Now, the ‘sweet point’ is what I call the point you reach after three or four pints and maybe a little toke, where you are optimally relaxed and loosened up. This is when you can play at your best, not giving a fuck about fuckin’ up the tune or about who is listening … I had passed my sweet point hours ago and my playing had deteriorated fairly lively over the course of the last couple of pints or so. By now we had reached ‘pointus maximus’ where there was little point in me playing any further. So I feigned disinterest, sat and listened to the lads play a set or two then went to the bar where I was joined by Spud whose disinterest in playing anymore, it seemed, was genuine.
“Yer one’s a bit of alright isn’ she?” he said with a certain hunger in his eyes.
“I think she’s with yer man Eoin … yeah, they’re holding hands.”
“The other one’s alright too, in’ she?”
“Oh yeah,” I replied with my beer goggles turned up to eleven.
About here is where the blankity blank started ‘cos the next thing I remember we were getting ready to leave. The pub was still pretty full and would probably remain so for another good hour or so but we had somewhere to go, a local party just around the corner with some guy that Doc knew. I packed up the fiddle carefully, as I can always do no matter how many pints I’ve had, and with some humming and hawing and to-ing and fro-ing we left with the thanks of both pub and punters and with a cost price bottle of whiskey stuffed into Spuds guitar case.
If the party was just around the corner then why do I remember being in a car with Spud, Doc and two guys who were shouting “I don’t know what a tracker mortgage is” back and forth to each other all the time? I’ve no idea where, but we arrived and straggled into a largish house covered in ivy with a creaky gate and a barking dog somewhere around the back. There was already some other guy there who looked fairly sober but with the influx of about three carloads of people and a bottle of already opened Black Bush, he blended in fairly quickly. The remains of a fire were beefed up a bit and glasses, mugs and a teapot were got from the kitchen. I met Brian in the kitchen and we grinned wildly at each other. “Ha haaaaaa,” he growled ecstatically. It turned out that he drove here, wrecked, as I suppose everyone was, in a convoy of two cars and a van full of locked people. We all sat down and I remember talking to yer one, Dervla, for a bit but I was well past the point of rescue and so there seemed little point. Anyway, I had a half a mug of whiskey to keep me company. Doc was there drinking from the spout of the teapot for the want of a mug, glass or jam-jar. The other guy, whose house I presumed this was, was necking it from the bottle. This stuff wasn’t going to last very long, we shoulda got two.
The conversation under Doc’s direction, turned to ‘gettin’ yer hole’. It turned out that Brian was the last guy in the room to get his hole, though Eoin was in the corner with his young one, looking cosy and keeping shtum.
“A YANK? Ye boyo ye, I hope ye gave her a good seeing to.”
“Would anyone like a hot sup?” spouted Doc, passing the teapot of whiskey and Red Bull like a peace pipe.
“Jaysus lads, wait till I tell ye,” started off the little guy necking the bottle, “HA HA HA, speaking of yanks, I was sitting in this pub a while back and there was a couple of yanks at the bar beside me, a guy an’ his missus, ye’know like, just the three of us in the whole place, afternoon like, an’ he gets a call on his mobile phone, like, HA HA, an’ goes outside to talk or to catch the signal or whatever ...”
“As ye do.”
“Yeah, like, anyway, HA HA HA! He comes back inside after an’ says to yer one, like, ‘gee honey, there’s a big bunch o’ cows right outside the door’, HA HA.”
“Rush hour, like.”
“Yeah, Jimmy’s on the way to the field. This is up in Rourke’s ye’know what I’m sayin’ like? ... so I says to him ‘herd’, an’ he just looks at me all surprised like and says ‘excuse me?’ so I says ‘herd of cows’, an’ he goes HA HA, fuck’s sake HA HA HA HA.”
At this stage he started breakin’ his bollix, he lost coherence and clutched his sides from a laughing stitch. All the other guys started breaking their bollixes laughing too, having probably heard the denouement of the story already. We all caught the bug then and everyone is teary and red faced from laughing even those who aren’t quite exactly sure what they’re laughing at.
