and about me was not of horses, but of life in general. EastEnders , Brookside and Manchester United. I could have launched into a diatribe on British colonisation by cultural stealth but thought it would be better to ingratiate myself by volunteering to make up the numbers on one of the teams when the barman announced that a pub quiz would be startingshortly. He took a note of my name, pronouncing it slowly to himself, then added it to a list of three others. He pointed to a corner which had thus far been shielded from my field of vision by a cigarette machine. ‘Yucan joinem,’ he said.
I lifted my pint and walked over. Sitting at a table, looking depressed, were the oil paintings salesman, the dry-cleaner and the chicken man. They looked up, but if they recognised me they gave no hint of it.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’ve been drinking alcohol in several areas for more than twenty years, but you three are without a doubt the saddest-looking individuals I’ve ever come across. I think I’m absolutely perfect for your team, if you’ll have me.’
They looked at me, then gave me a collective ‘What?’
‘Speak slower,’ said the chicken man.
‘What’re you on about?’ said the dry-cleaner.
‘You’re no oil painting yourself,’ said the oil paintings salesman.
‘I said,’ I said, ‘what can I get you to drink?’
‘Guinness.’
‘Guinness.’
‘Guinness.’
‘Okay then,’ I said.
We weren’t the worst team on the night, and we weren’t the best. I excelled at the movie questions but was found rather wanting on the silage round. Bloodstock left me bloodied and I won no points on the point-to-point. But they weren’t a bad bunch of lads. They worked on the farms there and about and tried to earn an extra punt or two in the evenings with their various franchises, scrambling into action every time word went out that somebody new and innocent had moved into town. But none of them made any money atit and they were all in debt to their shark of a supplier in Blanchardstown.
‘We hate that cunt,’ said the oil paintings man.
‘We should kill him,’ said the chicken guy.
‘And I could get the bloodstains out,’ said the dry-cleaning man.
It was a plot that was never going to get beyond the pub, and they knew it. The Celtic Tiger was creating superwealth for the chosen few in Dublin, while the likes of them were wallowing in the tiger shit, earning fuck all in the fields and fuck all calling cold with disinterested and similarly strapped householders. I asked about the upcoming races at Fairyhouse and they all said they were involved in the catering end of it. I asked for more detail and they said they’d be selling sandwiches and hot dogs on the road outside on Easter Monday.
We stayed drinking until closing time. I’d heard tales of marvellous country Irish pubs where the landlord never called time and you drank until you fell over, but incoherent fat lad behind the bar suddenly started grunting on the stroke of eleven and by a quarter past we were standing on the pavement outside. I felt quite sorry for them. They didn’t seem to have any other friends and they looked shiftily away when I mentioned my wife in passing, though I doubted if any of them had slept with her. I invited them back to the house and then stood tapping my foot while they pleaded with the landlord to serve them a carry-out.
Eventually he caved in. He disappeared back inside, then reappeared with four bags packed full of tins of Guinness. He was wearing a blue Dexter and Hush Puppies and appeared to think he was coming to the party as well.
We set off down the winding road back towards my empty, spacious house. The oil paintings salesman, the chicken man, the dry-cleaner and the fat incoherent landlord. As wewalked I reflected on the fact that although I had learned nothing, it hadn’t been a bad first night south of the border at all.
7
At first he didn’t have a clue who I was, walking across the damp grass,
I lifted my pint and walked over. Sitting at a table, looking depressed, were the oil paintings salesman, the dry-cleaner and the chicken man. They looked up, but if they recognised me they gave no hint of it.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’ve been drinking alcohol in several areas for more than twenty years, but you three are without a doubt the saddest-looking individuals I’ve ever come across. I think I’m absolutely perfect for your team, if you’ll have me.’
They looked at me, then gave me a collective ‘What?’
‘Speak slower,’ said the chicken man.
‘What’re you on about?’ said the dry-cleaner.
‘You’re no oil painting yourself,’ said the oil paintings salesman.
‘I said,’ I said, ‘what can I get you to drink?’
‘Guinness.’
‘Guinness.’
‘Guinness.’
‘Okay then,’ I said.
We weren’t the worst team on the night, and we weren’t the best. I excelled at the movie questions but was found rather wanting on the silage round. Bloodstock left me bloodied and I won no points on the point-to-point. But they weren’t a bad bunch of lads. They worked on the farms there and about and tried to earn an extra punt or two in the evenings with their various franchises, scrambling into action every time word went out that somebody new and innocent had moved into town. But none of them made any money atit and they were all in debt to their shark of a supplier in Blanchardstown.
‘We hate that cunt,’ said the oil paintings man.
‘We should kill him,’ said the chicken guy.
‘And I could get the bloodstains out,’ said the dry-cleaning man.
It was a plot that was never going to get beyond the pub, and they knew it. The Celtic Tiger was creating superwealth for the chosen few in Dublin, while the likes of them were wallowing in the tiger shit, earning fuck all in the fields and fuck all calling cold with disinterested and similarly strapped householders. I asked about the upcoming races at Fairyhouse and they all said they were involved in the catering end of it. I asked for more detail and they said they’d be selling sandwiches and hot dogs on the road outside on Easter Monday.
We stayed drinking until closing time. I’d heard tales of marvellous country Irish pubs where the landlord never called time and you drank until you fell over, but incoherent fat lad behind the bar suddenly started grunting on the stroke of eleven and by a quarter past we were standing on the pavement outside. I felt quite sorry for them. They didn’t seem to have any other friends and they looked shiftily away when I mentioned my wife in passing, though I doubted if any of them had slept with her. I invited them back to the house and then stood tapping my foot while they pleaded with the landlord to serve them a carry-out.
Eventually he caved in. He disappeared back inside, then reappeared with four bags packed full of tins of Guinness. He was wearing a blue Dexter and Hush Puppies and appeared to think he was coming to the party as well.
We set off down the winding road back towards my empty, spacious house. The oil paintings salesman, the chicken man, the dry-cleaner and the fat incoherent landlord. As wewalked I reflected on the fact that although I had learned nothing, it hadn’t been a bad first night south of the border at all.
7
At first he didn’t have a clue who I was, walking across the damp grass,
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