bullet from the blue
November sneaked up on me this year and I’m nowhere near ready to give NaNoWriMo a try as I always intend to, but at very least I can finish this project…five short stories to set up the main characters in this “novel” (with working title “F.T.B.") that’s burning a bigger hole in my skull with each passing day. I’ll re-publish the three existing ones over the next few days by way of psyching myself up to getting the last two done, and who knows, I may even get a few chapters of the main story itself done into the bargain while I’m at it.
There were too many thoughts going through Michael Savage’s mind that Saturday morning for his liking.
Weekends should never be complicated. Have a skinful in Glanton’s on the Friday evening, sleep in the following morning, go to The City Café for a heart-attack sandwich to sort out the hangover, home for a snooze, back to Glantons for the Saturday afternoon’s racing, betting and a lot more drinking.
Well this time around, he had a few spanners in the works, and it was bugging the shite out of him.
As his ’87 Honda Civic chugged its way along the country road, he was cursing the fact that he had to work this particular morning. Then again, he was cursing the fact that he had to work the last time, which was what, about two months ago now?
Business was slow these days, but for Michael of course, that hardly mattered. When he inherited his father’s farm there was no way he was going to be bothered keeping the business going, so he sold half the land and set up his own little venture to keep a few shillings rolling in.
Once he set up the different activities on the property, however, there wasn’t a whole lot of money left, so he had to lease out the farmhouse to a family from Lithuania and move into a small flat in the town in order to guarantee any sort of income. And let’s be fair, apart from a few links on some tourism websites, he didn’t do an awful lot to promote himself.
All of this meant that even though he would describe himself as “Managing Director” of MS Activites Centre, PLC, the enterprise had over the past two years been downgraded in his estimation from business interest to part-time hobby to occasional nuisance.
Well, it wasn’t as if he had a wife and family to support, was it. The tiny one-bedroom flat was more than enough for this 47-year-old bachelor and between the interest on the remaining proceeds of the sale of the land to the supermarket chain and the Lithuanian rent, he could well afford his chosen lifestyle.
Speaking of which…
“Eh, will you by any chance be passing the train station soon?”
Who the fuck said that? Oh yeah, this gobshite beside me.
“What?” Michael replied aggressively.
“Eh, well, I could get the train back to Dublin, there’s one at 12:45 I think…”
“For FUCK’S sake!!!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s just when you didn’t say anything I presumed…”
His passenger thought it best not to finish his sentence and rather to cling on for dear life as the car skidded to a near stop by the side of the road, slammed into reverse, and did a three point turn in barely one and a half points before firing off in the opposite direction.
He DID look to make sure if traffic was coming the other way, didn’t he?
“You’re gonna make me fucking late now, so ye are!”
“Sorry.”
Though Michael’s silence could have been taken as a rejection of the apology, the truth was, he didn’t even hear it. With all that had to be done before the lads were due to arrive at the centre, there wasn’t a hope in hell’s chance of making the City Café at this rate, which was guaranteed to make him cranky.
Did I say MAKE him cranky? Perhaps I should have said “even crankier”.
Once again he broke pretty much every rule of the road going when he eventually got to the station to make his return up the main road as brief as possible.
“Well go on then, off with ye!”
His passenger sat there blankly looking at him.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake, there’s no need to look so fucking pathetic, is there? Now go off and get yer fuckin train!”
After more hesitation beside him, Michael threw his eyes to heaven as he struggled to get past his beer belly to his jeans pocket from which he eventually removed some legal tender.
“There ye go, there’s more than enough there to get ye back to Dublin, so there is! Now fuckin off with ye!”
With a look of bewilderment the passenger grabbed the crumpled up ten euro note with the hand that was grasping his rucksack, and got out of the car without saying a word. He barely had the door closed before his chauffeur took off again.
“Are ya SURE this is the place, man?”
“Course I’m fuckin sure haven’t I been here before?”
“Well I don’t see any signs or nothin?”
“You mean except for that one? It’s the place. Now put on your fuckin t-shirt, will ya?”
“Ah, for God’s sake, do I hafta?”
“Yes ya do! And ya know the score with the names and that, yeah?”
“Yeah but give me a different shirt will ya? Someone I’ve fuckin heard of? What about Robbie Keane?”
“Sorry, man, Keano’s gone, the stag gets him!”
“Bollocks…what made him support a shite feckin team like Spurs, anyway?”
“I think it was his da got him into it – look it’s a surprise, right? I’m supposed to be best man and all so I thought he’d like this!”
