That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Friday, January 20, 2006

More (it is an Opera)

Let’s tarry awhile with these, come lately to the scene. What force of Fate’s has pulled them from the track well beat, to here, this night of all? Nothing less than a Quest!

Their entry stops the hubbub, just new again begun…
“Jesus” says the landlord to himself, as well he might, for the double of the Lamb of God is here tonight on Earth, with two companions now it seems. A jungle ape and a puzzled man with charts and books.
“Ah, now we get it…fancy dress piss-up.” the unspoken agreement round the room. (We, of course know different, don’t we friends?) Even so, when the rhubarb starts up anew it’s muted, to keep an ear free for all that falls unchecked.

Before Ryan’s counter stand the three, still in self absorbed discussion.

“… I don’t think that’s wise Barbudo, you have Tourette’s and are socially inept, besides, it’s GB’s round. Let’s sit, he’ll bring them over.”

And now, aware at last of their surroundings, they look for a table. And yes you’ve guessed, there is but one free space among the throng. For none shall sit there now.

From long years watching cowboy films the remarkable gorilla strikes his pose. A size ten hand upon the foot rail, he slaps his money down and orders up.
The barman admits “that Ape has style! And what a suit. The best I’ve seen and anatomically correct. He’s got a mickey and everything, even the eyes, contacts maybe…” (Careful, those eyes hold the wisdom of a myriad years.) He’s checking for the join between them and the mask when……into a lion pit he falls, landing hard in Serengeti, while in his ears, Zambezi drums throb, borne upon the fragrant grassland breeze…
In stone the barman stands, his drifting rollup smoke the only movement.
Our Ape-man turns to his friends;

“I did say this might happen…”

The big one, him the spit of Our Lord, stands up, and to the barman says quite snippy;
“In the name of cuntish fuck! Coke and ginger beer in a pint tumbler for me, right? Look at me when I’m talking son. Splendid. A half pint low alcohol lager shandy with lime for the philosopher in the corner and a banana daiquiri for my friend the Godamned, fucking APE. What’s the fucking problem? Is this a pub or not?”

“I’m having my doubts,” thinks our potman rustic.

Barbudo continues his tirade;
“And Mr G, put your bastard coat back on.”
“Yes of course, pardon.”
“Ayres! This the place or not?”
“Yes…It’s hard to say…there are so many Ryan’s”
“Well is it the right fuckin town?”
“The drunken rampaging stag and hen nights would suggest so.”
“I don’t mean DUBLIN, I know THIS is fucking Dublin. Is Dublin the RIGHT fucking town?”
“Yes. Stop shouting.”

“This is the best daiquiri I’ve ever had.”

El Barbudo looks heavenward in silent pleading, and there serendipitously, on the wall, is his suffering mirror image, complete with exposed sacred heart.
“You and me both, mate.”

On a windswept roadside, R.O. Mally sits in an unmarked Garda van. His instructions were clear.
“Do nothing’ y’hear? I’m letting’ yiz have the van on that condition.”
“Condition, yes sergeant nothin‘”
“Right so, I’m off then.” CRACK “Oh sweet Michael, me poor feckin’ neck.”
A portentous mist is gathering…..

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