The Dublin Centenarian

Cheer up?   I'm perfectly cheerful, thank you.  No, it's not that time of the month. Wrong?   What makes you think there's anything wrong?   What could be wrong?   Forgotten something?   Well, what if you have?   I know how tiring it must be drinking with your influential friends down the pub all night.  And I'd rather you didn't use that sort of language in the house.  TThat's right.  Raise your voice to me, go on, the neighbours may have missed the last bit.

Yes, I know you're just asking me logically and quietly what the matter is.  That's men all over, of course.  When in - doubt, use linear thinking.  God forbid you should show any emotion.  TNot all men are like that?   You're not All men?   Well who said you were?   Does every conversation have to centre around you?   Oh, lost your voice now, have you, as well as your temper?   The strong silent type is it?   Well.  I suppose sulking like a stubborn child is better than sarcasm.

I was being sarcastic?   Well excuse me.  I suppose I have to obtain your permission for every remark I make now.

Appalled at ghastly find of official envelope among usual junk mail, bills, etc. Have Revenue Commissioners found out about nixer?   But no! Merely summons to jury duty. Excellent! Paid holiday, delicious feeds in luxurious hotel! What a break!

Enthusiasm fades as discovers jurors not paid, lunched only. Case could drag on for weeks. Also discovers could be elected foreman of jury. Imagines Judge summing up "May I take this opportunity of congratulating the most intelligent foreman it has been my privilege to work with?"

Vision fades as realises one of foreman's duties is to put other jurors' queries to judge.

Suppose barrage of ludicrous questions submitted?   Would not foreman appear total gobaloon?   Decides to decline honour modestly if offered.

Turns up at Four Courts twenty minutes early clutching summons. Finds 150 of peers clutching summonses and occupying all seats. Herded into court with others. Still can't find scat. Roll is called from lectern. Own name called. Knees turn to jelly as squeaks out number in barely audiable tones recovers composure. Says brightly to neighbour on left "Like bingo isn't it, two fat ladies, 88?" Realises neighbour is fat lady. As also is neighbour on right who hisses "Why don't you keep your tasteless remarks to yourself?"

Concentrates gaze on shady looking customer making way through crowd. Undoubtedly mass murderer. Beady eyes and beetling brow dead give-away. Shady looking customer sits on bench and announces he is presiding judge.

Spends hour attempting to decipher directions written on cigarette packet during riotous night in pub.   As storm is raging calls taxi.   Taxi man says he'll be twenty minutes.   Hour passes.   Rings second taxi.   Second taxi will be ten minutes. Arrives half hour later along with first.   Tells first driver to perform anatomical impossibility.

Second driver 'knows general area' though not road 'as such'.   Three hours later after obtaining increasingly confusing directions from series of mental defectives and paying astronomical fare arrives at house to find note on door explaining all are in local.   Ink on map has run in downpour so spends hour looking for bar.   Gets there just as time is called so sits fuming while merry throng guzzle line of pints ordered earlier.

At party makes straight to kitchen for much needed belt of scotch.   Opens bag.   Discovers man in off licence has given him bottle of cooking sherry.   Breaks cork.   Sulks in kitchen drinking glass after glass.   Perks up.   Moves into dancing room.   Throws self into frenzy of twisting to impress mini-skirted blonde.   Says roguishly "You must be tired.   You've been running round my head all evening."   Blonde swivels on bed and spends evening chatting up younger man.

Wheezing partygoer flops exhausted on couch beside man of own age.   Digs man in ribs and indicates blonde.   Says: "Phwooar! You don't get many of them to the pound.   I'd say she's a bit of a goer, what?"   Middle aged man says he wouldn't know as blonde is his daughter.

Gone very cold sir, yes.   Sure we had no summer.   Just a trim is it?     Yes sir.   Have you lookin' grand in a minute.   D'you know what it is, you won't feel it now 'til the Christmas. An' if you do it's a sin (chuckles).   Sure you have to laugh.   A good laugh is a tonic.

Did yeh ever see that thing Father Ted?     That was gas altogether.   One time Ted was for cleanin' the windas.   Only wasn't there a black patch on one of them he couldn't get off an' didn't some Chinese lads passin' look in the winda when he was complainin' an' gesticulatin' an' they seen the spot just under his nose and thought he was got up to look like Adolof Hitler.   An' that Mrs Doyle forever makin' cups o' tea an' sandwiches an' if the visitors refuse them she goes (leans against cracked washbasin to steady self at recollection): "GO ON GO ON, GO ON, GO ON, GO ON' (laugh reaches crescendo, becomes wheeze, subsides).