“Show me the other shirts. Hey? Who’s Robinson?”, he queried as he noted the name on his friend’s back.
Robinson turned around as he got to the car, opening it with his lit cigarette hanging from his lip.
“He’s the goalie. He said he picked me to be best man cos I’m a safe pair of hands, so…” After peering into the back seat of the car, he turned back and said,
“I guess I could give ya Berbatov…”
“Fuckin A, man!!! That’s the one for me so!!! Give it here, boy!” and in a few seconds he was indeed Berbatov, “and here comes your back four, keeper!!!”
“Ah, shite, where is that bollocks anyway?” and as a Nissan Pathfinder turned in to park beside the very crude-looking sign bearing the words MS ACTIVITIES CENTRE, he pushed some buttons on his phone.
“Right there, lads!” came the voice from the SUV.
“Howsitgoin?” asked Berbatov.
“Jaysis, ye were serious about those fuckin t-shirts?”
“Ah, I know, but sure they’ll look cool when we all have ‘em on, I guess. Here I’ll get ye yours.”
“Hello, Michael, just to let ya know we’re here ok and it’s 11:30 like ye said hope yer not too far away! Give us a shout when ye get this.” When Robinson switched his phone off, he turned to see Berbatov chatting to the newly-clad Hutton, Woodgate, King and Chimbonda.
“Hiya lads, ye must be the ones from Dublin, right?” Nods all round. “Grand stuff, good trip out?” More nods. “Right. First, let me tell you about the rules for this weekend. The stag, as ye probably know, follows Tottenham Hotspur Football Club for his sins. The names and numbers on the jerseys represent the players who started in the League Cup final a few weeks ago.”
After a few “ah”’s from the lads, he continued… “Also, his favourite film happens to be Reservoir Dogs, so I’ve decided to combine the two for the next couple a days, right?”
“Jesus you’re not gonna have us cutting anyone’s ear off, are ya?”, said King in a booming American accent.
One the laughter died down, Robinson reassured him, “Well, I thought about it, but I decided to go for the safer option instead. Between now and when ye go home tomorrow evening, we are all to forget our real names. No using them, right? Once you get yer T-shirt ye have to go by the name on the back of it.”
Hutton started to rub his hands together. “Right, that’s all grand, now, when do we start drinkin?”
“Ah, ok, well my friend Gar- I mean BERBATOV here, Jaysis I’m breakin me own rules already! – his da owns the pub where we’ll be based…”
“YAY” went the lads from Dublin.
“…but we’re booked to do these activities first and our area of the pub doesn’t open till 4 I’m afraid!”
“AWWWW…” went the lads from Dublin.
“Ah but sure this should be a good laugh anyway, there’s clay pigeon shooting, air rifles and the best of all, the quad bikes and it’s all paid for…once the fecker that owns the place gets here, that is!”
“Did ya ring him just there?” asked Berbatov.
“yeah, left a message, he wasn’t answerin, hope that means he’s on his way…OH! Jaysis sure I nearly forgot…did yiz all get my email about bringing digital cameras with ye?”
“Well I have one on my phone is that ok?” asked Chimbonda.
“Yeah, its grand…now trust me, this is the last time I’ll be makin speeches for the weekend sure I’ll have enough of that on the fuckin weddin day! It’s just that we’re gonna have a little side bet goin for the weekend…”
“Ah, I like the sounda THAT!” said King as the others agreed.
“Right – the stag and the other four lads should be here any minute so I’d better tell ye fast…there’s one of them, who ye will all know as “Zokora”, who’s badly in need of getting his hole, right?”
“Isn’t Zokora the bloke who’s never scored for Spurs?”, piped up Woodgate.
“…which is why we picked the name for him, right! Well ye all give me a tenner, and the first to take a picture of him kissing a bird gets the pot, which should be an even ton once everyone plays along!”
King furrowed his brow…”now when you say kissing…”
“Ah, yes, it has to be obvious that there’s tongues. Right? Oh – and if nobody wins, which is more than likely, it all goes to the stag.”
“Tongues, got it…here’s someone else coming now…”
Up the lane came a beaten-up old banger. Hutton, who was clearly the youngest of the group, noted that the date on the license plate was the year he was born.
Out of the driver’s seat climbed scruffy man in his forties whose belly was clearly not just down to beer judging by the massive baguette he was chomping into at the same time.
“Hey there lads” he just about got out past the chews. A bit of brown sauce was there by his mouth and was to stay there for the afternoon.
