Last night for example ... I was having trouble remembering the twelfth round ... maybe it was all over in the sixth.
A door slammed somewhere, then stairs, then the bedroom door swung open and Brian slid in.
“Vidi, Vici, Veni,” he said raising his arms triumphantly.
“Urgh, good man, did ye give her one for me?”
“I gave her one for ALL OF YIZ!!!! HA HAAA!” He then ran over and ceremoniously sat on me like I was a sofa, the cunt!
“Look at me! I’m sitting on two arses, Heh Heh Heh.”
“Fuck off,” I said extracting my face from the pillow, “go sit on your own arse.”
“Is he still asleep?” he said pointing to Tony, “fuck’s sake, lads, it’s lunchtime.”
He went over and sat on Tony.
“Ok OK.”
“... but she was a big ‘Free Willy’ of a thing, ye beer goggled goon ye.”
“A gig is a gig, lads, a gig is a gig.”
Brian went to the jax and me and Tony roused ourselves, sharing jokes and memories from the night before. It seemed that I didn’t miss too much.
Suddenly the jax door swung open and Brian slid out. Brian was obviously in a very good mood today, much too good for me just yet.
“Tony, is this yours?” he asked pointing to a bottle of ‘Head & Shoulders’ shampoo.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Head and Shoulders, To-nys, To-nys,” he sang doing the pointing actions, but with the knees and toes backwards.
We all broke our bollixes laughing.
“Head and Shoulders, To-nys, To-nys, he puts it in his hair and the dandruff isn’t there, Head and Shoulders, To-nys, Tonys.”
Ah Ha Ha Ha! Good one, just the tonic.
When we managed to prise Spud from his mattress we went to the pub and got the number of a pizza place and we rang for lunch. Two big fuck off pizzas later and we sat back, well sated.
We’d established that Brian had got his hole last night but as yet he was unforthcoming with juicy details.
“Good craic last night,” said Spud sucking his teeth.
“I didn’t get any crack last night, did you Brian?” I said lasciviously.
“Let’s just cut to the point Brian, did you take her up the shitter?”
“I did, Spud, but I was thinking of you.”
“Oh, ye dirty minded fucker ye.”
“I hope the irony of that statement isn’t lost on you,” said Tony with an incredulous grin.
“Did ye? Up the muck-chute? On a first fuck? You’re a legend, Ha Ha!”
“No, I didn’t,” he confessed.
“Nice crack?”
“Good grief, Spud, you’re the only person I know who judges a woman on the particulars of her nethers.”
“It’s relevant!!”
“Ah Ha Ha, well, Brian, had she a nice crack?”
“I dunno, ask me dick.”
“Hello, Mr Dick, how was the pussy last night?”
“Like a good embouchure,” said Brian putting on a voice he imagined that a dick would have if it spoke.
“Mmmm, you smell a bit fishy,” said Spud putting his head closer to Brian’s crotch.
“I hope the irony of that statement isn’t lost on you,” said Brian in his dick voice and we all cracked up.
Spud was becoming more and more the whipping boy for our jokes, but he was thick skinned and, more often than not, gave as good as he got.
Suddenly Spud remembers he has some gear. There was brief excitement and we sprawled out around the room in preparation. Tony started reading.
“Oh shit!” exclaimed Spud gathering assembling equipment, “who’s got papers?”
We looked at each other, each look saying ‘I don’t! Do you?’
“Shit!!!”
Brian was sent to search out and retrieve, with extreme prejudice.
He came back but minutes later with a handful of giant papers explaining that he’d met two guys in the hall who looked like spliffers so he asked them for papers.
Fair play. The guys didn’t even presume it was for a fag and just gave him big skins.
Spud got the spliff together quickly and efficiently. I wasn’t sure if was going to kill me or cure me, but it was worth a go.
“Where does she live?”
“Who?”
“Yer one from last night.”
“Somewhere near ... oh oh, get this, the lift in her building is made by a company called Schindler!”
