A little while ago, I posted about being jumped by two knuckle-dragging idiots and the response I got from our local constabulary. They basically asked me, “what do you want me to do about it?”. I had been attacked but this cop was more interested in his sandwich than he was in my plight and that’s fine. I don’t blame that useless waste of taxpayers’ money for the fact that I was attacked. Before you get carried away with the title, I haven’t been attacked again.
As I told you earlier, I am sad at the demise of pirating - so much so that I’m almost tempted to call it piracy and launch myself, hammer, thongs and eye patch into the 21st century. Tonight I was happily pottering around the Thirsty Kipper, when a crewmember alerted me to a piece of work that needed my attention. Now, it didn’t really need my attention but I said I’d do it as a favour to him. As a reward for this selfless act of cooperation, he invited me to the local hostelry for a pint. As I haven’t pillaged for quite a while, I decided to pillage his needless generosity.
We arrived at the pub and ordered two pints each - it was getting towards closing time. The pints duly arrived and were lovelier than I could have imagined. We were quickly joined by some friends and a humorous conversation ensued. We were doing what all acquaintances do; we talked about the old days. We talked about the days when you could dock in any Irish city without having to fear for your safety. This led to stories about when we were young and the stuff we got up to. In short; it was all very innocent.
Before long, the proprietor of said hostelry joined us and told us a story about homemade butter and honesty that will stay with me until - well - next week at least. No, seriously it was a great story. There was also a story about a sheep shagger who asked for a room with a ewe. Need I say more? It was a quiet conversation between people who were enjoying each other’s company. To put this in context; I was the youngest person in the pub. I mightn’t have tasted forty yet, but I can smell it. There was one guy - a very interesting and funny guy - who had celebrated his 81st birthday two weeks previously. I know I could probably set the scene a little better but I have been drinking.
For the many American friends I have just made, I should explain that we don’t trust our government to utter a single honest word and they don’t trust us to drink past half eleven - eleven thirty - on a week day. In fact, up until a few years ago, you couldn’t drink between two and four on a Sunday - and I’m talking two and four PM!!!!!!!! This was called “Holy Hour”. It was the Catholic way of telling God, “I can’t promise I’ll be sober at Mass but I promise that I’ll give myself two hours to recover afterwards.” Y’see, up until recently, the Irish government had to bow to the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church was hellbent on telling the Irish people what we could and couldn’t do. They ensured that alcoholics taught alcoholics temperance and paedophile wankers, who had taken a vow of celibacy, taught you how to conduct yourself in marriage. To this day, you can’t have a catholic church wedding in Ireland without having a mandatory wedding course first. They controlled our youth clubs. They controlled our schools and they controlled our polling booths. They instilled guilt while they fucked our children not all of them, but far too many of them. Anybody who has ever been at a Redemptorist disco will testify to the hypocrisy of this senseless organisation. Listen; Ireland was grand before Catholicism took over… but that’s another rant.
Where was I? Oh yes, the pub. One of the topics of conversation was about a sixty four year old man who had been stabbed last week because he corrected a knuckle-dragging, hoodie-wearing primate, whilst the latter was waxing lyrical about Sinn Fein. He wasn’t stabbed in the pub. The brave little twat with whom he had the misfortune to engage in conversation, called his little fish-brained friends and they waited for two hours until the former left the pub before stabbing him. We talked about the past because we had nothing good to say about the present.
Last call came at 23:45 and we all called another drink - I wasn’t paying for mine but that’s beside the point. The aforementioned publican then called for his employee to supply us with another two pints, which he would pay for. We got through the first one, and were halfway through the second, when the bold gendarmes arrived. By that I mean our impossibly brave constabulary, who will not shirk at the merest sight of an old lady jaywalking. The very selfless warriors of peace who will not shy away from going on strike when they feel they’re not being paid enough to deal with pesky Credit Union loan defaulters. The very police farce who will ignore a riot in favour of moving a busker on for disturbing the peace. They didn’t just come in and tell us to move on because we weren’t causing any harm; they took names. I gave the name, Felonious Harlot. They then moved to the till and asked said proprietor to show them the receipt of his last sale. Now, I’m no solicitor but isn’t that something that should require a court order - warrant?
An enjoyable conversation should be allowed to wind down to tired boredom and eventual silence. It should never be abruptly ended because there are so few times when you come across nights like that one. As you can imagine, there was any number of actual criminals these two valiant guardians of the peace could have been hassling but they decided to hassle a group of happily drunken pirates having a happily - and quite innocent - conversation.
I decided that I didn’t want to engage these brave purveyors of order in a debate and so I left amidst a flurry of questions about my identity. Faced with these much-put-upon captains of society, I simply left but - unluckily for me - one of them followed me and demanded that I give my actual name. My response was to smile politely and say, “I’m sorry, Hieronymous Nipple is my name - but you can call me Harry.” This seemed to infuriate this selfless servant of the law and he responded, “you’ll give me your name or you’ll spend the night in Roxboro.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my name?” I replied.
“You made it up,” this young hero replied.
“How dare you,” retorted I.
“Show me some id,” replied this sentry of society.
“Will a passport do?” I asked.
“That’ll be fine,” he replied.
“What about a drivers’ licence?” I continued.
“Yes, yes; that will also do,” this uniformed lord replied.
“A birth cert?” I queried.
“Just show me some id or you’ll spend the night in a cell.”
“Now,” replied I, “I know you have no legal claim to any of my belongings or, in fact, my continued cooperation. Should you charge me with an actual crime, I will be more than happy to prove my identity to you but you can’t charge me with a crime because I - to the best of your questionable knowledge - haven’t committed one. I’m sure that you know the law better than I, so I won’t press the point.”
“Right,” replied he a little more vehemently, “What’s your name?”
“Hieronymous Nipple,” I replied.
“That’s it. Get in the car.”
“No,” I replied.
He then moved his face to within a hair’s breadth of mine.
“If I catch you drinking after hours again, you’ll be fucking sorry.”
I didn’t continue the conversation because, to be quite honest, never was there a fucking idiot in more need of a resounding thump than this moron. I walked home and passed a crowd of drunken teenagers who were breaking bottles on the road. Their self-elected spokesman called to me in their unique language, “waddayoolookinah”.
I was tempted to tell them that I was looking at a sad statistic but I relented.
I have rambled on for a bit now and I’m sorry. I’m a bit drunk but not half as drunk as I want to be. Had these brave, valiant and consummately amateur policemen actually done what I pay them to do, I could have avoided meeting the missing links that I happened upon on my way home. I could have had a needless but enjoyable conversation with some nice and generally law-abiding people. People who still feel that a Stanley knife’s best use is for cutting carpet.
Well I’m back on the Thirsty Kipper now and I feel like having another rum.