“hey there Mick” said Robinson, “sure we’re a bit early, still a few more lads to come yet…”
“Ah feck that, sure I can’t be waitin all day for them sure!”
“Well the stag’s one of them…they shouldn’t be long, here I’ll give em an aul ring…”
“Ah ya won’t mind waitin there Mick!” said Berbatov, “Sure you’ll be round the pub later, there’s a few jars in it for ya!”
With a grunt which could I suppose be taken as agreement to the terms, Michael Savage went about unlocking the front gate to the property, and as the vehicles drove in to what seemed to be the main building, another car joined them.
“Finally, here’s the man himself!”
First out of the car was Keane. He went straight over to the lads from Dublin.
“Great to see ye, boys!!! So glad ye could make it!!!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world…” King spun him round to look at his back, “…Keane? Is that Roy Keane? He plays for the Spurs?”
“No, it’s Robbie Keane…”
“Oh, yeah, I hearda him too.”
“So, you not Irish then I take it?” asked Berbatov.
“Now how the hell did ya work that out?” King sharpened his accent up a bit for that sentence. “Yeah, I’m the guy who was lucky enough to marry his sister!”
“Ah, right! Nice girl, that Paula! Isn’t that right, Mr Robinson???”
“Lads, I think we should be moving on in…”
King looked at the two lads, well aware of the fact that they shared some kind of secret between them about his wife, but since he hardly knew even the people he travelled with from Dublin, he thought it best to let it go.
In the meantime, Michael Savage had gone into the building with the blue corrugated iron roof for a short while, eventually re-appearing to motion the eleven stag party members inside.
As they filed in, they saw why the words “firing range” adorned the sign above the entrance. The floor immediately inside the door was mostly linoleum, but over to their right, there was a ledge with several marks in it, presumably for people to stand far enough apart to fire their rifle at the targets which stood a good distance away.
Up against the far wall of the room was a gun rack, from which Michael had removed one of the weapons.
“Are ye all listenin to me?” he barked as his guests were chattering amongst themselves. They came to a respectful silence. Well they all did except for Zokora, that is.
He had a black marker in his hand and was trying his best to turn the “J” in “Jenas” into a “P” without the knowledge of the guy who was actually wearing the shirt.
Now as you may already know, Zokora was the chap that was unwittingly the subject of a bet. The reason for that was, whenever he went out with the lads on the pull, he was never successful.
It wasn’t that he was all that bad looking a fellow, either. He never had too much trouble getting a girl’s attention when they were out – his problem was, he tried to hard to take it to the next level.
For some reason, he just never knew when to determine “the right time” to make his move. He’d either lunge at the unsuspecting female too early or bore her to death with stories about his Playstation exploits to make her run away.
So I suppose you could say Zokora’s biggest problem was that he tried too hard.
Much like he was trying way, way too hard to get a laugh out the rest of the lads here. When he should have been paying attention to the host, instead he was trying to turn a “J” into a “P” by writing with a felt-tip marker on someone’s shoulder, seemingly without him knowing it.
The first couple of times Jenas felt the marker he didn’t bother to turn around, thinking the person behind was just getting a bit too close.
Eventually, with the arc of the “P” only half finished, he turned around and pushed his friend telling him to stop. He didn’t know what Zokora was actually doing to him, but he sure as hell wasn’t surprised he was annoying him.
Mick didn’t REALLY give a damn if this shower paid attention to him or not, but he decided to draw attention to the lads messing anyway.
“Now ye may think this yoke here won’t be too dangerous, but you’d be wrong, so if ye haven’t used one o these before, you’d better listen up!!! That’s means you lads too, there!”
Actually, thought Mick to himself, this could get interesting…
“Here, you, boy, come over here and I’ll show you how to use this thing properly so the others can see…”
He was motioning towards Hutton, who was standing right in front of him.
“Uh…me?”
“Yeah, you, come on over here, lad.”
“Here, I’ll do it!” piped up Berbatov “Sure I’ve done it before!”, and he pushed forward from near the entrance to get a hold of the rifle out of Mick’s hands, who looked a bit bewildered.
“You say what ye need to say there, Mick, and I’ll show ‘em how it’s done!”
“Eh, right, ok, right. Well it’s pretty straightforward, really. You each get ten shots per round. There are eleven of ye, but I’ve only the ten targets, so if ye are going to have a competition ye will have to work something out between ye. But there is definitely one thing ye all need to know and I can’t say this enough…”
“ONCE YE HAVE THE GUN LOADED, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YE HAVE THE RIFLE POINTING STRAIGHT UP.”