“Wha’?”
“... and your point being?”
“Schindler’s Lift!!”
“Oh yes, how very droll.”
“Will you see her again?”
“Yeah, I’ll see her tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, she works in the bar.”
“Oh shit, that’s you nabbed now. You can’t be picking anyone else up now, in front of her anyway.”
“Nah, she’s cool.”
“Anyway ... good craic last night,” continued Spud where he’d come in.
“Yeaaah, nice place, what’s it called? The Barbershop? Something like that?”
“Oh yeah ... mmm, oh, ‘The Stable’ I think.”
“Is that the actual name of the establishment or is it just a colloquialism?”
“No, it’s ‘Stable’, but in German, not English, ‘Der Schtall’ or something like that.”
“Oh, I have a new one coming,” said Brian in deep thought.
“Well get yourself to the jax before it arrives then.”
“Spud, do you remember getting home last night?”
“Most of it, yeah.”
“Any craic?”
“Nah, just the usual street-singing and car-jumping ... oh ... and by the way guys, I gave Scott twenty squids for the gear last night, so that’s five each.”
“Grand.”
The spliff didn’t do me any good at all, but just sort of refocused my attention to the nervous trembling in my belly. It felt like there was a washing machine inside me, whirring away. It was very unpleasant. I curled up on the bed and refused the next passing.
“Here it is ...”
“Go on then if you must.”
“Alright, here goes ...
We went to a bar called ‘Stable’,
where I drunk meself under the table,
I’m not sure how,
but I pulled this fat cow,
and Jaysus, was she able.”
“AH HA HA HA! good one!”
“... though a little disingenuous for my taste, I must say.”
“You old smoothy, Ha Ha!”
We were all tired, hungover and now a little stoned too, so we went slowly back to our beds, as much for the silence and solitude as for the rest or reading.
We hit the bar about seven. It was fairly quiet but there was already a group of people sitting on our impromptu stage.
“Fuck’s sake, wouldn’t you know it.”
“Of all the stools and all the tables in all the pub and they have to sit at ours.”
“Go over and shift them Spud,” I said.
“Fuck off, you do it.”
“Go on, it could be your only chance to shift something tonight.”
“SCOTT!! Fancy a shift??”
“Jaysus, who’s wearing perfume?”
“It’s not perfume, it’s a cologne. Why? Do you find it pungent?”
“Ye smell like a bleedin’ hoor’s handbag.”
“It’s a robust masculine aroma I’ll have you know.”
“Like flies around honey, you’ll have honeys around your flies. It says so on the bottle, I swear, I saw it.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Why? What does it have? Hypnotic properties?”
“It’d want to be fuckin’ chloroform before he’d pull anything.”
Brian’s quare one from last night came in and donned an apron.
“OOoooooh, Brian, it’s yer girlfriend.”
“And she’s
walking funny.”
“Let’s start off with ‘Merrily Kiss the Old Bush Behind the Barmaids Apron’, eh Brian? Ah Ha Ha.”
Brian shushed me.
A few glances and subtle waves were exchanged.
I waved at her.
She waved back.
I waved at her again, this time with four fingers and she got the message.
We found ourselves to be tearing into the vouchers, but as kick-off time neared and the bar filled up, the nerves kept the drink at bay, or maybe, the drink kept the nerves at bay? Never can be sure...
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are ‘The Shamrock Rovers’ from Dublin, [Applause]. Is anyone here from GERMANY??? [YEAHHHH], das ist gut. We are going to play a few tunes for you tonight, and a few songs too, hopefully, well I’m not, he is, and we hope you enjoy it. Remember to dance if you feel like it, and if you have any requests please write it on the back of a twenty euro note and send it up here, it’ll be taken care of. We’re going to start off with ‘Kiss the Merrily’... what was that Foy? Heh Heh.”
“Get on with it,” someone shouted from the back of the stage area, and we did.
