Footy monologue : Pinman part two - The Irish

Imgormiel

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Ok, same disclaimer as the first one basically. Took me a day to write this, it's long, so get a coffee and enjoy!!!


The Irish


Mi’ name’s Michael, Michael Crinn or Mick as I like to me to be known. God tell ya I love it. I love being me, an’ the canny bastaird that I fooken am. I love the Phillies, the Hoarses, an’ a bit of gambin’. And where there’s munee involved, anything goes. An’ I tell ya, ‘I beat the shit out of anybody that sais eny diff’rent.’

I moved up to Belfast from County Wexford after me mam died and came to live with Antee Sal since I was a wee lad. And I’ve supported Liverpool FC ever since.

It’s been a bastaird of a day. No fooken work as fooken usual. It all dried up after the troubles stopped. I used to work on the dock in Dublin. This was handy fir me an’ me mates, Fergal, Jimmy and Pat or Phats, as we like to call ‘im. Fat fooker. But a handy piece of muscle given we were dealing arms to fight the troubles – and more importantly, fund our own pockets. But since that arse licker McGuinness and his cronies an’ Saint gobshyte Paisley got a social conscience and embraced the Euro. Things have been pretty shyte save for the odd bit of working the doors at clubs. Fooken Romanian gypsies.

Enyway, after an afternoon of watchin’ the Hoarses in the hause like. It was time was to go pick up me monee from the bookies and head on down for a good laugh with the lads down at Ant Peg’s place. Sal didn’t work, no fooker did that lived here, wasn’t the jobs for us. Fooken immigrants.

‘Just off to see a dog about a job', I said to Sal. 'Aye, you come back stinkin’ of ale later as usual. An’ stays away from that Jackie Finn fir god’s sake will yer? She’s bloody trouble that one after you’ve been drinking.’ Sal grinned and continued. 'Those fangs on her teeth will more an’ bite your airse if you cross that one!' As I turned to her with the door half closed, ready to leave. I gave her a wink an’ a cheeky grin, ‘You know me and trouble.’ She shook head at me in disappointment and said, ‘Peas in a fooken pod. Jesus.’

The dole was great when it works like this. Stupid English buggers and theirs. Bet they can’t even scratch two fooken pennies together – Hence they’re all in debt an’ on the sick with scratchcarditis and pints elbow.

A bus would only take me twenty minutes to get that thieving bastaird bookies munee and wipe his eye. But family an’ me mates are a just as important. Greasing the wheels at Ant Pegs was excuse enough.

Peg is not her real name like. She was such a tight fooken cow that she wouldn’t buy one of those prosthetic thingy-mi-jigs that we made her a wooden one. Poor lass lost her leg due to some soft kunt throwin’ a grenade at the RUC during the troubles. She wasn’t using her green cross code that day, or perhaps she was an’ got a handy insurance claim fir it. Ah well, her hause is the club it is today – Ma’ Rookies. At least her left foot doesn’t smell as bad as a ryght one now. But the nickname just stuck.

Ma’ Rookies was great, if a little small. Good drink, good music – craic wasn’t too bad either. It only had one hause rule - besides a few unsaid ones. All people from Limerick and Shannon were banned from the club.

Reason? Those bastairds could make you say feck and fooken so fast your tongue would go into contusions far and beyond an over-experienced bint lezzer could dream of even wildly. An’ we always bet them we could say fook faster than they did – but always lost. It was a good laugh enyways after a few pints of Guinness, but Peg said it lowered the tone of the place. She liked havin’ us all around as our reputation sorta preceded us in that nyce sorta way. It kept the place, orderly like - even if we liked to kick the shit out of everyone if Liverpool lost a game.

As I got in there. Peg was stood behind the bar with her shoulder-baring bint blouse neatly covering her tits. Old milf...She always knew how to run a good boozer and kept the punters happy. But the barmaids Carol an’ Jackie were enough to keep me at the bar talking even though. The first leg of the midweek champion’s league game between Liverpool an’ Manc shyte United had started on the filem screen - things were looking good. ‘Pint please Peg,’ I asked. ‘That Romanian bookie is a soft shyte. You’ve been cleaning his pocket now for months – your slovenly lookin’ drunken mates are sat down there in the corner.’ She replied. I smiled. 'In the age of the mobile phone. I find me old Mystic Peg the clairvoyant is a far better reception.' Tugging at my cheek, she laughed heartily an’ remarked that I was a cheeky bugger, I should take a seat and she will be right over with the drinks.