“Ah, yes, I remember that one! If the pellet hits that corrugated roof someone’s fucked if it comes back down!”
“Were you here before?” Mick asked Berbatov, who at this stage was aiming the rifle at his target.
“I was indeed, do ye not remember me it was about two months ago! Well I suppose ye get loads through here don’t ye…” Mick chose not to mention that his only other client that year was two months ago.
“Well, anyway, I’m sure you can show them how to load it then – I’m off to set up the next activities, so ye can have the place for an hour while I’m gone!”
“Grand job! Let’s get cracking, lads! Grab yerselves a weapon!”
“I’ll stay off this round”, said Woodgate, “I’m still knackered after all that driving!”
“Knackered! Did ya hear him? Sure isn’t Dublin only up the fuckin road?” shouted Zokora, again trying a bit too hard to be funny.
“Well actually I’m from Drogheda so I’ve been on the road since the wee small hours!” replied Woodgate, which brought the exchange to a sudden halt.
Unfortunately for him, and almost for someone else, Zokora tried to retrieve the situation.
“Hey Paul-I mean, sorry Mal, Mal…what’s that say on your shirt?”
“Malbranque”, came the reply.
“Yeah, whatever…did ya see what I did to Jenas’ jersey?”
It was obvious to everyone that even though he arrived with him, Malbranque had very little time for Zokora.
“No I didn’t”, came the terse reply.
By this stage they were the last two to be choosing their weapons, and Zokora was determined to get a laugh out of his fellow stag member.
“Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you?” he asked as he loaded his pellets into his rifle, “This is supposed to be a party, remember?”
“I KNOW what it’s fucking supposed to be, alright?”
“For fuck’s sake, Zokora, are ya sure you wanna be pissing him off just after he’s loaded his rifle?”
Finally, a bit of banter, Zokora thought.
“Ah, sure what harm could he do with that – I’ll be sure to be as nice as pie to him once we’re doing the clay pigeon shooting!”
The next few seconds came and went literally in a flash, accompanied by a PING! and a PEW!
“JESUS CHRIST!!!”, cried Jenas as his hand went to his forehead, “What the fuck?”
As everyone else looked stunned, he noticed Zokora looking extra stunned, as his rifle lay in his hands, pointing straight up in the air, and his finger still holding down the trigger. You didn’t need a CSI team to work out what had just happened.
“Why you fucking bollocks!!!” was more or less what Jenas said as he made a lunge for his accidental attacker. It took, King, Woodgate and Berbatov to hold him back.
“Jesus, man, I’m sorry! Must have been a faulty rifle!”
“Faulty rifle my backside! Did you not hear what the man JUST FUCKING SAID about holding it?”
“Relax, man, it was an accident, right?” – King tried to mediate.
“Of COURSE it was a fucking accident! I don’t think he shot me on purpose!!” his hand went back to his forehead “fucking hell I’m actually bleeding!”
“It’s not a bad cut” said Berbatov “though an inch lower and it woulda had yer eye!!!”
“Ah, fuck this I’m going out for a smoke ye do the rifles” and Jenas flung his at Woodgate.
The rest of the lads watched as he went outside, looked at each other, gave a bit of a shrug, and took their places at the firing line, since it seemed like the best thing to do to get past the awkwardness.
Ironically Zokora proved to be the best shot of the bunch.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Give us another one in that will ya?”
Mick Savage didn’t even turn in his chair as he barked his order to the barmaid in Glanton’s pub in the town.
He couldn’t take his eyes of the big screen at the other end of the room, which was screening the 5:15 from Haydock, second last race of the day, also he second last chance to back a winner.
“C’mon ya bollix!” is what he seemed to think would be the right shout to get the horse he backed from the rear of the field to the front.
What do ya know, it wasn’t.
“Ah, for FUCK’S sake! Not ONE fuckin winner!” he moaned as he turned back towards what was left of his last drink.
“Isn’t there one more race to go?” asked the girl behind the bar.
“Ah, it’s just not my fuckin day” came the reply, “now stick a wee creamy head on that for me!” as he motioned for her to finish his pint.
As she complied with his wish, a chatter came from outside the main entrance of the pub, and in stumbled Berbatov and Keane. The barmaid looked on them with disgust.
“Jaysis lads, what time do yis call this? Are we supposed ta hold the room for ye all feckin day?”
“Sure we’re only a bit late, shut up will ya?” Berbatov replied, and turned to Keane, “you’d never know me da owned the fuckin place the way I get treated around here…”
“Eh, he’s MY da too ya know” said the girl.
