by Roddy Doyle
— Thank Christ the football’s back in a couple o’ weeks.
— What’re yeh sayin’? Tha’ none o’ this would’ve happened if there’d been football on the telly?
— Fuck off. It’s not funny.
— You’re righ’. Sorry.
— Okay.
30-7-11
— NO MASSACRES THIS week.
— Stop tha’.
— Were you across at Amy’s funeral?
— I’ll leave, I’m fuckin’ tellin’ yeh.
— Okay. Fair enough. Wha’ abou’ the ban on smokin’ in cars? Can I mention tha’?
— It should be up to the kids.
— Wha’?
— The ban. It’s when there are children in the vehicle, righ’?
— Righ’.
— So, the children should vote on it. In the back o’ the car, like.
— They’d bribe the poor fucker tha’ wants a smoke.
— Exactly. It’d teach them to be adults. Cash only. In little brown child-sized envelopes.
— You’re not jokin’.
— No way am I. It’s the problem with this fuckin’ country. We’re tryin’ not to be corrupt. But we should be teachin’ our kids to be even more corrupt. Like every other country in the world. Not just Greece an’ the mad places – fuckin’ everywhere. They’re laughin’ at us.
— I don’t know. Yeh might have a point.
— I do have a fuckin’ point.
— What if there’s only one kid in the car?
— Then the dopey prick drivin’ it should have no problem countin’ the votes.
15-8-11
— HOW DID WEXFORD go for yeh?
— I’ll tell yeh. We were sittin’ in the mobile, myself and herself. Watchin’ the news. Cos it was fuckin’ bucketin’ outside. There’s the riots in London. Then there’s this stuff abou’ how the euro is basically fucked. So she says, Fuck it, let’s blow it. So, that’s wha’ we do. We get the Tesco bus into Gorey and we fuckin’ spend it.
— Your jeans are new.
— Fuck off a minute. We’re in this pub, Browne’s, and we go out for a smoke. She takes ou’ her BlackBerry an’ she taps in some fuckin’ thing. An’ she puts up the hood of her pink hoodie. An’ then – basically – she’s gone. Like a fuckin’ greyhound. Across to this shoe shop. Gaffney’s. She takes a run at it an’ kicks the fuckin’ window.
— Did she break it?
— She missed it. But she has another go. An’ then there are other women – middle-aged, like. An’ they’re all kickin’ the window. They’re only up from the fuckin’ Garda station. An’ sure enough, here’s a Guard, an’ they leg it. I haven’t seen her since. Where were you, yourself?
— Magaluf.
— Where’s tha’?
— I’m not sure – we went in a plane.
22-8-11
— I WAS OU’ at the airport there.
— Doin’ wha’?
— Lookin’ at the boats – wha’ d’yeh think I was fuckin’ doin’?
— I don’t know. Goin’ somewhere, comin’ back. Fuckin’ lay off.
— We were ou’ meeting her sister.
— Comin’ back from somewhere.
— Yeah.
— Where?
— Can’t remember – doesn’t matter. We’re at the arrivals place, yeh know, and I’m bored out of me fuckin’ tree, cos her flight’s late. So I start doin’ imaginary passport control as all the people are comin’ in off the planes – in me head, like. You can stay, you can stay, you can fuck off, you can stay. An’ anyway, that’s when I see him.
— Who?
— Gaddafi.
— From the chipper?
— No, the other one. From Libya.
— In Dublin Airport?
— Terminal 2.
— Fuck off.
— Swear to God. That’s where he’s hidin’.
— Fuckin’ hell. An’ he’d just arrived, had he?
— No, this is the genius bit. He was moppin’ the floor.
— Gaddafi was?
— Fuckin’ brilliant, isn’t it?
— Colonel Gaddafi?
— They’ll never find him there.
— You’re sure it was him?
—Course I am. I winked at him.
—Wha’ did he do?
—He winked back.
30-8-11
— THAT’S A FUCKIN’ jumper.
— Birthday present.