Gerrard had just scored twice in the space of two minutes before half time. The pints were flowing an’ I was thinking to myself that the day couldn’t get any better. Unless that is some Ajaxheads came in for a bit of fun. But Phats, Feargal and Jimmy were already on to talking about taking some golf trip away somewhere to get out of Belfast for change – perhaps even next week after the Man City game - No chance of that - just yet. We were far too sober to start causing chaos in the club.

Instead the Romanian bookie from down the road came in and down for a few beers with his Bulgarian pals. Laughing, joking, an’ giving me a smug smile as though to say ‘feck you’ we are working.

They may call me a fooken pikeh over in Yapland over the water in Liverpool like. But feck these gypsies. I want some of their action. Comin’ over ‘ere and takin’ our jobs like. Drinkin in mai pub dressed to the fooken nines an’ ayeing up Jackie. It’s just not fooken ryght. Their munee is mai munee. I’ll offer them a game of poker later seeing as luck is shining on me today.

There is always a stupid eedyot among that smug bastairds mates. Sharing his snuff among them - Soft bastairds. We can drink the fookers under the table all night long enjoying the craic while they drink and play chopsticks on Peg’s tables with that sherbert dib-dab shyte they put up their noses. Only to be jealous as feck, as we were usually still laughing away talking more shyte when they’ve sobered up an’ no money to put in Peg’s till. Soft shyte’s.

But I am not a kunt, an’ neither are me mates. Wouldn’t be nice of us to not buy ‘em all a whiskey fir the road. An’ when we say road, we mean it literally, as that’s just a softener for abusing Peg’s pub like the way they have an we knock seven kinds of shyte out of em for doin’ it. Only to be polite enough to invitin’ ‘em back tomorrow for round two. As Peg wouldn’t have her custom messed with too much like. That’s what usually happened when I wanted to start some trouble.





Another satisfying game ended with the Manc shyte going home with their tales yet again between their legs an’ we all started to get pissed. Guinness has a better taste on victory, that’s something else I could start getting used to again. So as the club started to religiously empty out after the game. God had been on the filem screen and scored twice enough to settle it all for our catholic god loving hearts.

For a short moment that thought went sour. I turned around an’ thought I’ll stick it to those bastairds with that offer of poker now. They were so doolally with their laughing. I just took it as a red yes fir an answer after I asked them. A few hours later, we would be in far better shape than they would be - Paid less for it and no substance abuse either! Well, it is always nice to spend that kunts munee.

Now Ant Peg’s not partial to people comin’ into the club with any sort of sniff. After all, there’s always enough beer to go around – even fir a lockin’. But she always goes to bed erleah after offishal ‘our’s are up - giving us a wink on the way to let us know it’s alryte to play a bit of poker with the lad’s and our lovely multi-ethnic visitors an’ help ourselves to self service. Who with a few of those drinks we will have the pleasure of getting more acquainted with their munee.

It was the last hand of the night. An’ by then we were all a bit coinleach in the head like from all the Guinness we’d had after we saw the Manc shyte lose to mai team. Liverpool FC is the ryght fooken business already this season. The lads and I are already looking forward to next week’s away game at Man City and that convenient golf trip. A nice double over those Mancunian loving an’ living kunts in the space of a fortnight would make some nice craic I’ll tell yer - All the same shyte to me like. Although a few five irons to Wayne Rooney’s head wouldn’t go amiss either on the trip. A fine fairway that would be, to smack a few bogies out of his nose too would be an enjoyable bonus. But I guess that would be best left to the Evertonian’s as they are playing the Manc shyte at the weekend.

And besides, nothing against the brother’s from Shannon and Limerick. But Cousin Blair’s imitation of them with that stupid two-fisted thumb up shake with his tongue hanging like out some delirious wolf just stopped being funny in 1975 when we were kids. Besides, it wasn’t good to see Peg’s mood if we were losing munee.

Meanwhile, that said, we were colluding against those ‘guests’ as I’ll put it. Poor buggers might as well have been reading Morse code the way we were operating. The lads had just been paid out their redundancy munee from the docks after years of waiting and decided to ride it all on my cards. Big ask from me, as my hand wasn’t that good. Just a shittey low full hause. The bookie had been looking a bit shifty – probably because we knew, he was bent and we didn’t trust him. But he saw my hand all the same with 15 bags of cocaine, or Ajax as we called it on mai street.

