-Ye call that rain?

-What do you call it?

-I call that a refreshing breeze, the likes of which I’d walk through bollock naked. With ease.

-The drains are overflowing. There’s pigeons drowning. It’s called climate change, old timer.

-The only change is in the sufficiencies of a man’s lot and the degradation of young attitudes, due to a few mild seasons of winter, that ye warranted your complaints with, so as now to give excuses and the want for robust natures. I watch the news, son, as closely as I watch the movements of the skies, never mind those of me own weakened bowels, owing of course to the poisoned liquors than yous are passing off as decent drink these days. The news is to be half-watched, cynically, then disregarded with the ordering of the next pint. Now fuck off, ya wee wank.

-Right, Granda. You have another pint sure. I’m away to save the world from modern problems.

-An eye to the past my son. Right ye are.

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I picked the schnotter from out me nose, and ate it shame-free in the comfort of a water closet. Freed now of all familial shackles, my mind buzzed gently with quaint turns of phrase that shone with that familiar trace of promise…

Never take yourself too seriously son, otherwise you’ll think they’re all laughing at you.

-Standin’ up for the common man, aren’t ye, kid?

-None of your business, to be fair.

-Aye, but to be fair you wouldn’t have half of them tramps back to your house.

-Would you?

-Nah, but I don’t spend all my days writing wee stories about them.

-They’re alright from a distance. You should soften your heart towards them.

-The last time I softened my heart towards a tramp like that I lost my wallet.

-Aye well just try and remember they’re human too.

-Animals I’d say. You’ve a lot to learn son. Give it a few years and your own naive heart will be a bit more discerning.

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This fine craft stout, a newly minted classic, has been deliberately flavoured with the distinct delicate stink of a secretary’s shoe. Will men savour this rare craic at the cost of their working class credentials? A surety indeed, if women continue to insist on navigating the rim of crystal glasses, with the kind of intent that leads inevitably to an erotic encounter with the desired ape-like groundsman.

———————————————————————————————–

Eamon fuckin’ McGlone. The biggest eejit that ever walked this town. Able as he was and all with words, office-management skills and folder-filling.

If you ever had the misfortune to meet the man in a pub then God love ye. Shites himself on entry, chats up strangers in an effort to scunder you to oblivion; berates immigrants with some skewed idea of a modern caste system…

The event was heavily petitioned by feminists, but Eamon didn’t give a fuck. He was up in the green room knockin’ one out.

Event organiser, poet of renown. Reviled and reached for, in selfish grasps for some favour or other. A scoundrel. And a wonder as to how he managed it. Blackmail and threats some speculated. Wouldn’t put anything past the artful codger.

———————————————————————————————–

-Did you hear that fella pontificating?

-Aye, was good to get it out of the way.

-A necessity of mcliterary schooling, say whut?

-Mnn. Buuuuuuuh.

-A solid shoulder in the direction of national acceptability.

-Is right.

-He’s fit to scrap though all the same. The pen wielding pugilist.

-The scribe. Writes a wee prophecy then in like Calzaghe.

-Bamboozles the opponent with historical nous then knocks ’em over with a tasty wee combination.

-Ye’ve to give him his dues.

-Aye he did write that Eurovision winner right enough.

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