intervals throughout the day. By 1.30 p.m., the racing channel was turned on and bets were being placed. The clientele were made up of a patchwork of ruddy,
lined faces, patched jackets, unkempt hair and shaky hands. Mostly the age profile was over 40, single, and hardened, with only one female popping in for a coffee while I was present. There was a
steady stream walking in and out, answering phones, churning bottom lips, perhaps trying to erase things to do from their memories as they faced into another fresh pint.
They looked pained and pleasured and, if I’m honest, part of me would have loved to have pulled my barstool close, swapped my tea for a crisp, cold pint of Carlsberg and joined in the
craic. I began to visualise that moment of holy transition from the remnants of one pint to a freshly poured one. The feeling as the beer began to settle into an empty stomach, having taken time to
get comfortable in its surroundings. The writer Eugene O’Brien has a line in the play Eden , when one of the characters is having the first pint of the morning after a heavy night and
remarks that the new beer is meeting the old beer and both are getting on just fine. I could see that moment in the faces of the regulars, as that first-mouthful grimace turned to a grin, and the
shakes began to recede.
The barmaid was like Nurse Ratched, carefully measuring out the medicine (mostly large bottles of stout) with the inmates (regulars) chatting amicably through the dispensing.
The inmates in this case were all bad teeth and tense expressions, unfurling crumpled notes, checking watches and grabbing the barmaid’s eye in a sort of wink-and-elbow language of
transaction. Few of them asked for a drink by name, their liquid leanings known intimately to the staff behind the dispensary.
By 2.17 p.m., one of the regulars, now on his sixth pint of the day, was close to not being offered any more.
‘Have you anything to tell me?’ he asked the bar worker.
‘No, have you?’ came the reply, as he was given his last pint.
He had been in the bar since 10.50 a.m. that morning and was beginning to get a little what we might call rowdy. Perhaps sensing he had become centre of attention, he made his first statement of
the day:
‘Do you remember back the years, there was a show, “Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em”?’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘Well by Christ she had a right one when she had me!’
I couldn’t argue with him, really.
While I was sitting there wondering whether I should introduce myself or remain in the background observing, one guy walked over and asked how the book was going. My cover was blown (aside from
the fake glasses and nose, the tape recorder and frantic note-taking probably gave the game away).
Without prompting, ‘John’ began to tell me his life story, beginning with the blunt fact that he had tried to take his own life three times over the past few years. The last time was
in Dungarvan, he said, when he had to be fished out of the water. While he was telling me his story, his mobile rang every few minutes—his 18-year-old daughter trying to get him home. Five
years earlier his relationship with his daughter’s mother had broken up. Had he ever tried to knock the drink on the head, I asked.
‘I managed to stay off the drink for about nine weeks after I had residential treatment; that’s as long as I ever lasted.’
A fortnight earlier, John had again tried to stay off the booze, but broke out and was now on his fourth day of solid drinking. He had a rising list of medical conditions, including a swollen
heart, and his daughter was partly calling to ensure he took his medication and didn’t miss an appointment with a specialist later in the week. He had missed the previous two appointments.
‘The doctor told me it’s not entirely my fault,’ he said, ‘it’s more the country I live in. I know everything my daughter is saying is right but I can’t hear her
because of the drink. Once I get
lined faces, patched jackets, unkempt hair and shaky hands. Mostly the age profile was over 40, single, and hardened, with only one female popping in for a coffee while I was present. There was a
steady stream walking in and out, answering phones, churning bottom lips, perhaps trying to erase things to do from their memories as they faced into another fresh pint.
They looked pained and pleasured and, if I’m honest, part of me would have loved to have pulled my barstool close, swapped my tea for a crisp, cold pint of Carlsberg and joined in the
craic. I began to visualise that moment of holy transition from the remnants of one pint to a freshly poured one. The feeling as the beer began to settle into an empty stomach, having taken time to
get comfortable in its surroundings. The writer Eugene O’Brien has a line in the play Eden , when one of the characters is having the first pint of the morning after a heavy night and
remarks that the new beer is meeting the old beer and both are getting on just fine. I could see that moment in the faces of the regulars, as that first-mouthful grimace turned to a grin, and the
shakes began to recede.
The barmaid was like Nurse Ratched, carefully measuring out the medicine (mostly large bottles of stout) with the inmates (regulars) chatting amicably through the dispensing.
The inmates in this case were all bad teeth and tense expressions, unfurling crumpled notes, checking watches and grabbing the barmaid’s eye in a sort of wink-and-elbow language of
transaction. Few of them asked for a drink by name, their liquid leanings known intimately to the staff behind the dispensary.
By 2.17 p.m., one of the regulars, now on his sixth pint of the day, was close to not being offered any more.
‘Have you anything to tell me?’ he asked the bar worker.
‘No, have you?’ came the reply, as he was given his last pint.
He had been in the bar since 10.50 a.m. that morning and was beginning to get a little what we might call rowdy. Perhaps sensing he had become centre of attention, he made his first statement of
the day:
‘Do you remember back the years, there was a show, “Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em”?’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘Well by Christ she had a right one when she had me!’
I couldn’t argue with him, really.
While I was sitting there wondering whether I should introduce myself or remain in the background observing, one guy walked over and asked how the book was going. My cover was blown (aside from
the fake glasses and nose, the tape recorder and frantic note-taking probably gave the game away).
Without prompting, ‘John’ began to tell me his life story, beginning with the blunt fact that he had tried to take his own life three times over the past few years. The last time was
in Dungarvan, he said, when he had to be fished out of the water. While he was telling me his story, his mobile rang every few minutes—his 18-year-old daughter trying to get him home. Five
years earlier his relationship with his daughter’s mother had broken up. Had he ever tried to knock the drink on the head, I asked.
‘I managed to stay off the drink for about nine weeks after I had residential treatment; that’s as long as I ever lasted.’
A fortnight earlier, John had again tried to stay off the booze, but broke out and was now on his fourth day of solid drinking. He had a rising list of medical conditions, including a swollen
heart, and his daughter was partly calling to ensure he took his medication and didn’t miss an appointment with a specialist later in the week. He had missed the previous two appointments.
‘The doctor told me it’s not entirely my fault,’ he said, ‘it’s more the country I live in. I know everything my daughter is saying is right but I can’t hear her
because of the drink. Once I get
Similar Books