But this other thing they done, 'The Big Train', I can't make head or tail of that at all.   Lads sayin' in English that they don't speak English an' cartoons about fellas starin' at each other.

A cartoon I do always like is the coyote.   He's forever buidin' some yoke to catch the road runner, only yer man is too cute for him an' at the end of the day he's blown up be dynamite or he gets a crack of an anvil or he falls off a cliff.

I see on the paper where they're puttin' up a big needle where the pillar used be opposite the GPO there it was.   I used say I was goin' from pillar to post.

Staggers out of festive office lunch in ferociously expensive restaurant at which, since he is driving borne, he has ingested enough sparkling water to refloat the Titanic Eyes double in size as realises car has been clamped.   Curses clampers, curses hearty office pals, curses maker, day he was born, night he was conceived, etc, etc.   Toys momentarily with notion of emulating Homer Simpson and utilising workman's pneumatic drill to remove clamp.   Reluctantly abandons idea.

Reads notice stuck to car window. ---Don't dare to remove this notice- "Doesn't dare.   Reading further discovers he has to pay £65 fine.   Grinds teeth with rage.   Searches coat pockets revealing old Kleenex, crumpled cigarette packet, spent match and £4.43 in change.   Storms off to Banklink.   Banklink not working. Gropes in jacket and feels credit card.   Stalks through crowds or snarling punters bearing stacks of unwanted gifts to shops whose windows are full are animatronic elves and cuts anthropomorphic animals singing seasonal favourites in squeaky voices.   Curses elves, crowds, cute animals, seasonal favourites, etc, etc,.

Enters single decker soaked to skin after 25 minute wait ('Go minic is go tapa.') in bus 'shelter' into which freezing rain is driven by force ten gale. Passes down car through steaming mass of fellow sufferers emitting fumes of coughs groans, wheezes, blasphemies, etc.

Elbow past backpacker woman unfolding pram, singing drunk, mad tramp, couple playing tonsil hockey etc. etc.   Trips over own briefcase.   Stands on foot of ferocious looking man.   Mumbles apologies.   Ferocious looking man glares daggers.

Other passengers chortle.   To hide discomfiture bestows glance of mingled pity and amusement on exhausted fellow traveller who snores red faced, head resting against window, breath forming little patch, now expanding, now contracting.

Poor fellow will probably miss his stop.   Chuckles.   Realises pretty girl sitting nearby thinks he is leering at her.   Hastily begins reading tabloid of man next to him.

Half way through lead story SERIAL SICKOS STRIKES AGAIN" Suddenly catches man's eyes.   Pretends to have something in own.   Swivels eyes about grotesquely winking and grimacing to convey this in mime.   Realises pretty girl looking at him as if he is lunatic.

Beats old woman on crutch to coveted window scat.   As she sits beside him he cannot he faulted for not giving up scat to scowling parcel laden women who throng aisle.   Windows steam up.   Writes name on window with finger.   Draws funny face.

Realises to horror that funny face is unintentional caricature of ferocious looking man.   Hastily erases picture with scarf.   Realises scarf is not own but that of pretty girl who has moved to seat in front.   Mumbles frantic apologies.   Pretty girl, ferocious looking man, laden housewives etc.   glare daggers.

In moment of madness following near death post flew year's eve party hangover situation bets wife he call stay off booze and fags for month.   Three days later wakes from dream in which he is breakfasting oil bowl of nicotine patches drowned in vodka.

Rises.   Cuts self shaving.   Grabs cup of tea shouting calm reasoned criticisms at cowering wife, underachieving children, imbecilic radio presenter, illiterate editorial ill morning newspaper etc, etc.

Slams door- Kicks dog.   In bus shelter notices very old man take out pack of twenty untipped 'and lights up.   Old man remarks that he's been smoking for- 55 years.   "Never done me a bit of harm" he adds.   Resolute man by supreme power of will manages not to hurl old man under bus.    Arrives at work in foul humour.   Snarls at office boys smoking in corridor.    Begins drafting report.   Grips felt tip pen in teeth as seeks mot juste.    Telephone rings.   Engages in complicated negotiating with client.   Notices curious odour.    Realises he has lit felt tip pen and is attempting to inhale.

At lunch in pub astonishes colleagues by selecting water as post Christmas free drink.   Smiles ghastly smile saying "Adam's ale lads.   What the lions and tigers drink." Eats three times as much as usual.   Realises that rediscovery of sense of taste not necessarily an advantage.