Our repertoire has always been somewhat limited to the tunes that Tony played. Pipes are unimaginably difficult to both play and maintain, and frequently drive their drivers to distraction, alcoholism and ultimately, Tourette’s syndrome. Pipers, it is said, need seven years learning, seven years practice and seven years playing before they’re considered real pipers ... or they could just whack out a few rounds of ‘The Bucks’ with all the frills, that pretty much makes you a real piper in my opinion.
For this reason most pipers had a relatively small repertoire. I’d say that at least five hundred tunes is required to be a good session player, some surpass a thousand, some five thousand. But Tony stuck to the same sets week in week out, year in year out. I’d say about the same fifty to a hundred tunes all the time, so at least I had names for most of them. It was a bit boring and predictable at times but tonight, because we had all played them so many times together, we were as tight as the proverbial camel’s arse. We flew into ‘The Silver Spear’ and then ‘Rossbeigh’ and ‘The High Reel’ and the place was hoppin’.
There were a group of yanks down the back, cliquishly drinking and shouting. One eventually came up, interrupting us just as we were starting to play, and asked us to ask his friend up to sing a song. What can ye do? This American had a horrible condescending look in his eyes, like we were his servants to be bossed around. Military! ... Wanker!
“Is he coming up or not?”
“Well, gee, I dunno ... BRAD.”
“Why don’t you sing a song while we’re waiting?”
“Ha Ha, gee, I dunno about that now, I can’t really ... you guys are doin’ real good up there, you just ... BRAD ... you guys just sit tight.”
After much huffing and puffing and heaving and ho-ing his friend finally came half way up but then chickened out.
“Well, gee, I'm sorry, you guys, maybe some other time.”
“Yeah, with some other band.”
Gobshite!
“Must be a G.I. ... Gee, I dunno this, Gee, I dunno that, Gee, I dunno fuck all!! Ha Ha!”
Normally I can’t stand the bloody ‘Atholl Highlanders’ jig, boring repetitive bloody tune, but tonight it rocked and we got the crowd back on-side fairly sharpish.
We did one more and took a break. At the end the crowd were cheering wildly as we announced a recess. We felt like stars.
I, being the thirstiest, was assigned the vouchers for the last free round and I headed off to the bar trying to avoid admiring stares as I passed through the people.
“Fear beer bitte.”
The two guys from upstairs were standing beside me at the bar. The drink had got to me enough to introduce myself to them as I waited for the pints.
“Hey, you’re the two guys from upstairs, no?” I smiled and winked knowingly. They were both tall, late-twenties. One was broad but skinny and a bit hunched, with light unkempt hair that was in desperate need of a trim, he smiled a lot and looked very friendly. The other was taller, pigeon chested and muscular, with a tight dark haircut so precise he must’ve had it done within the last twenty four hours. He was the talker.
“Yes, from the hostel, you play very good, veeeery good.”
“We think maybe to dance, but not only we, Ha Ha Ha Ha.”
Nice guys.
“If you start dancing then everyone will join in,” I shouted, using the sort of wild gesticulations that only communicating with foreigners can induce.
Then the pints arrived, so I harvested my beer-vouchers and headed back fully loaded. “Talk to you later” I shouted back over my shoulder. “OK.”
We went back up almost straight away it seemed, just time for a piss and a spit. We played over a constant general din but they clapped and cheered at the end of the sets so we couldn’t complain. We tried something a bit slower but it didn’t go down particularly well so we decided to keep it lively, and we went down like a slapper at a debs. Towards the end Spud finally agreed to do ‘The Wild Rover’ and it was something to behold. The whole pub started waving their beers and swaying. They sang along in German and pretty soon drowned out Spud. We started laughing to the point where it was difficult to play. Brian guffawed into his flute and it blasted out like a train whistle. Me and Brian stopped playing, laughing uncontrollably. Then we sang with the audience a bit and waved our instruments. For the last chorus we jumped back in and the place went wild. During the last set, ‘Farewell to Ireland’, the two lads from the hostel found themselves in some space and started lepping about, one like a coked-up rapper and the other like a Russian Riverdancer.
