01:25
We're chatting. Man to man. Man to woman. Woman to woman. Woman to man. An order of fresh Guinness tip taps on the bar in regular fashion. Laughs. Conversation. Another round. Lights flicker. Calling time.
We're chatting. Man to man. Man to woman. Woman to woman. Woman to man. An order of fresh Guinness tip taps on the bar in regular fashion. Laughs. Conversation. Another round. Lights flicker. Calling time.
Someone asks me a question by way of a gambit. "Yes, it's going well, thanks. I'm kept busy..."
The conversation in the crowded bar room reaches a crescendo. My pint draws close to my puckering lips. I'm listening to her, my friend's wife, but oddly, I can no longer hear the words. Something strange emerges out of the background envelope. Her voice tapers off and her expression changes as she's speaking because fucking WHAM! BOOSH! Shh-ddTINKLE!
The hard rain of shattered glass. The ancient walls of the hostelry resound with a rasping standing wave, followed by a stunned silence lasting just a moment. I notice my pint suspended mid-air in front of me, tilted slightly, knuckles white.
Urgent chatter returns. "Did somebody drop a tray?"
My hand is shaking. I reset the Guinness on the counter (after a medicinal sip). I dread to think. I dread to drink. What if one of our gentlemen bartenders has been crushed coming up from the basement with a tray of glasses? Then I realise that in all the years I'm coming here I have never seen them use a tray for anything. I don't suppose they keep their glasses in the basement either. But what was it?
I look out the window. There is the answer, spun out all over the road. Out for the count, three Olympic athletes hanging out of the broken windows of a battered Honda Civic. White but crumpletely compled.
Looks like a pub just hit it. Mystery solved.
After another sleuthy sup, I decide ever so rash to dash out the side door to the street, wherein an eerie silence prevails. I'm mildly surprised to find not one person follows me from the bar.
There I stand, alone, staring at this strange scene, too nervous to come too close. The smell of vapourised car and concrete strikes me like Irish cordite.
The two athletes slumped out the front side windows look like they might be dead. The one in the back is out for the count but he's breathing. The car, stopped sideways across the road has the appearance of being hit every which way. It is blocking the road in front of me, so I'm standing downstream of the blockade on my own.
All around is silent and poorly lit.
Trembling, I wrap my hand around the phone in my pocket. Thumb wavering, I quickly rehearse the directions the operator will need and punch in the first digit "9".
A cop car screeches to a halt. Another '9'. Four more cop cars. I'm looking at my phone, WTF? Shapeless yellow jackets are hopping out of panda cars and filling up the street. I don't bother to complete the emergency call. The light on my phone goes dim as I look up. Help is at hand. Maybe, maybe a little too much help.
Sixteen cop cars. Thirty two. I had no idea there were so many cop cars they are all arriving here now at the same moment. A chopper beats the sky.
But I'm a bit confused as well because the Peelers and there's enough of them, aren't exactly rushing in to help the driver and his passengers who are quite fucked up looking. They're all standing off.
There is an eerie atmosphere while a dark saloon car pulls up very slowly near the Honda. I see a weapon sticking out the window. A big long string of misery with read cropped hair gets out of the car slowly, wearing a Garda bib and starts stalking about, brandishing his weapon, saying to the bucks "Have ye any guns in the car lads?" The poor gobshites are out cold. Can't answer, like.
He moves slowly and deliberately. "Danger". By now I'm in full reverse gear. If and when the shooting starts, I'm the only sorrysonofabitch for miles that can enter and win the competition for the Dead Innocent Bystander Award so time to make myself scarce. I hear the bolt slide shut on the inside of the pub door as I back away, trapping me outside. The lads in the pub are looking out the window, laughing as the blind comes down. Blue lights are flashing everywhere.
Robo-guard stalks the driver. "Keep calm.", he commands the occupants. Just who is he talking to? The unconscious ones with their knuckles dragging on the road? They could NOT be any calmer.
"Have ye got anything in the car?" Maybe he should check that they are breathing before interrogating them. Unless they're playing possum and any second now they're going to jump out and hose the scene with a machine gun, as far as I can see, the only one who needs to calm down is the agitated cop and the extra-agitated me.