Enters local expressing desire for almighty to save all present with exception of cat which (possessing more acumen than remainder of company) leaves at once.   Attempts to order drink in Irish, Barman (native speaker) has no idea what he's talking about.

Finally makes self intelligible, ingests half of' pint wipes lips with sleeve of' hairy jumper obtained at "Man of Aran" sale (made in Taiwan).    Removes redolent morsel of' previous night's take away from left molar utilising pin of Fainne Nua fixes gaze (11 victims and commences: - Gob, that's a cold one.   Thaw shay fuar ah-noch ah?   Doon all doras there a cara and shove up he the tine for the love of God, I wouldn't he surprised if' we'd the bit of shnochta yet, what?

Having come seventeenth in field of seventeen the glum quadrumvirate consume unconsoled the consolation prize (bottle of scotch) from assortment of containers in pad of TV Fiend, team's only bachelor.

The Professor (knows by rote Presidents of United States, Kings of England, Longest rivers in world.   Tallest mountains in world, seven wonders of world, etc etc, none of which came up): "Nev' mind.   Had bit crack.   Wha?'

Unfragrant movie buff.   (Hero of night for getting tough answer in final round 'Who trained the rats in Taste the Blood of Dracula'?) "At leash I got few right."

TV Fiend (who having memorised every episode of Friends has hardly any of his own) lapses into heavy sleep with Homer Simpson look-alike drool.

Little man with squeaky voice: "Well I nearly got that one- (assumes quizmaster's voice "what is the name of the organ that is found at the back of the throat?")

Professor: (mimics squeaky man): "That would depend on what you were doing at the time.

Movie buff. "When the guards stopped us you couldn't remember your own name.

TV Fiend (waking suddenly): "Doncha wanna go where e'vbody knows ya name?"

Squeaky man: (leafing through.   tattered child's encyclopaedia) "Aha, Just ash I thought.   Badgersh don't lay eggsh."

Professor: (gazing suspiciously at glass): "Is there peppermint in thish?"

TV Fiend: "Nah.   Shtoothpaste."

Professor: "Thash inneristing fact.   Here'sh another inneresting fact.   Drinksh all gone.   Whar we goin' do now?   All.   Go ****in' home.

DURING TV dinner learns that non-agerian Uncle Julius has finally bought it after heroic lifelong struggle with bottle.    Phones boss to explain will be needing following morning off.   Slave-driving, whip-cracking boss says uncle rates three hours off at top and will expect to see bereaved driving desk by two p.m.   or know reason why.   Bereaved searches high and low and eventually locates black jacket, trousers, tie etc.   Asks wife to darn minuscule hole in right trouser leg.   Wife says she has better things to be doing with time.   Suggests he make mark on leg with black ink.   No one will notice anyway.   Adds that the old goat (deceased) won't have left them a cent, as it all went down red lane years ago.

Outside strikes up conversation with philosophical stranger.   Stranger says he is sorry for bereaved's trouble.   Says deceased's passing has, left world poorer place.   Witty Bereaved says uncle's passing will have left city's barmen poorer at any rate.   Why whatever can Bereaved mean by this statement, demands stranger, as deceased never touched drop in life.

"I see where the whole city is booked out for the millennium.   Can't get a table in a restaurant for love or money.   So the wife's sister was sayin'."

"What I want to know is what's this spire all about?   Three million quid down the Swanee Three, million quid.   I mean what's that about?" "The thins is that the year 2000 isn't really the beginning of the millennium at all.   It's actually not the start of the new millennium till January 1, 2001.   See it?"

"2001?   Yeah.   Great wasn't it?   I see all Kubrick's films."

"No.   I mean d'you see about the millemm - I mean millennium not starting until 2000 is over."

"Hard to say isn't it?"

"What d'you mean 'hard to say'?"

'Millennium'.   It's a hard word to say.   The sister's eldest, young Heathcliff, says minnellium.   You know, like Lisa Minnelli.   Did you ever see 'Cabaret'?   

That was another good one."

"Another thing is going to happen is all the computers will start goin' daft."

That's the exact same as happens in 2001.   The computer goes mad an' starts singin' and shuttin' down the ship's vital functions.   The sister's eldest young Heathcliff has it on video."

"No 1 mean in the real 2001.   All the computers go down on account of where they can't I work noughts or ones or something.   Then they're expectin' world war three to break out."

"Lord save us.   Will ye go again?"

"I win so."

"Barman will ye give us two stouts before we die of thirst"?

