time all of them were heartfelt and the one behind the bar close to hysterical.

  “Everything’s coming up roses ...”

  “Forty-three years ...”

  We set off about noon. Brian was driving one of his father’s little vans. Brian came from a fairly well to do family. His father owned a printing shop and they lived very comfortably in Templeogue, so getting one of the company vans for a weekend was not really a problem. I sat up front with Brian. Spud, when we picked him up near Tallaght, sat on a box with a cushion in the back. The bags didn’t take up nearly any room so the greatest waste of space, besides Spud, were the instruments.

  “Will I skin up a spliff?” suggested Spud not five minutes after he got in.

  “Fuckin’ sure ... if Brian doesn’t mind that is.”

  “Ah, we’ll keep an eye out and the windows open.”

  I played D.J. and Spud got together an enormous white carrot of a thing.

  “Did you get a little something for the week-end, sir?”

  “Oh yeah, this head owed me twenty quid and he offered me a twenty spot for it so I jumped at it ‘cos I figured you lads would be up for a bit of smokey smokey. Ye know what I mean?”

  “Oh yeah , ooooh smokey, smokey, smokey.”

  “Ah Ha Ha! Everybody.”

  “OOOOH SMOKEY SMOKEY SMOKEY.”

  “You put the joint in, you take the joint out … in, out, in, out, you stick it in your mouth, you do the smokey smokey and your head turns around.”

  “That’s what it’s all about.”

  The joint came to me, I inhaled deeply and it was good. The weather was chilly but sunny. The open road in front of us, heading off to the west, Matt Molloy was playing on the CD, tearing the arse out of ‘Kitty in the Lane’. What more could a body ask for?

  “Holy Jaysus, this is good stuff, you must’ve loaded it, here Brian, do you want some?”

  “Ah, go on, I’ll just have a bit.”

  “It is, yeah. Fuckin’ rocket fuel.”

  “I see trees are green ...”

  “Who’s Teresa Green?”

  “... red ribbons too, I take another toke and I pass it on to you, and I think to myself, what a wonderful ...”

  “...joint.”

  “...world.”

  “...road.”

  “Hey, Brian, will any of yer old mates be popping in down here?” I asked, suddenly remembering that Brian had lived in Galway for a year.

  “Ah, maybe, I rang the lads, but Simon is out on the island and Nàbac are in Spain ... most of the other cunts I could do without seeing, but ye never know.”

  “Nàbac? With Paddy on the box? Ah, that’s a shame.”

  Spain, sweet.

  The van was silent for a couple of minutes until I remembered that I was D.J., I rooted through our collection of CDs.

  “Do you listen to ‘Gràda’ Spud?”

  ‘Cos that’s what was goin on next.

  “Oh yeah. Gràda, Dervish, Arty, Dick Gaughan, Solas, Liz Carroll especially Liz Carroll lately.”

  “With Johnny Doyle on guitar?”

  “Yeah, fuckin’ sure, anythin’ with Johnny Doyle is good for me.”

  I’ll spare you the details of our discussion of Johnny Doyle, Johnny Doyle’s pick-ups, pick-ups in general, microphone anecdotes and gig anecdotes. Spud told us about one Paddy’s day where he ended up dancing a jig onstage at a Davy Spillane gig! He hadn’t a clue how to dance and hopped up on stage expecting to be pulled off straight away. He said that when he turned around and saw the size of the crowd he sobered up instantly, but by then he was already committed to doing the jig and couldn’t stop until Davy stopped playing. We were breaking our bollixes laughing. Spud could tell a story alright. Of course the dope helped it along just a bit.

  It wasn’t long before we hit Kinnegad and the munchies had well kicked in so we stopped for some supplies. Mars bars, crisps and Coke, it was like a five year old’s birthday party.

  “... all that’s missing are the smarties and party hats.”

  We piled back into the van and veered onto the N6. I got another joint together and we sat there and stared at the countryside. It was my turn to choose again so we listened to Flook but it wasn’t exactly Brian’s taste (‘turn that fuckin’ shite off’) so when it finished we were only too willing to listen to Spud do a bit of practice in the back. He could play tunes picking style fairly well. That’s a bloody hard thing to do ‘cos the guitar wasn’t designed to do anything of the sort, and it’s not much use at a session anyway ‘cos it’s too bloody quiet. But listening to Spud’s mellow playing was spot on for the mood I was in and I nearly dozed off. I came back to myself when he started playing a tune that was fuckin’ gorgeous. It caught my ears and wouldn’t let go, it sounded simple and classic. It wasn’t often anymore that I found a great new tune that I’d never heard before. I think it was a reel but could’ve been a clan march of some kind ... He finished.

  “Fuckin’ gorgeous, what’s that called? You’ll have to show me that.”

  “That’s ‘Lead the Knave’, Arty McGlynn, great tune, sure, yeah, you’ll have it in ten minutes, it’s really handy.”