“HA HA HA ... ah Jaysus, so he says to me, ‘herd of cows? of course I’ve heard of cows, there’s a big bunch of them just outside’, HA HA HA.”
Well I fuckin’ fell off the chair from laughing, great fuckin’ story. Herd of cows, big bunch of them outside.
“Mine wasn’t far from a cow either now that I come to think of it,” said Brian prolonging the hilarity.
“Padraig was up in Quinn’s working one day ... Padraig is a barman in Quinn’s in Galway, an’ anyways, this guy comes into the pub and asks him what’s the quickest way to the train station, an’ Padraig thinks for a second and asks yer man, ‘are ye drivin’ or walkin’?’, and yer man goes ‘driving’, and Padraig says ‘yep, that’d be the quickest way alright’ Ha Ha Ha!!”
“AH HA HA HA!” Fuckin’ brilliant! I love smart-arse barmen.
“Aw, wait ‘til ye hear. I was makin’ a delivery last month out in the big industrial estate just this side o’ Galway, like, ye’know, huge place, like a bloody maze.”
“Yeah, I know it, you’d be chasing yer own arse half the time.”
“Yeah, that’s the one, and we’re out there beside the road, like, and this big guy pulls up to us in a little Fiat, a Corkman I reckon, and he shouts over, hanging out the window, like, “sorry lads, how do I get out o’ here?’, and me mate shouts to him “open the door,” Ha Ha Ha, you shoulda seen his face, HA HA HA.”
Jesus H! Ah Ha Ha!! They just went on and on and on with fuckin’ hilarious story after story. Me and Brian were splittin’ our sides. These guys were fuckin’ great craic altogether ...
The next thing I remember I’m talking to some guy about something or other and we’re having a great laugh at someone’s expense. Then the other guy with the bottle started singing a song of which he got through the first verse then promptly forgot the second but got a round of applause for his efforts anyway. Then Doc stood up ...
“I’ve a wee poem for ye that I used to do years ago and that the lads reminded me of today. I’ll see if I can remember at least the first verse and ye won’t laugh at me if I don’t ...”
“No, of course not.”
“Good man yourself, Doc.”
Doc stuffed his thumbs into his oxters and assumed the stance of a ‘ye olde’ style town crier with some very good news to tell and started to sing his ‘poem’ to the tune of ‘In an English Country Garden’.
Oh, how many more did we have in sixty four?
In the English Royal family.
Great, the English royal family, a piss take, everyone cheered ...
The Queen, she had four with expenses for a score
of the English Royal family.
Now Princess Margaret’s doing her best,
trying to keep up with the rest.
Did she have a little girl or boy?
Does Viscount Linley have a brother?
Does it matter? It’s another
for the English Royal family
Everyone laughed and reached for their drinks with big grins ...
The Duke of Kent he did believe that his wife she should
conceive
By now everyone joined in for this bit ...
for the English Royal family.
While out in Hong Kong they increased the merry throng
of the English Royal family.
But up in Scotland, here’s the rub,
guess who’s joined the pudding club,
Princess Al-ex-a-an-dra.
Princes, Kings and Dukes and Peers as well
will help increase and swell
our English Royal family
“Good man Doc, ye croppy
boyo Fenian rebel ye, HA HA.”
“Ssshhhhhh.”
Our gracious Princess Anne, she will wed a gentleman
For the English Royal family.
For it simply wouldn’t do for to have a commoner screw
one of the English Royal family.
With Kings and Queens for wedding guests,
in Royal satin they were dressed,
their marriage will be blessed with little children gay.
Oh but they will not be brats,
they will be aristocrats
in the English Royal family
“Lovely stuff, someone give that man a drink.”
“Hold yer horses, there’s more if yer willin’.”
“If you’re singing, I’m willin’.”
“Ssshhhhh.”