We knew this was a joke as he, unlike the Bulgarians didn’t know the hause rules. Abuse equals road abuse. But that would take some explaining even in his language. But we did hint a few times by pointing at a frowning picture of Ant Peg just behind them overhanging the bar by the whiskey bottles.



They started to get nervous an’ their cocaine fuelled giggling stopped, as this was getting serious. Mai cards went down an’ then the bookie put his down. Four aces and a King. Four fooken cheating bastaird aces!

Feargal and Phats stood up in anger as me and Jimmy just sat there amazed by what just happened. Feargal rushed off towards behind the bar an’ picked up a gun we kept for security reasons.

That thing had history though. Kept the Provo’s at bay at the Liffey dock if they tried to make an arms deal go bent in the days of the troubles. It was a semi-automatic pin gun – a handmade weapon. Very painful piece of work an’ if loaded with enough pins, would do the job an’ kill. Imported from certain Russian connections we had made at Dublin during our time at work. An’ It was loaded to the sevens – always was. After all, Saturdays in here was just a little on the spicy side, even fir us.

Pointing at the bookie, an’ Feargal calling him a cheating bastaird, which to be fair he was as he had seen him card switching during the game. We were getting serious. I don’t mind being ripped off if the fooker has been canny with it like. After all, we liked the craic where we could weave and dive ourselves on the hooky side. But these kunts were too stupid even to insult us with a trick like that.

Now at this point, there was usually only option one available to people like this. We had obliged with the hause rules, and let’s face it. They were heading fir a kicking anyways as we Irish never play by the rules. 'Christos, time to play pin cushion ya feenian fooken bastaird!' Feargal snarled. Jimmy stood up an’ told them that if they left without argument then Feargal would see some sense an’ reason but nothing else.

The four of them ran rivers of shyte through their airses as they scarpered off through Ma Rookie’s door. I was done with that bent kunt anyway. Ten-a-penny bookies are always easeh to rip off on the Hoarses. Turns out that Christos was no more Romanian than Kebab meat was likely to be found in the origins of sushi.

So the problem now was what to do with the Ajax nose cleaning wash? Phats suggested we go to Dublin to offload it to those wankers that came from Yapland and thought that they were Irish fir five seconds of their lives. Phats had a better idea an’ use the golf trip to ruffle up some keyboard cleaners spent hairs while we went on the away trip – conveniently using Cousin Blair, our Liverpool based customs and excise influence at Liverpool Airport as our carrier fir the Ajax – and the gun to boot. Using a football no less as the vessel to carry it. After all, we wanted God’s signature on the ball for our efforts!

For once, that daft bastaird had a good idea in that Guinness addled brain of his. A great day, some golf, Maine road an’ a draw with my Reds. It all worked out well. Until that is, Phats suggested to go to an Irish bar in Bolton to offload the Ajax nose-melt waxworks we had not yet offloaded – soft shyte hadn’t been away from Ma’ Rookies a day and he was already missing home.

So an Irish bar it was to be. So an Irish bar we found – the Pogue Madaneen. There we met these two local pissheads. Dave, who seemed to be a canny man. Nice fella at heart – at first. Didn’t think too much of his mate though – Beerhead was his nick name. I could see why. Fooken airse could have been fitted into the national waterworks if beer was its source and been happy to be its dialysis machine. Fooken guy was a breathin’ liver I tell yer. Made Jimmy seem lightweight – even though the soft shyte tried to keep up with the living Tetley bag.

Enyway. It was our round for the Guinness. An’ those two fookers didn’t look as though they could put their best foot forward, niver mind their next word. So, we left the ball with them as we got the drinks. Fooken bar lass was fooken fit. Ah, there’s always a good Philly behind the bar I can tell yer - Cynical landlord tactic, but god love ‘im fir it. Makes the wait fir the beer even more worthwhile. An’ if yer talk ryght to ‘em, yer might get lucky enough fir her to ignore her fella for nyght an’ have a wee bit of put a bit of shine in yer eye later with yer if get what I mean?