  I hopped in the back, got my fiddle out and sure enough, in ten minutes I had a new tune to break in over the week-end.

  “Savage tune!”

  “Will you be doing any singing Spud?” asked Brian.

  “Ah sure, I might do a bit if I’m drunk enough.”

  “You don’t do ‘The Fields of Athenry’ do you?” I asked, winding him up.

>   “I do but I don’t ... I mean, I can but I won’t. Nor ‘The Wild Rover’, nor ...”

  “Dirty Oul’ Town.”

  “Ride On.”

  “Ah ‘Ride On’ is a nice enough song.”

  “Yeah, but ask yourself how many time you’ve already heard it.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Oh yeah, actually, have yiz got some paper an’ I’ll make a fuckin’ list of unwelcome requests, stick it on the back of the guitar.”

  “The ten euro minimum list.”

  “The fuck-off-you-must-be-joking-I’ll-sing-it-at-your-funeral list.”

  “Ah Ha Ha Ha!”

  Spud hopped into the front over the seats to stick on a tape. I sat in the back and fingered ‘Lead the Knave’ a couple of hundred times. ‘Lead the Knave’, a stupid name for a great tune.

  “Right, ‘Dirty Oul’ Town’, poxy oul’ song,” said Spud making his list, “... and I never will play ‘The Wild Rover’ no more ...”

  “No, nay, never.”

  “ ... ‘Ride On’ ...”

  “Horseman pass by.”

  “What else? Oh yeah ‘The Fields of Athenry’, that’s an absolute must-not. ‘Dublin in the Rare Oul’ Times’, Jaysus! I’ll puke me ring-a-ring-a-rosie if I hear that again.”

  “Don’t forget ‘The Lonesome Boatman’,” said Brian almost panicked.

  “That’s not a song.”

  “Yeah, but as soon as any cunt sees the tin whistle he’s all ‘ah play the lonely boatman, play the lonely boatman’ and I fuckin’ hate it, poxy tune.”

  Not to be left out I threw in my two cents, “write down ‘The Marino Waltz’ for me, please.”

  “What’s that?” asked Spud surprised at not knowing a punters favourite.

  “The Bord Na Móna ad,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Say no more.”

  Spud wrote out his list of the most popular and therefore most commonly requested songs and tunes in the whole of Ireland and stuck them on his guitar. These songs and tunes represented sell-out to us. I used to like the ‘Marino Waltz’ and played it often. Whenever requested I’d play it like I was John Sheehan sitting by his mammy’s blazing turf fire and I’d take the applause and my pint and drink them both with pride. But enough is enough, how many times can I play that bloody tune? None, is the answer, no more. If they ask now I just say that I can’t play it, or it’s very difficult, or I played it earlier, or it’s played on a violin and this is a fiddle, or the last time I played it it conjured up Satan, ANYTHING!! Anyway I feel I’m doing a disservice to the tune if I’m playing it mechanically and yawning through it ... did I think that or say it?

  “Do you work for yer old man Brian?” enquired Spud eying the van.

  “Ah, I do a bit here and there, kinda semi part-time-ish, if you get me drift.”

  “Enough to keep you in beer, fags and women, wha’?”

  “That’s all you need.”

  “Oh yeah, especially the women.”

  “Have you heard from Kelly at all, Brian?” I shouted in from the back, knowing well that this was a bit of a sore point with Brian and had been for the last couple of months. Kerry was Brian’s girl for years, since school almost, until a couple of months ago when Brian was nabbed finger deep in Tara McGuire, the whistler from Fermanagh. The sound bite of the whole event was Brian’s cry of innocence, ‘... but I only fingered her’. Ah Ha Ha, he’ll never live that one down. So that was the end of that. He was pretty cut up about it though.

  “Who’s Kelly,” asked Spud innocently taking the bait.

  “Kerry, she’s my ex,” replied Brian under his breath. I could tell he wanted to kill me for bringing her up. And that’s another thing, who the fuck would call their daughter Kerry Kelly? Bad stock, man, bad genes.

  “Have you got a bird, Spud?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment no, why? Have you got a sister?”

  “He does, but she’s out of your price range.”

  “Speakin’ of which, are there any sponds for the gigs down here?”

  Me and Brian shifted uncomfortably. There was that six hundred and I didn’t mind taking a quarter and neither would Brian, but Tony was expecting a third. We’d have to see how it panned out.

  “There is alright, but we’ll have to see how much we drink and how much is left over. We’ll be looked after and he’ll throw us a few quid at the end, that’s the deal. Actually, we’ll be staying with Paul, he’s got a big gaff near the centre. Though we’ll have to see for petrol money too ... hey, look at this guy, let’s give him a lift.”

  There was a hitch-hiker ahead. We were on the outskirts of Ballinasloe, just after entering County Galway, with about a third of our journey left. The hitcher had a bag over his shoulder. He looked safe enough. Well, safer than I’m sure we looked to him. Brian pulled in the van.

