Tranquil

“Quiet in here tonight, eh?”, says Ron.

“Yeah”, I say, sipping my pint and looking around. Dirty Dave is at home trying to fix his bathroom. He got it done up but forgot to have toilet put in so he’s been shitting in the sink for two weeks. Now the pipe underneath his sink is like a fat man’s colon, thick with impacted, mouldy faeces. Stinking Pete got himself a taxi licence so he’s out working and giving the evil eye to black drivers and country drivers who, he says, will take you anywhere for a tenner. I’m not sure that’s true.

Jimmy is away seeing his son in Florida, Lucky Luciano doesn’t come out much anymore what with having triplets and a wife who has a tongue more vicious than the bang off a knacker’s gooch and Splodge has taken to coming in late but gives no reason why.

Paddy and Larry are at the far end of the bar, talking like they always do, while old Charlie and his new dog McGillucuddy come in every day for a few pints but that’s early on. Passing trade was never a big factor, Ron’s is not the most welcoming bar in the world. From time to time you get the odd straggler or a local who can’t go the next closest bar because he’s had some kind of a run in with someone, usually one of the barmen. Ron doesn’t mind, he’ll serve them and they’ll be shush, or they won’t be back.

I can hear the clock ticking on the wall. There’s no loud music. There’s no braying laughing, no guffawing, no shrieking, no wits or wags, no TV (news is over and there’s no football), the odd siren blaring out there, in the distance, and inside just a man, his pint, his well thumbed book and the occasional hacking cough of the bar owner.

“Quiet, all right”, I say.

“Yep”, says Ron. “Fucking great isn’t it?”