Slowly he revolves around the wreck, Smith and Wesson weapon outstretched. The absurdity strikes me that, as bizarre as this scene is, I'm in the most ridiculous situation of all, standing in the middle of the street, pint-less, cheer-less, all exits blocked except one.
Getting to the locked pub door means coming closer to the gun. Not the direction of choice.
Stealthily and never turning my back, I retreat into the darkness to take cover in a doorway some distance away and keep watching.
The meat-head policeman is busy ordering the half-dead driver to stay motionless.
Eventually, having ascertained the likelihood that these boys are going to shoot their way out of this wreck is rather low, the ginger gun slinger gives the nod and the yellow jackets swarm all over the place. He's from the Very Special Branch and has plain clothes. They're the Not So Special Branch wearing funny hats.
I overhear a taxi driver describe how he was driving his jalopy through the junction when the Civic shot off of the Barber Hill and tipped him. The Civic lost control and smacked into the corner pillar of the pub just as last orders were being served.
I draw close to the pub again and someone is watching out for me as the iron bolt slides back before I even knock. My pint is on the turn so I grab it quick. Situation defused, the volume of voices is at a new high. Facts are spooling in faster than anyone could make them up.
Story was, the cops had chased the goons in from Drunkardstown, through lots of heavily populated areas as part of their unwinnable war on drugs. They shiny happy people in the Civic lost control and nearly ploughed straight in through the door of our crowded little pub on a Saturday night as the barman was outside pulling down the shutters. He had a close last (but thankfully not final) call but the shutters have to be replaced.
We raise the blind again for a better look. They scuzzbuckets in the vehicle are coming to, slowly. They all had their seatbelts on, lucky lads. Cops've been searching them for ages.
The Brigade come and lift the bucks out - they're not at all impressed with the cops' antics. Drawing admiring looks from the (few) women in the bar, the firemen peel the incapacitated athletes out of their Honda and lob them into an ambulance.
Those rescue dudes are true professionals and it's reassuring to watch them operate. Some of the ladies watch them assiduously.
The Branch boys swagger about, sitting on the hood of the car and shit, revelling in the mess they've made. Dukes of fucking Hazardous, shining their cocks for the benefit of the DI.
He's an angry looking ugly bastard arsehole with skanky greased hair sticking to his malformed head and he's shouting at the uniforms to get a move on. Barking at them, like. I feel a bit sorry for the prats in hats.
He starts nattering with the armed hotshots. Tall, thin, almost twin gingers, undercover gear on. I'm surprised at how well they blend in as exceptionally tall civilians. Their costumer is talented. Apart from one detail that no Dublin policeman can ever crack - white shoes which are spotlessly white.
I have just enough time to call one for the ditch and ring some friends. Georgie the drunk customer drives a van. He spits in my ear while I'm at the bar. "They should have shot them. There's enough of them. Fucking pricks."
A fella comes in a loader and tows the car. Someone sweeps up the glass. All very efficacious. For once, I'm impressed with the cops.. Until, that is, when early, which according to the book is actually on time, a short time later, the bar closes and we get kicked out. Back to full-bore resentment on that point alone.
But you can understand the bar manager doesn't want to take any last-pint chances with 75% of the Dublin Metropolitan Division North's policemen standing outside.
The tonic-haired dickhead is still there barking crowd control orders at the prats. When these people don't have the authoritative police uniform on they just look like the dickheads that they are. He's having a good night really.
Ejected, dissatisfied, we stumble across the icy delta of broken windshield at the door. The whole operation from the moment the cops chased the fucking car through the door of the pub and were gone took about 45 minutes. Would they ever fuck off, I wondered, with their stupid cop games. Someone could get hurt.
Toys for big boys is all that is.
03:12
Some of these birds I don't recognise what body part I'm looking at. Some of them are all lips and others, breasts. Sometimes they're looking hot and sometimes you'd choke if you had to.
The ladies are all very demanding. 'Treat me like a princess' and all that. Good sense of humour. Big dong. Good company. Loves paying. Fecking heck.
Go to Ukrania and Scandinavia and the birds are all seven foot tall and looking gorgeous! Well not them all, but they're looking for men, some of 'um and at least they're putting out, I'm guessing. The universal language of putting out, surpasses the fact that we haven't a word of English between us, if you know what I mean.