  “How’s it goin’, are yiz goin’ through Loughrea?” he said sticking his head in the window.

  “Ehm, I’m not sure to be honest, is it on the way to Galway?”

  Yer man laughed, “It is yeah,” he opened the door and got in, “yiz wouldn’t be Jackeens be any chance, would yiz?”

  Spud decided to make room in the front for our guest and climbed over the seat nearly kicking my fiddle out of my hands. The guy was a right culchie, a mess of hair, red cheeks, farmer clothes and he had the mannerisms of a teenager despite being somewhere in his late thirties.

  “Argh, yiz like the oul’ traditional music, do yiz?” he said hearing the CD playing.

  “We do indeed,” said Brian, “we’re playin’ some down in Galway over the week end.”

  “Is that right? Jaysus, look at yer man, Paganini in the back with his fiddle out and everythin’. Give us a tune there, Jack.”

  “Ah no,” I said, “I have to save me fingers for the weekend.”

  “Yeah ...” he looked at me funny, “is he always like that?” he said turning to Brian.

  Brian laughed, “only if he takes his medication.”

  “Argh, yiz are up for the oysters, yiz randy beggars. No flies on you Jackeens, I’ll tell ye wha’.”

  “Paganini? Oysters? Jackeens? What the fuck is this guy on?” whispered Spud to me. I was laughing me bollix off at the guy.

  “What oysters?” asked Brian.

  “The oyster festival! Guinness and oysters, man, guaranteed to get you a ride, I’m tellin’ yiz. The lassies fill up on the oul’ oysters to get their juices flowin’ and then you get them locked with a couple of pints and you’re laughin’. They’re feckin’ helpless. Ye might as well hit them over the head and drag them into a field.”

  We were breakin’ our snots laughing, but getting more and more interested.

  “If I’d of known that yiz were comin’ I could’ve set you up with some lassies I have in Galway.”

  “What? Are you a pimp?” asked Spud through his laughing.

  “A PIMP? ... A pimp says he, an’ me up milking cows at six o’clock in the morning. I suppose I could let ye have one of me cows though, if your that desperate. Ermintrude’s the best looking, though probably not the tightest, if you’re left wanting on the girth front ... Ha Ha Ha!!”

  The whole van was rocking with laughter.

  “Oh Jaysus boy, we’re in Aughrim already, take this left here ...”

  “Are you getting out already?” asked Brian sounding disappointed.

  “Not at all. It’s Loughrea I’m goin to, but I’m going to show yiz a great little pub just here.”

  “Great! Pints!”

  “On your marks ...”

  “Do yiz take drink?” asked our guest in such a way as to say that he’d be very suspicious if we didn’t.

  “Ah ... well ... yeah ...” said Spud with his tongue in his cheek, “the odd time ...”

  “Heh Heh Heh, yeah, the odd time … one o’clock, three o’clock, five o’clock ...”

  “What time is it now, Brian?”

  Brian looked at his watch, “well, right now it’s
pint o’clock.”

  Brian followed his directions and we pulled up outside a gorgeous little pub on the outskirts of Aughrim that looked more like a cottage. In true country style, apart from a house or two a couple of hundred metres up, there wasn’t another building to be seen for miles but there was another pub directly across the road. We got out of the van and stretched.

  “What the fuck is Paganini? Some type of sandwich?” asked Spud.

  “I think it’s Italian for ‘page nine’,” said Brian leaving Spud none the wiser.

  The pub, apparently, had no name but was known to everyone as Malachy’s, ‘cos Malachy was the owner and barman and supposedly, the resident head case.

  “Every pub in Ireland has to have at least one resident head case and if it doesn’t then it’s not worth going into. In this pub it’s convenient that the head case is also the barman and owner so that the entertainment runs all the time.”

  Well, except for now. We walked in and the place was empty, deserted. Our hitchhiker and guide called out for Malachy a couple of times but got no reply. We sat at the bar and waited.

  “So, what’s this oyster festival? I thought it was a fleadh or something we were doing,” said Spud.

  “No idea. Alls I know is that we’re playing for cash and that’s it,” I said.

  “Argh, yiz’d want to be gettin’ yizerselves sorted out, there’s a big difference between a fleadh and an oyster festival.”

  “Oh yeah,” Brian hopped in, being the expert on all things knowable, “I mean, at a fleadh there’s gonna be lots of hairy drunken musicians all with instruments and you can get neither a seat nor a ride all weekend.”

  “Yeah, ‘cos you’re too fuckin’ buckled.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  “... unless you get a cute German bodhràn player sticking a tape recorder under your nose while you’re trying to play a tune.”

  “Yeah, then all you have to do is force feed her oysters and Guinness until she succumbs to your charms ...”

  “... or just hit her over the head and drag her into a field, Ha Ha!”

  “Are you from Ballinasloe? ... Erm, sorry I don’t know your name.”