Prince Charles our future King, he will have himself a fling
“Whoo-hoo.”
“Good man Chaz.”
In the English Royal family.
With a different maid each day in bed he’ll sport and play
for the English Royal family.
At Royal functions he’d be seen
slyly winking at the Queen,
incest is best, especially when it’s free.
“HA HA HA HA.”
We’ll have champagne and caviar
so the common people know
we are the English Royal family.
Oysters, don’t forget the oysters.
“WHHHOOOO-HOOOO.” The applause was thunderous with tables being slapped and feet stomped and the dog barking outside.
“Fair play Doc, I never heard that one before.”
“Brian,” I shouted across the room, “do Chantelle.”
“Ye must be joking.”
‘Chantelle de Champignon’ was an epic semi-sung story that was fuckin’ hilarious and just kept on going. I only heard Brian do it twice in its entirety, but it was worth the effort of constant cajoling. I doubted he do it now, being locked an’ all ...
“Yeah, Brian, do John Tell.”
“Go on, ye know ye want to.”
“Sorry lads, I can’t remember it, I’d only make a bollix of it.”
“Hey, I know a poem,” said the little guy putting down the bottle and jumping up to assume Doc’s place.
“Ahem, I’d like to dedicate this recital to Fionn’s oul’ one.”
“Fuck off.”
“She offered her honour,
He honoured her offer,
So all night long,
He was on her and off her. ... I thank thee.”
“Ha Ha Ha, ye cunt, ye.”
“Good one.”
I went to the jax but couldn’t find the light and ended up leaving the door half open and pissing mostly on the floor. Going back into the living room I knocked over a small table behind the door, nothing was broken but the dirt from a potted plant ended up all over the place. “Shit! Sorry.” The last of the cans of beer were being confiscated by the whiskey drinkers, who’d finished, from the beer drinkers who hadn’t. I managed to get my hands on a can. I opened it, put it on the table beside me and fell sound asleep. That full can would now be breakfast.
I opened my eyes and looked around. I could still hear the singing and cheering in my ears, fading away as I woke, but now the room was silent and dark. There was a huddled frame on the couch that could only be Spud and a guy sprawled on and around the armchair, breathing heavily. My head was somewhere between ‘still drunk’ and ‘not yet hungover’ and my mouth felt like I’d had a feast of dry Cream Crackers. Sleep was my only option so I slid off the chair and squeezed myself between the couch and the coffee table, pushing back empty cans and a bottle. Then as soon as I got my space together I realised I was cold so I got my coat off the back of the chair, threw it over my shoulders and swiftly fell into a shallow uncomfortable sleep.
We headed off for Galway about eleven-ish.
I’d been woken up a couple more times by my own discomfort and by Spud going to the jax. Then, when everyone felt it right and proper to be up and about, we all got up. P.J., the guy who lived there made us all tea or coffee, and sausages on a first-come-first-served basis. I felt like shit, and the tea and sausages only served to stir up the mulch in my stomach. To try and settle it back I drank half my full beer from last night, which was still cold and had at least a semblance of fizziness left in it. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that it did no fuckin’ good whatsoever, but it was a noble effort.
Brian and Spud were equally monged, maybe even worse. After I fell asleep, someone’d pulled a half a bottle of poitín from somewhere and they polished it off between the four that were left. Doc left with the little guy, Brian got an empty room and a bed, while me, Spud and this other guy were left to familiarise ourselves with the living room furniture. The room now stank of alcohol, alcohol breath and alcohol farts. We were glad to be out of there.
“Good craic last night.”
“Ah yeah, fuckin’ great guys.”
“I’m paying for it today I can tell ye.”
We drove in silence except for the occasional groan and hit Galway town about an hour later. We arranged a meet with Paul, who was going to introduce us to the boss man at the pub, and then we had to meet Tony off the train. All in all, a heavy workload for three hung over bodies.