— Purple’s your colour.
— Fuck off.
— I’m serious. Man o’ your age. It’s brave.
— Fuck off.
— D’yeh get annythin’ else?
— This.
— Wha’?
— This – hang on. I’ve to get it – it’s around me neck.
— What’s tha’?
— Kind of a dog tag.
— What’s it say there? I am neutered and chipped. It is a fuckin’ dog tag.
— Yeah.
— Who fuckin’ gave yeh tha’?
— She did.
— Why, but?
— She got it off the dog. She died, like.
— Your missis?
— No, the fuckin’ dog. A few months ago there. D’yeh remember?
— I do now, yeah. What was it again?
— Mongrel – bits of fuckin’ everythin’.
— No, wha’ killed it, I meant.
— Ah, just fuckin’ fat – yeh know yourself. Great oul’ dog, but. An’ anyway, she held on to the collar.
— That’s nice. Considerate.
— I thought so. An’ that’s not all. The chain.
— What about it?
— Gold.
— No.
— Yeah. Her idea. Somethin’ she heard on the radio. It’ll hold its value long after the euro goes down the fuckin’ jacks.
— So, it’s not just romantic.
— It’s me fuckin’ pension. An’ it’s goin’ back under me new purple jumper.
4-9-11
— I NEED THIS pint.
— I know.
— No. I really need it.
— Yeh look a bit flaked alrigh’. Wha’ were yeh up to?
— Writin’ my response to the Vatican.
— Wha’?!
— Well, like, I responded to the Vatican’s response yesterday to Enda fuckin’ Kenny’s response to the child abuse inquiry in – it’ll come back to me in a minute – Cloyne.
— Say tha’ again. No – don’t. But. Am I righ’? You wrote to the fuckin’ Vatican.
— I did, yeah.
— To the fuckin’ Pope.
— Yeah.
— Fuckin’ hell – fair play. Wha’ did yeh say?
— Fuck off.
— I was only askin’.
— No. That’s wha’ I said. Tha’ was my response. And I think I spoke on behalf of the vast majority of the Irish people. The Dubs an’anyway.
— You told the Pope to fuck off?
— I did, yeah.
— How?
— The usual way.
— Yeh shouted? He wouldn’t have heard yeh from here.
— No, email.
— You emailed the Pope?
— I did, yeah.
— Fuckin’ hell. Did he answer?
— Not yet. Come here, but. Yeh know the way you’re angry sometimes but yeh cop on an’ calm down. But other times you’re angry an’ yeh know you’re righ’ to be.
— Yeah.
— Yeah, well, this was one o’ those times.
8-9-11
— DID THE POPE get back to yeh yet?
— He did, yeah – this mornin’.
— Did he? Jesus. Wha’ did he say?
— Well – like, it was in Latin.
— D’you know any Latin?
— We wouldn’t speak it much at home, no. But listen. I found this English–Latin dictionary yoke. Google, like. An’ there’s a box for the Latin. So, I ty
ped in his – the fuckin’ Pope’s email – it’s only short. An’ the English came up.
— Wha’ did it say?
— Tell your sister I was asking for her.
— Fuckin’ hell. The Pope wrote tha’?
— In fuckin’ Latin.
— So, wha’ did yeh do?
— I told me sister – I phoned her. I knew which one he meant.
— And wha’ did she say?
— Tell him he was a terrible ride an’ he can fuck off back to Poland.
— Tha’ was the last one.
— Tha’ was the one she meant, I think. So, annyway, I translated it into Latin an’ sent it to the fuckin’ Vatican. An’ I said I expected a reasoned response by the end o’ the week.
— He’ll deny he’s Polish.
— I cheated there. I changed it to German.
— He can’t deny he’s German.
— No, but he mightn’t admit it, either. They’re slippy fuckers.
18-9-11
— HAVE YEH RECOVERED yet?
— Ah fuck, man. What a day. I’m still a bit – I don’t fuckin’ know – overwhelmed.
