Free Two Pints by Roddy Doyle Page A

sum. Thinks she’s Keith fuckin’ Moon at three in the fuckin’ mornin’.
    — Hang on—
    — It’s a disgrace.
    — Hang on. Not Eithne.
    — Oh.
    — ETA.
    — The Spanish cunts who aren’t Spanish.
    — Exactly.
    — Shite.

1-11-11
    — WHA’ DOES ‘THINKIN’ outside the box’ mean?
    — You were watchin’
The Apprentice
last night, weren’t yeh?
    — I was, yeah.
    — Me too.
    — Wouldn’t’ve thought it was your cup o’ tea.
    — It isn’t. But we had to give the dog half a Valium, cos of all the fuckin’ bangers and fireworks. An’ he conked ou’ on top o’ me. So I was stuck – couldn’t reach the remote.
    — Yeh saw it, so.
    — Load o’ shite.
    — I’m with yeh. But they’re all runnin’ around – the contestants, like – an’ they’re all, I’m thinkin’ outside the box, Bill. What’s it fuckin’ mean?
    — Comin’ up with somethin’ new. Thinkin’ a bit different.
    — That all?
    — Think so.
    — For fuck sake.
    — Last time I thought outside the box I tried to get off with me mother-in-law.
    — Fuck off.
    — Before she died, mind.
    — Ah, fuck off. I’ll give yeh an example. My young one’s lad. Damien. The grandson. He goes into the chipper, with his chipmunk.
    — His—?
    — Chipmunk. An’ he tells Gaddafi he’ll fuck it into the fryer unless Gaddafi pays him a tenner.
    — I’m impressed. And?
    — Gaddafi tells him to fuck off.
    — And?
    — D’yeh ever taste deep-fried chipmunk?
    — That’s thinkin’ outside the snack box.
    — It fuckin’ is.

9-11-11
    — SO ANNYWAY, I was listenin’ to the news there.
    — Oh fuck.
    — No, fuck off a minute. This is important.
Morning Ireland
, it was. The posh news.
    — Go on.
    — An’ the headline – this was one o’ the headlines. Italian parliament under pressure to take out Berlusconi. Take out was wha’ he said, the news cunt. An’ he didn’t mean bringin’ him ou’ for a nosebag an’ a few drinks in the lounge.
    — He meant kill him.
    — Assassinate him, yeah.
    — Why would the Italian parliament be under pressure to assassinate Michael Jackson’s doctor?
    — Wha’?
    — Berlusconi is Wacko’s—
    — You’re gettin’ your stories mixed up.
    — Got yeh there, bud.
    — Ah, fuck off. So, annyway. There’s that. The
inappropriate
language. An’ then there’s the story itself.
    — How d’yeh mean?
    — Well, the bondholders aren’t happy with Berlusconi, so he has to go. But then I’m thinkin’, just who do these fuckin’ cuntin’ poxy bondholders think they fuckin’ are? Berlusconi’s a prick but he’s an elected prick. Who elected the bondholders? Fuckin’ no one.
    — Were yeh a Frazier or an Ali man?
    — Frazier. An’ the Stones.
    — I was Ali. An’ the Beatles.
    — Go upstairs to the lounge, where yeh fuckin’ belong.

12-11-11
    — ARE YEH GOIN’ to Poland?
    — I’m only after gettin’ back from the jacks. Give us a fuckin’ chance.
    — I meant the football, yeh gobshite.
    — I know yeh did, yeh cunt.
    — Well, are yeh?
    — Don’t think so. It’s cold there, isn’t it?
    — Not in fuckin’ June – I don’t think.
    — Summer there then, is it?
    — I’d say so, yeah.
    — I’ll tell yeh wha’ it is. The football’s shite. The way we play.
    — It’s always been shite. We play ugly.
    — We are fuckin’ ugly.
    — That’s it – spot on. We’re the ugliest cunts on the planet and we still sing. Especially when there’s a recession.
    — The Mexicans are way uglier than us.
    — That’s fuckin’ debatable.
    — No way is it. They’re un-fuckin’-believable. And the Welsh.
    — The fuckin’ Welsh?
    — Yeah. You know your man, the Snag? He’s over there, beside the picture of the Dubs. Don’t look – don’t fuckin’ look!
    — Is he Welsh?
    — No, but he was conceived in Holyhead when his ma an’ da missed the ferry.
    — Ah, fuck off. It’s great but, isn’t it? Qualifyin’ for the football.
    — It is, yeah.
    — Gives the