Bored, housewife begins cutting newspaper into pieces to line kitchen drawer.    Catches sight of headline about enormous advances dangled before first time Irish novelists.    Reading down paragraph discovers that sums not un-adjacent to six figures have been mooted for two page outline of putative blockbuster from woman of her own age who has never written line of fiction.

Abandons drawer lining and ascends to attic where behind stack of letters and their dusty answers discovers dusty manual Remington typewriter, relic of long gone carefree unmarried days as typist for reputable firm in city.

Lugs typewriter to kitchen, banishes dust, inserts sheet of paper.    Waits for inspiration to hit and fund glamorous new Joan Collins lifestyle (with exception of Playboy appearance).

Waits and waits.    Waits some more.    Decides to get in some practice while waiting.    Has no doubt become somewhat rusty since above mentioned days in typing pool of reputable firm.

Types "The quiz brow box lumps over the hazy bog." Jovial husband entering in search of pipe and reading above, passes remark that the late J Joyce has already cleared up the market for that sort of stuff in Finnegan's Wake.

Ignoring this, stoic artist tries again so that when husband returns moments later he reads "blown box bumping over the lady log" and makes the suggestion that wife should set about acquiring infinite number of monkeys in hope of accidental masterpiece resulting.    Wife reminding self that artist must suffer ignores gibe and perseveres until fox finally jumps over dog.

Now for that advance earning outline! Nothing.    Nothing whatever.    More nothing.    Husband re-entering to enquire about possibility of cup of tea and spotting blank page observes that wife is clearly taking to heart dictum "write about what you know".    Husband retires guffawing.

"LORD save us I thought he was gone to James's Gate for that pint.

"Cheers."

"Cheers.   I see you're on the Bloody Marys.   D'you think are they any good ?"

"Well you get a bit of vitamin C in them from the tomatoes.    D'you know what I'm going to tell you the town is getting noisier every minute (shudders).    Between the lads flingin' the iron lungs into the cellar outside hopin' them off the pavement with fierce clangs and your other crowd opposite with the pneumatic drills you can't hear yourself think (clutches brow).   Me head is destroyed with it all."

"Mixin' the drinks were you?"

"Aye.   Bit of a hooley at the wife's sisters.   Her eldest, Heatheliff, won a hundred quid on a scratch-card an' we pushed the boat out a bit.   The idea was she'd put away a few quid for his education, but at the end of the day the drink ran out at ten so we went down the local for the late extension.    Still, it taught the young fella somethin' about the value of money."

"They always say the thing is to mix the grain with the grape and not the other way round.   Then you were right.' "I wonder is there anything gets rid of a hangover?    All the years I'm goin' 1 must've tried the lot.   Bloody Marys, shavin', drinkin' pints of water before you hit the scratcher, long walks and nothin' ever worked only the hair of the madra."

"My uncle Scan used rill a plastic basin with mayonnaise, mustard, and brown sauce and massage It into his scalp and he never had a hangover all the years 1 know him."

"And that used cure him did it?"

"Hello.    You don't mind if I sit here.    Only I seen you scribblin' away in the aul notebook an' I says to meself, "I bet your man over there is a writer".    I do a bit of writin' meself.    Poems, plays, short stories an' that.    Nothin' actually published as such.    But of course there's not much money in it unless you were to write a best seller.    No money in poetry an' as the man said no poetry in money either.    Ha ha!"

"No, where the big bucks is these days is in writin' for the screen.    Was a time you couldn't go into (Nesbitt's bar) without fallin' over crowds of them with their pockets stuffed full of poems.    But nowadays anyone that puts pen to paper is writin' what they call treatments.    I done wan meself a few years back.    I was actin' the part of one of the crowd in Michael Collins an' when I seen me chance.    I seized me opportunity an' shown it to Jordan.    Well he said he'd read it when he had time but of course I never heard back.    Same story the time I sent it to Spielberg an' Lucas.    Not a dickey bird."

"It's not what you know in Hollywood.    It's who you know.    An' the theatre.    That's another closed shop.    The time I sent me play down the Gate what d'you think I heard?   Nothin'.    And RTE?    Lord save us don't talk to me about that crowd.    Anyhow now I have you here I suppose you'd know editors and publishers an, so on being as you're in the game.    Well lucky enough I have a bit of a novel I was workin' on in me pocket here.    The writin's a bit hard to read (produces large wedge of greasy manuscript) so I'll read it out to you."    (Business of clearing throat, adjusting spectacles etc.).

"The lonely cry of a seagull rang out above the damp gray water of the Liffey.    (And so on until madness sets in).    Some men would ban Vanessa Feltz (above), while many women would outlaw silicone implants (right) and swim trunks (left)"