— Know wha’ yeh mean. I had to lie down on the bed for a bit.
— I cried.
— Me too.
— Fuckin’ hell.
— I never thought I’d see it happen again.
— No – same here. It’s been so long – I’d given up hopin’.
— But the way he took tha’ ball.
— Incredible.
— Fuckin’ incredible. Here, look it. Give us a hug.
— Hang on, hang on. You’re not upstairs in the fuckin’ lounge.
— Sorry.
— No, you’re grand. Have a suck o’ your pint.
— Yeah – thanks.
— You’re grand.
— Somethin’ to tell the grandkids, wha’.
— Exactly, yeah.
— We saw it.
— That’s it. The day Fernando Torres scored a fuckin’ goal.
Man Utd 3–1 Chelsea
28-9-11
— WHO’LL YEH BE votin’ for?
— Fuck tha’ – not interested.
— Come on. Be a citizen. There’s the Senator.
— Which one’s he?
— The James Joyce wanker.
— Got yeh. He did somethin’, didn’t he?
— He wrote a letter defendin’ an Israeli paedophile.
— Could he not’ve defended one of our own paedophiles?
— His patriotic duty. I never saw it tha’ way before.
— Who else is runnin’?
— Dana.
— Ah, for fuck sake. Louis Walsh in a fuckin’ dress. Who else?
— McGuinness.
— Has he given up managin’ U2?
— Different McGuinness.
— The Provo?
— He says he left them in 1974.
— He’s lying through his arse, so. No change there. Who else?
— Your man from Dragons’ Den.
— Tha’ cunt?
— He says he won’t be havin’ anny posters.
— Not surprised, the fuckin’ head on him. Who else?
— Gay Mitchell.
— For fuck—. Who else?
— Michael D. Higgins.
— Which one’s he?
— Squeaky voice, poetry, Nicaragua.
— Is he still alive?
— At the moment, yeah – far as I know.
— Who else?
— Mary Davis.
— Who?
— Special Olympics.
— Did she win a medal?
— She ran the thing – organised it. Yeh feel guilty now, don’t yeh?
— No.
— Yeh feel horrible.
— I don’t – fuck off.
— Yeh do – go on.
— Okay, I do – fuck off.
3-10-11
— HAVE YEH MADE your mind up yet?
— A pint – same as always. I haven’t had to make me mind up since—
— I meant the election.
— Ah, shove it.
— Well, it’s either tha’ or the Greek default.
— Alrigh’ – fuck it. Who’s goin’ to win?
— Hard to say. They’re all shite.
— I seen Mary Davis’s Sex an’ the City posters.
— There yeh go. An’ Mitchell. He said you can see the house he grew up in – in Inchicore, like – from the window of the Áras. An’ he’s goin’ to look out at it every mornin’.
— An’ shout, Fuck you, Inchicore.
— He could get the Queen to do it with him the next time she’s over.
— A bondin’ exercise.
— Exactly. She probably never gets the chance to say Fuck at home.
— Talkin’ abou’ fuck an’ the Queen. What’s McGuinness up to?
— Says he’ll only pay himself the average industrial wage.
— The fuckin’ eejit.
— I’m with yeh. He says he’ll employ six young people with the money left over.
— Cuttin’ the grass an’ washin’ diesel. What about the Senator?
— Ah Jaysis. It looks like Greece is goin’ to miss its deficit target an’ has fuck-all chance of avertin’ bankruptcy.
7-10-11
— WHA’ D’YEH THINK of the poll?
— He’s alrigh’. He pulls a reasonable pint.
— I meant, the election poll.
— Ah, fuck the—. Go on.
— Michael D.’s leadin’.
— Followed by Mitchell.
— No. The Dragons’ Den fella.
— Fuckin’ hell. How did tha’ happen?
— Well, he’s scutterin’ on abou’ community an’ disability an’ tha’. But, really, he’s an ol’ Fianna Fáil hack. Up to his entrepreneurial bollix in it. Annyway, my theory.
