Two Pints by Roddy Doyle

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.
    — Is tha’ true?
    — Not really – no.
    — Annyway. Yeh sure?
    — Go on.
    — So annyway, the poor little bollix – Damien, like – the grandson. He has to answer questions about it. An’ the last one – it’s really stupid now. What road do you think you should never take? An’, like, I tell him, The road to Limerick.
    — Did he write tha’?
    — He fuckin’ did. An’ guess where the fuckin’ teacher comes from? An’ guess who’s been called up to the fuckin’ school, to explain himself to the fuckin’ headmaster?
    — Brilliant.
    — Tomorrow mornin’.
    — Serves yeh righ’ for readin’ poetry.
    — I agree. A hundred fuckin’ per cent. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood me hole.

15-10-11
    — WHA’ D’YEH THINK o’ Dana’s sister sayin’ that her –
    — No! No – please—
    — Okay.
    — Thanks.
    — Can I just say one thing abou’ Miriam O’Callaghan’s outrageous bullyin’ of poor Martin McGuinness in the
Prime Time
debate? An’ then we’ll move on.
    — Okay. One thing.
    — Only one – thanks. She can bully me anny time she fuckin’ wants.
    — That it?
    — That’s it.
    — The first sensible thing yeh’ve said in weeks.
    — Months.
    — Ever.

22-10-11
    — SO GADDAFI’S GONE .
    — From the chipper?
    — Ah, listen – look it. You’re goin’ to have to broaden your fuckin’ horizons.
    — Oh, the other one.
    — Yeah, the other one.
    — Yeah, I seen tha’. The man with the golden gun.
    — Didn’t do him much fuckin’ good, did it? See they found him in a drainage pipe?
    — Yeah.
    — I’ll tell yeh. The last couple o’ months must’ve been rough. Cos he wouldn’t’ve fitted into tha’ pipe a few months back.
    — We’ll kind o’ miss him.
    — We will in our holes. An’ d’yeh see ETA’s declared a ceasefire?
    — Thank fuck. That’s great news.
    — Oh, you’re interested in tha’ one, are yeh?
    — Fuckin’ sure – the noise she was makin’.
    — Hang on – wha’?
    — A woman of her age, buyin’ a fuckin’ drum kit with her redundancy – her fuckin’ lump