“We went for a drink with Doc
from four ‘til three o’clock
and as we sat there
he said an oul’ prayer
with a knick-knack knicked in Knock.”
“Oh yes Foy, very nice, kudos.”
The meeting point for Paul was, of course, a pub. It was a quiet little place full of solitary drinkers reading the paper or watching the racing on the TV. Brian got a pot of tea but myself and Spud opted for the traditional curer, the cure that never actually cured anything unless you actually drank yourself out of the hangover. It was either that or a spot of bloodletting.
Paul arrived shortly after we got settled and, reassuringly, he was also in a bad way.
“Fuck’s sake lads, what the hell am I doing up at noon on a Saturday?”
“It’s closer to one.”
“On the beer last night?”
“Oh yeah, and then some.”
We clued Paul in on our adventures in Loughrea and finished our solitary pints before heading off to meet Tony. We’d be kipping at Paul’s place. Great! More sofa-surfing and waking up on the floor.
Tony arrived off the train at about two thirty carrying just his pipe case with all his weekend bits ‘n’ pieces stuffed in with his pipes.
“Hey Tony, nice trip?”
“Tedious, overpriced and full to the brim with mindless football supporters.”
“Yeah, what’s goin’ on with all the lads?”
“Galway United Vs Shamrock Rovers, tomorrow in some final or other. The town should be full of Dubs for the weekend.”
“Great.”
It turned out that we weren’t playing the late shift but from six to nine. It being Saturday night, the place would be full anyway from nine onwards and we’d just be taking up valuable real estate. Tony was ‘in need of sustenance’ so we headed off to lay the foundations for a nights drinking and playing. Fried chicken boxes all round, so greasy I felt like I needed a shower after it.
“As greasy as an Italian’s pillow,” said Spud provoking mirth.
Then Paul directed us to the pub. ‘The Black Horse’ was near the centre, serving dinners for tourists, football on the telly, function rooms upstairs, etc, you know the kind of place, a money factory. There we met Declan, the boss. He was a busy and serious man who straight away sorted out who to talk to (Brian and Tony), where to play, when, how much to drink, what time tomorrow, how much to be paid, how long to be played and then he was gone.
It wasn’t long ‘til starting time so we sat ourselves down and ordered a round. Declan had vaguely specified that the barman “would sort us out for a few pints”. That meant that we’d drink until w
e were told ‘no more.’ The place was already full with afternooners finishing off their roast beefs, oysters and Galway bay chicken stuffed with garlic oysters marinated in Guinness or whatever the fuck, and it was our job to keep them there.
They didn’t usually have trad and there was no system in place to deal with the where, when and how, so we just grabbed the biggest and most central table and set up over the course of the next half hour. It was strange to see Tony there, I don’t think I’d ever seen him outside O’Shea’s and he was in flying form.
“Brian, may I prevail of one of your fine cigarettes please?”
“You may prevail of my abuse, ye scabby cunt.”
“Brian, could you kindly keep your parsimonious tendencies in check, like a good man ... Foy, might I trouble you to pass me his pouch of Samson please.”
Spud looked bewildered, “does he always talk like that?” he asked me when Tony was away at the bar.
“Indeed and he does.” Spud had obviously never been in the company of someone who would/could use a word like ‘parsimonious’. I mean, none of us knew what it meant but fuck it, from Tony’s mouth it sounded right.
“Does he ride his bike without a saddle?” enquired Spud.
“Does he what?”
“Y’know, does he have a wide stance?”
“NO, he’s not, Ah Ha Ha! Nah, Tony likes girls alright. He just likes to talk like he’s royalty.”
When I thought about it, maybe Tony was a bit of a poof. I mean, thinking back I’d never really seen him with a woman. But in fairness, he seemed more asexual than homosexual. Tony was a quiet serious man who had his intellectual pursuits and kept himself to himself. I’d known him for years and we got on well ‘cos we both enjoyed pints and joints and jigs and reels. It didn’t need to be any deeper than that.
The Good Servants Page 7