Two Pints by Roddy Doyle Page B

place a lift.
    — It’s not as good as the Queen’s visit, but.
    — Fuck, no. Tha’ was the best.
    Estonia 0–4 Republic of Ireland

23-11-11
    — WILL THE EURO last?
    — I’ve enough left for a couple o’ pints, an’anyway.
    — I mean the currency. Is it fucked?
    — I don’t care.
    — Ah, fuck tha’. Yeh have to have an opinion.
    — Why should I? Fuck it.
    — But—
    — We were able to enjoy the occasional pint before the euro. Yeah?
    — Yeah.
    — We’ll still be able to do tha’ if the euro goes. Life’ll go on.
    — You’re righ’.
    — Wha’?
    — You’re probably righ’.
    — I am.
    — We’ll still be able to buy Cornettos for the grandkids when they come over on Sundays.
    — No fuckin’ way.
    — Ah now, would yeh begrudge—
    — It’s Magnums in our house.
    — Yeh posh cunts.
    — It’s Magnums or nothin’. I told her. If we can’t afford Magnums for the grandkids, we might as well turn on the gas.
    — Yeh don’t want to be too hasty. There mightn’t be anny in the shop.
    — Yeh know what I mean.
    — I do, yeah.
    — Every Sunday. Magnums for everyone. Even the youngest. She’s lactose-intolerant, God love her. Yeh should see the state of her by the time she’s finished. Try takin’ it off it her, but – she’ll bite your ankle through to the bone.
    — She has respect for family tradition.
    — She fuckin’ does.

29-11-11
    — DID YEH GET tha’ flu yet?
    — You’ve been its victim, yeah?
    — Did yeh not notice I wasn’t here?
    — I thought yeh’d gone quiet alrigh’.
    — Fuck off now. It was fuckin’ desperate. I had a temperature of 123.
    — Is tha’ fuckin’ possible?
    — So she said, an’annyway. An’ she gave the yoke a good shake before she put it under me arm.
    — Yeh can’t argue with science.
    — That’s another thing.
    — Wha’?
    — I’m in the bed, feelin’ woegious. An’ there’s this smell. Un-fuckin’-believable. First of all, I think it’s me. But it’s comin’ from downstairs. So I go down. I have to cling to the banister, the sweat’s drippin’ off me. An’ young Damien’s in the kitchen – the grandson, like. An’ there’s a mouse in the fuckin’ toaster.
    — Ah Jaysis.
    — So I say it must have fallin’ in – to comfort him, like. But he says, No, Granda, I thrun it in.
    — Is this the same lad tha’ threw the chipmunk into the deep-fat fryer?
    — That’s him.
    — Do yeh detect a fuckin’ pattern here?
    — He’s goin’ to be a scientist – a biologist.
    — D’yeh reckon?
    — Fuckin’ sure. We can all love animals, yeah?
    — I suppose.
    — Well, Damien takes it further. He’s curious abou’ them.

11-12-11
    — ISN’T IT GREAT tha’ we can hate the Brits again?
    — Brilliant, yeah. It’s a load off me mind.
    — Good oul’ Cameron.
    — The baby-faced prick. Wha’ is it he’s after vetoin’, exactly?
    — I haven’t a fuckin’ clue. It doesn’t matter.
    — Fuckin’ gas, isn’t it?
    — Brilliant. All tha’ matters is tha’ the news will make sense from now on. The Brits will be to blame for everythin’.
    — It’s fuckin’ great. After three years of not understandin’ wha’ was happenin’. Now but. The bondholders.
    — Brits.
    — Every fuckin’ one o’ them.
    — The Brits are to blame for where we are now.
    — Yep.
    — And for blockin’ all attempts to get us ou’ of our fuckin’ predicament.
    — Bastards.
    — I love them.
    — All the Queen’s hard work – up in smoke.
    — Thank fuck. It was too complicated. But do we have to start hatin’ her again as well?
    — There’s always a downside, unfortunately.
    — The fuckin’ wagon.
    — Good man. You’re adaptin’ to the new reality.
    — I fuckin’ am.
    — You’re a good European.
    — Come here, but. It’s a pity Cameron isn’t Thatcher, isn’t it?
    — Ah, Jaysis. I’ve died an’ gone to heaven.
    — My pint’s not the best. How’s yours?
    — Only so-so.
    — The fuckin’ Brits.
    —