When we got back with the beer. Fooken Yappy fooken bastairds had only gone and done a bunk with the football. “Where’s those fooken bastairds with my football the kunts?” I screamed out as I thrashed my arms into the air. 'Feargal, I thought you were keeping your eye on those two fookers?' They must have seen the Ajax leaking out of the ball as Jimmy had been bouncing it earlier and one of the bags must have burst. Soft airse. 'Don’t look at me Mick. Would rather look towards those Phillies behind the bar than those gobshytes!' Fooken typical.

Now, I didn’t mind that they had robbed the ball like. Daa’ gave it to me on me sixth birthday before he left me ma’ for some red headed fiery tempered bint from Cork. So no-good memories there. But the shyte inside it was our meal ticket to start up our own shipping import business so we could stick two fingers up at that airse McGuinness and his pious puppet Paisley - to tell ‘em where to stick their social conscience. Would be no fooken Bulgarians on our pay roll I tell yer. Jobs for the fooken Irish I’ll say.

Where are those fookers? This was fooken serious now. But I had already told Feargal and Phats to get the gun from the hotel and find a car while they were at it – We were gonna need it. Those two were in fir a special Irish treat. One of our own party games no less.

They came back within twenty-five minutes. We fookers meant business, an’ there weren’t that many pubs in Bolton town that it that I could see. Would be no problem fir us to find the fookers.

An’ sure enough, it wasn’t. We looked through about seven bars an’ found fook all. But we did find someone who knew ‘em who told us that we could find ‘em at this sleazy joint named the Bug n’ Bite. Some bar it was too. Fulla things we wouldn’t see at Ma’ Rookies. People gamblin’ and shootin’ up heroin in groups of tables. Lapdancers shaggin’ the customers. Just about anything went on in here. I was almost tempted to grab a piece of the action miself - Phillies and gambin’, fook! That’s some combination I tell yer. Well, it was advertised on the door like that you could come and do this sorta shyte.

I had other things on me mind tho, and the lads wanted some justice. Fookers. We found the fake Manc shyte’s laughing deliriously drunk in the corner out of the way.

I had seen those two kunts laughin’ their heads off with a straw, a few pints of shyte Yappy ale, a monopoly train and Beerhead saying ‘Choo! Choo!’ - drawing the same line on the table as the other snorted the Ajax with his fooken nose-bleed straw. Fooken cheeky theevin’ bastairds. They didn’t see me though. And a place like this I might wanna come back to at some point. So I gave the airse of a Landlord some respect. He might not give a shit about what’s going on here. But if we start shootin’, he might not be so welcoming next time. An’ with thirty minutes until closing, it was best to wait fir em outside.

Sure enough, that time flew by quickly. An’ the pair of gobshytes came out. Feargal cracked em both of the head with the pin-gun and knocked em right out. Phats shoved ‘em both into the back of the Land Rover like two lifeless sacks of potata’s. ‘Drive!’ I barked at Jimmy. ‘Where?’ he said. ‘Just find a fooken field somewhere that we can deal with these shits.’

It was ten minutes drive before we found somewhere to deal with this pair of eedyots. On the way, it was decided who was the devious fooker that nicked the ball. It wasn’t have been both of em. An’ that Dave couldn’t have done it. He was too daft to come up with somethin’ like that. But gullible and drunk enough to follow Beerhead into doing something this stupid. We couldn’t let our rule go fir a wander. Don’t fook with us!

Phats took em both out of the back of the car and through them in a ditch. It was damp enough, and scum like that deserved nothin’ better – fat pigs in swill. Fitting fir those theevin’ kunts.

We kicked the shyt out of em both before we were gonna shoot ‘em. Feargal took the honours and let rip with the gun. He pumped that Beerhead good with the gun and left Dave with a few on his stomach as a reminder of us if he were ever to take a small trip looking for us in Belfast.

'Ryght, that’s those fookers sorted. I think we’ve outstayed our welcome here. So what now Phats? 'I asked. 'How about seeing Lawrie in Spain? I could use a break from this shytehole Yapland anyway,' he replied. 'What’s with callin’ this place Yapland anyway?' asked Jimmy. 'Shut yer fooken Blarney you soft shyte! Anyway, perhaps we could get used to some Spanish football and I hear the golf there isn’t bad either.' I said to him as a cracked him one over the head. Feargal just started to chuckle to himself as we walked away from those two pricks laid down on the floor.
 

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