The pub was all go. Liberals at the bar, talking the millennial code. Take Joe. Drives all day and hates black people. Says they don’t work and they’re not Irish and why don’t they go back to their own country. Mary down the back shouts up that she agrees. John’s eating a chicken curry in the corner, listening, says to himself: “And the fuckers don’t pay tax either.’
Joe’s on a roll now. Audience. Encouragement. Validation. Soon he’s on Lisa Smyth. And how could we let her back into the country. She’s obviously a terrorist. Coming back in by stealth. Has a plan to kill us all. Even if not, did she not leave of her own free will? And it didn’t work out so fuck her, let her die out there. Not our problem. Don’t get me wrong, says Joe, it’s just my opinion. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion and this is mine. I’m Irish, he says, pay tax here. Contribute to society. Abides by the law and why am I paying for terrorists to come and go on government jets? He takes another drink. Silence. Then Paddy falls off the couch. He’s been struggling for a while. Doing his best with a pint of stale Carlsberg but nobody noticed he’d fallen alsleep. Everyone was transfixed by Joe and his apparent logic. But now Paddy’s on the ground, splayed.
Someone asks: ‘Alright there, Paddy?’
But he’s too unconscious to answer. Two lads stand up then. Bend down, catch him under the arms. Up now, Paddy, good man. He’s in a blue coat and moustache. Got the double dole today. Starting the Christmas in style. Joe can see him on the floor now, says: ‘There’s a true Irishman for ya. Drinks his pints as they come. None of this designated driver shit.’
Meanwhile the jukebox kicks off. Guns ‘n Roses. Right next door to hell. It’s loud and doesn’t suit the relative emptiness. And Joe’s annoyed cos he can’t be heard now. Paddy gets put back on the couch but he’s still asleep and doesn’t even know he fell. They set him up in a safe way so he’s much further from the edge and won’t fall again. Then they tilt his head back and leave his pint in front of him so it’ll be right there when he wakes up. Nice lads.
The music stops.
Joe’s ready to bounce off the walls again with: ‘I can’t stand that Vradakar bastard.’
‘Why not?’ Asks a voice down the back.
‘He’s a Russian bastard.’ Says Joe.
Someone else says he’s not Russian. At least they don’t think he is. Someone else says they remember when he was elected it was celebrated that he was of Indian descent.
‘That’s what I’m talking about.’ Says Joe. Fuckin Indians. John Wayne is what we need to come and wipe out the whole lot of them out. The blacks, the Indians, the terrorists. They’re not Irish. I pay tax here for a country that’s full of sponging immigrants. It’s even run by a fuckin immigrant. So what hope have we?’
Man along the bar shouts: Bring on the next election!
Bring it on! Chimes in another.
You know what, says Joe. ‘We should should set up our own Political party. Irish people only. No foreigners. Well, Polish and that are ok. But none of the other fuckers.’
‘What’ll we call it?’
‘We’ll call it Ireland First. No Russians allowed. Or Pakies. Or Blacks. Just tax paying Irish and you know what?’
‘What?’
‘We’d fuckin clean up. I’d have the country sorted in a week.’
‘Want another pint?’ Asks the barman to Joe.
Fill it up, he says, I’m only getting started here….
Mick Donnellan 