Two Pints: A Collection

  — Oh Jesus.

  — Yeah –

  — You’re worried.

  — I was. I’m ashamed to admit it. I think the world of him – he’s a great little lad. But annyway, he’s lookin’ at magazines and chattin’ to the granny an’ tellin’ her all his fashion ideas.

  — God—

  — Now, I’d never want to interfere with his – like, his natural leanin’s. You with me?

  — Yeah.

  — But I did.

  — How?

  — I bought him a tiger. A cub, like.

  — To turn him away from the sewin’ machine?

  — I hated meself. When I realised what I was up to. But I needn’t’ve worried.

  — How come?

  — He went to school this mornin’ wearin’ a little tiger-skin waistcoat.

  — He made it himself?

  — He smelt like the back o’ the chipper after a long weekend. But I’ll tell yeh—

  — Naomi Campbell will be wearin’ his stuff.

  — She’ll be fuckin’ lucky.

  4-9-12

  — DID YEH SEE your man winnin’ his medal last nigh’?

  — Brilliant.

  — What’s his name again?

  — McKillop.

  — Wasn’t he brilliant?

  — Fuckin’ amazin’.

  — But I’ll tell yeh – the bit tha’ got me. When his ma – like, when his ma presented him with the medal. I was nearly cryin’.

  — It was a fuckin’ disgrace.

  — Wha’?!

  — Did yeh not hear?

  — Hear wha’?

  — The story.

  — Wha’ fuckin’ story? If you’re—

  — Just listen, will yeh.

  — Go on.

  — Righ’. They had Kylie Minogue lined up to give the poor lad his medal.

  — Fuck off.

  — Serious.

  — Jesus. Why Kylie, but?

  — Ah, for fuck –. Listen. Say you’ve just won a medal. There’s an Oul’ Lads Olympics an’ you’ve won gold for – say – the synchronised arse scratchin’. Okay?

  — Okay.

  — Can yeh think of annyone you’d prefer to see comin’ at yeh with your medal than Kylie?

  — No.

  — Well, that’s wha’ they had set up for poor McKillop.

  — You’re fuckin’ messin’.

  — It’s on YouTube. His ma pushed Kylie out o’ the way – split her head open against one o’ the pillars. And she walked ou’ with the fuckin’ medal.

  — Fuck off.

  — Poor Kylie needed stitches.

  — I’m not listenin’.

  — Made me ashamed to be Irish.

  — Fuck off.

  About the Author

  Roddy Doyle was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of nine acclaimed novels, two collections of short stories, and Rory & Ita, a memoir about his parents. He won the Booker Prize in 1993 for Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.