— Go on.
— People still love Fianna Fáil.
— But they’d hammer them if they had a candidate.
— Exactly. But they can vote for this prick without havin’ to admit it.
— Brilliant.
— But I think Michael D. will get there.
— How come?
— He was goin’ on abou’ the President not bein’ a handmaiden to the government.
— What’s a handmaiden?
— I’m not sure. But if I was lookin’ for one in the Golden Pages, I wouldn’t be stoppin’ at the Michaels. Annyway, he suddenly stops, an’ says he broke his kneecap when he fell durin’ a fact-findin’ mission in Colombia. Wha’ does tha’ tell yeh?
— He was ou’ of his head.
— Exactly. Fact-findin’ mission me hole. He’s lettin’ us know – he’s one o’ the lads.
— Well, that’s me decided.
— Me too.
11-10-11
— THA’ MUST’VE BEEN some party.
— Wha’ party?
— The one in Tallaght. Five stabbin’s.
— Is tha’ your idea of a good party?
— Not necessarily, no. An’ I didn’t say it was ‘good’, so fuck off.
— Well, I’m sorry. And?
— An’ wha’?
— Wha’s your fuckin’ point?
— Well, for a start. I thought you’d be happy tha’ I’m not talkin’ about the fuckin’ election.
— Oh, I am.
— Grand. So, annyway. It said on the news tha’ they were taken – the ones tha’ got stabbed, like – to different hospitals, to make sure there wouldn’t be a continuation of the hostilities.
— Well, tha’ makes sense.
— Exactly. That’s what I thought. The thinkin’ tha’ went into it. The infrastructional plannin’.
— The wha’?
— When they were buildin’ Tallaght hospital, they must’ve thought, we’d better leave James’ Street open as well, just in case.
— In case there’s a scra
p?
— You’re with me. An’, well – I think that’s worth celebratin’. Cos we don’t hear enough good news these days – fuckin’ success stories.
— So. You’re sayin’ we should celebrate five stabbin’s in Tallaght?
— It’s only a fuckin’ suggestion.
14-10-11
— D’YEH EVER READ poetry?
— Wha’?!
— D’you ever—
— I heard yeh. I just can’t fuckin’ believe I heard yeh.
— Well, look it—
— G’wan upstairs to the lounge if yeh want to talk abou’ poetry.
— Just let me—
— Unless yeh can talk abou’ the football in rhyme. ‘There was a young player called Blunt’.
— There’s no player called Blunt – far as I know.
— You’re missin’ me point.
— I’m not. I heard yeh. Yeh didn’t hear me.
— I did.
— You feel threatened by it.
— No, I don’t.
— Yeh do. Yeh even moved your stool there.
— I didn’t.
— Yeh fuckin’ did. To get away from anny mention of poetry. It’s mad.
— Well, it’s a load o’ shite.
— I agree with yeh. That’s wha’ I’m tryin’ to say.
— Yeh’ve lost me now.
— So listen. My young’s one’s youngest lad, Damien.
— The kid with the cheeks.
— That’s him. He’s good in school – the great white hope. Annyway, he has to read a fuckin’ poem an’ write a bit about it. The homework, like.
— Okay.
— So, he’s in our place, cos his ma’s visitin’ the da. An’ he asks me to, yeh know, look at the poem. So I get the oven gloves on an’ I give it a dekko. ‘The Road Not Taken’ – some bollix called Robert Frost. Have yeh read it, yourself?
— I won’t even say no.
— Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Stay where yeh are; I’m just givin’ yeh a flavour o’ the thing.
— And – wha’?
— Well, this cunt – Robert Frost, like – he’s makin’ his mind up abou’ which road to take an’ he knows he’ll regret not takin’ one o’ them. An’ that’s basically it.
— He doesn’t need a fuckin’ poem for tha’. That’s life. It’s common fuckin’ sense.
— Exactly. I go for the cod, I regret the burger.
— I married the woman but I wish I could be married to her sister.