They were given more space.
We looked around at each other with laughing eyes and it was great.
We had mercy on the two lads after a while and finished up a round early. “Goodnight, and thank you, goodnight.”
Of course, we ended up doing a couple of encores and the two guys were up again. We started imitating them while playing, three of us dancing and swaying.
Eventually we finished up and everyone went mad. I think Helmut would be very happy with that.
“Goodnight everyone ... and remember folks, if you’re driving home, make sure you have a car.”
Phew.
I went back over to the two guys. They were exhausted, the poor loves.
“Ah Ha Ha, great stuff guys, well done,” high fives all round.
“Yes, we dance only us, but fuuuuccckkk man, it was fucking great. You should go to Macedonia, your music it’s similar.”
“Ah, you’re from Macedonia? I thought you were German.”
“No, no, not Macedonian, and not shvabe, we are from Croatia.”
“Aaaaaaah,” I went, like it made any difference to me.
I took advantage of the pause to order the round. I asked the lads if they wanted a drink which they did, and our bonding was almost complete.
“I’m Foy.”
“Darko,” shake hands.
“Ivan,” shake hands.
“What are you doing here in Heidelberg?”
“Eh, we’re on business.”
“Two or three days.”
That was so firmly uninformative that I decided not to press further.
“And you?”
“Ah, just to play a bit of music ... ten days. Listen, do you want to come over to the table? There’s lots of space.” I was getting pretty fed up with standing up holding a cold beer by now.
We went over and I introduced the lads and we all sat and chatted. I relaxed and enjoyed my post-gig euphoria ... I took a time out for a second and looked around the table. I felt fantastic, full beers, happy faces, nice few tunes. The world was in proper order and I hoped it would stay that way.
We had a couple of jars with the lads and they told us about the war when they were kids. Very interesting, but more interesting was Spud and Brian on the mooch for any spare minge goin’. They went
around trying to make headway on our starring role in the nights proceedings, and not having much luck by the looks of things.
Our vouchers for the night were exhausted and we had itchy feet and itchy dicks so we decided to head to ‘The Stable’, to check out the hooch and the hoors down there.
We invited Darko and Ivan, but they had a better idea.
We all piled up the stairs to have a smoke and then hit the Stable. That seemed perfectly reasonable given the paper exchange this morning. So we all went to my room and squatted or sat wherever we could. Darko immediately took out some grass and said “here, try this, good Bosnian chrava.”
“What the fuck is chrava?”
“Grass.”
“Ah.”
“Great.”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“Chrava is spice of life,” corrected Ivan out of nowhere, and he was deadly serious.
“I have another one Foy” said Brian with a wry grin,
“Ok, let’s hear it,”
“Rosie’s is the place to be,
if you’re looking for good company.
The Yanks try to catch,
a nice bit of snatch,
and the Micks, a nice bit of gee.”
“Ho hooo, nice one Brian. The bar has been raised yet again, Ah Ha Ha!!”
“Well, razing bars is what I do best,” he smiled.
“It is funny this? Maybe they could put it on the wall.”
“No, no, it’s not very polite.”
“Somehow, I didn’t think so, Ha Ha Ha!!”
Tony was chief-spliff-getter-togetherer. He sat on the edge of his chair and assembled his gear-getting-together kit, grass, papers, a single cigarette and a lighter. Then he’d delegate someone to take care of the roach, assessing any papery material close to hand for thickness and malleability, then passing it to said delegated roach-maker. He took out three Rizla ... this was going to be a biggie.
“Would you be aware of the fact that Rizla originated in France?” he asked us nonchalantly as he worked.
“G’way.”
“Indeed,” liiiiiick, “it was founded by the La Croix family in the late nineteenth century and the original product was a cigarette paper made of rice.”
“Oh yeah? ... and what would be the price of tea in China at this time? and what would be its connection to these interesting facts?”
The Good Servants Page 14