02:25
The ol' limited vocabulary is nice sometimes though. Not colourful like the shite they spout around here, y'know, more bleedin' direct, loike. "Sweet and soft" she says. Oi loike the sou-win-da dah!
As for what they're sayin' in German or Spanish or whatever, sure I haven't a clue what they're bleedin' talkin' about on de Nortside of Dub-alin let alone the Nortside of Rome or wha'rever.
Oirish burds are all heart and soul or wha’rever, with their setting demands out. And fecking poetry! Them's the young wans. Say something saucy, ya tight little feckers.
Story was, the cops had chased the goons in from Drunkardstown, through lots of heavily populated areas as part of their unwinnable war on drugs. They shiny happy people in the Civic lost control and nearly ploughed straight in through the door of our crowded little pub on a Saturday night as the barman was outside pulling down the shutters. He had a close last (but thankfully not final) call but the shutters have to be replaced.
We raise the blind again for a better look. They scuzzbuckets in the vehicle are coming to, slowly. They all had their seatbelts on, lucky lads. Cops've been searching them for ages.
The Brigade come and lift the bucks out - they're not at all impressed with the cops' antics. Drawing admiring looks from the (few) women in the bar, the firemen peel the incapacitated athletes out of their Honda and lob them into an ambulance.
Those rescue dudes are true professionals and it's reassuring to watch them operate. Some of the ladies watch them assiduously.
The Branch boys swagger about, sitting on the hood of the car and shit, revelling in the mess they've made. Dukes of fucking Hazardous, shining their cocks for the benefit of the DI.
He's an angry looking ugly bastard arsehole with skanky greased hair sticking to his malformed head and he's shouting at the uniforms to get a move on. Barking at them, like. I feel a bit sorry for the prats in hats.
He starts nattering with the armed hotshots. Tall, thin, almost twin gingers, undercover gear on. I'm surprised at how well they blend in as exceptionally tall civilians. Their costumer is talented. Apart from one detail that no Dublin policeman can ever crack - white shoes which are spotlessly white.
I have just enough time to call one for the ditch and ring some friends. Georgie the drunk customer drives a van. He spits in my ear while I'm at the bar. "They should have shot them. There's enough of them. Fucking pricks."
A fella comes in a loader and tows the car. Someone sweeps up the glass. All very efficacious. For once, I'm impressed with the cops.. Until, that is, when early, which according to the book is actually on time, a short time later, the bar closes and we get kicked out. Back to full-bore resentment on that point alone.
But you can understand the bar manager doesn't want to take any last-pint chances with 75% of the Dublin Metropolitan Division North's policemen standing outside.
The tonic-haired dickhead is still there barking crowd control orders at the prats. When these people don't have the authoritative police uniform on they just look like the dickheads that they are. He's having a good night really.
Ejected, dissatisfied, we stumble across the icy delta of broken windshield at the door. The whole operation from the moment the cops chased the fucking car through the door of the pub and were gone took about 45 minutes. Would they ever fuck off, I wondered, with their stupid cop games. Someone could get hurt.
Toys for big boys is all that is.
03:12
Some of these birds I don't recognise what body part I'm looking at. Some of them are all lips and others, breasts. Sometimes they're looking hot and sometimes you'd choke if you had to.
The ladies are all very demanding. 'Treat me like a princess' and all that. Good sense of humour. Big dong. Good company. Loves paying. Fecking heck.
Go to Ukrania and Scandinavia and the birds are all seven foot tall and looking gorgeous! Well not them all, but they're looking for men, some of 'um and at least they're putting out, I'm guessing. The universal language of putting out, surpasses the fact that we haven't a word of English between us, if you know what I mean.
02:25
The ol' limited vocabulary is nice sometimes though. Not colourful like the shite they spout around here, y'know, more bleedin' direct, loike. "Sweet and soft" she says. Oi loike the sou-win-da dah!
As for what they're sayin' in German or Spanish or whatever, sure I haven't a clue what they're bleedin' talkin' about on de Nortside of Dub-alin let alone the Nortside of Rome or wha'rever.
Oirish burds are all heart and soul or wha’rever, with their setting demands out. And fecking poetry! Them's the young wans. Say something saucy, ya tight little feckers.
09:00
1803 Robert Emmet leads abortive United Irishmen rebellion in Dublin which descends into drunken riot before being quelled and Emmet captured, leading to his trial and execution