“Yes, BABY sister, I know, but when you’re working here for a living and not for college pocket money then you can throw yer weight around!”
“Sure isn’t he great at showin off when the boys are around! Speaking of which, here’s the rest of them!”, and with that the rest of the lads made it through the door.
“Ah, aren’t the jerseys cute on ye? What are yiz havin lads?”
Berbatov turned to the crowd – “Lads, ye can’t come to Glanton’s without tryin the Guinness we’ve the best pint in the country! Can I go ahead and order eleven for ye on the house to prove it so we can wash down that rake of chipper food?”
Noone was going to turn down THAT particular offer.
Zokora figured enough time had elapsed at this stage, and walked up behind Jenas.
“Buddy, I’m sorry again, ok? Twas a stupid thing for me to do I know, no harm done?”
“Ah, sure it’s grand, no bother.” And the handshake was accepted.
“Grand job, grand job” and with that he turned to the lads, “If ye don’t mind, boys, I need to let the turtle out of its shell!”
The girl behind the counter, who had attracted quite a bit of attention from the stag party since they arrived despite Berbatov telling them all she was “out of bounds”, winced at what Zokora had just said as he strode towards the toilets.
“Jesus, getting that guy laid tonight ain’t gonna be easy!!!”, said King, as the others laughed out loud.
“Hey, is there a race on soon?” asked Hutton.
“Surely after the quad bikin you wouldn’t so keen on any more racin, lad?” Jenas joked.
“Feck off, you lot left me with the shitty one every time it was my go!”
“Aw….poor wittle baby!” someone else piped in.
“There’s one more race at 5:45” piped in Mick Savage, “and there’s nothing wrong with them fuckin bikes, I’ll tell ye!”
“Oh, Jesus, sorry Mick, didn’t see you there…no I was just sayin…”
“I know what ye were sayin…well, do ye want a look at the form guide or what?” and he pointed towards the newspaper spread out before him on the counter.
“uh, yeah, ok” he walked over to stand beside Mick and tried to take the paper from him. A hand quickly slammed down on the paper to stop him.
“Did I SAY you could take my paper? Ye can just look at it!” and with that Hutton nervously had a look over Mick’s shoulder to see who was running in the 5:45.
Berbatov and Keane both knew exactly what was going on. “For fuck’s sake, I’d better get him away from there”, said the latter.
“Nah, leave him, sure what can he do in here? They’re only here for the night and Mick heads off when the racing is over anyway!”
“In other words, don’t embarrass one of your best customers, right?”
“Not when he’s not doing any ACTUAL harm!”
And with that they chose to ignore Mick Savage as he went through the runners & riders with Hutton, slyly touching the top of the youngster’s backside as he did so.
Hutton stood there nervously choosing a horse as he tried to block out everything else that was happening at that moment. Suffice to say that when his choice was made he couldn’t get away from the bar quickly enough.
“Well?” asked Mick.
“Well what?”
“Are ye gonna pick a nag or what?”
“Yeah, I going to go for Caught Unawares, the favourite.”
“Caught Un-a-fucking-wares? Hasn’t a hope, man!”
“Well I think you’re wrong!”
“Whatever – want me to come with you to the bookies? I can probably get ye a good price on her?”
“Ah, no, yer grand, sure I have an account set up and I can place a bet on my mobile.” And with that Hutton couldn’t join the rest of the lads, who by now had made their way to the section cornered off for them, fast enough.
Meanwhile, back at the bar, Mick turned back to his pint, not even turning to watch the race once it set off.
He just sat there, quiet as a mouse, staring at his pint. He didn’t even notice that Caught Unawares actually did come in as winner of the race, at 3 to 1. He coulnd’t even remember at this stage whether he’d bet on it or not.
With a big gulp of the the last part of his drink, he put on his jacket, and went on home to do whatever it was he would do of a Saturday evening.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Turns out the Guinness in Glanton’s was just as good as Berbatov said it was.
At least you have to assume that when a crowd of guys goes for its tenth round of eleven pints, there must be something good about it, right?
Not to mention the numerous rounds of the cocktail BABY Guinness that went across the bar as well.
Let’s just say that as the typical Saturday night crowd came and went in the pub, the boys had themselves a good time. After a few rounds in their section altogether, they broke off into groups scattered around the place, doing various things.
As the third pint arrived at their table, Robinson had remembered one more little speech he had to make.
“Lads, one more thing, right? Ye all remember where we had our dinner, that Burgertown place on the main road? Well presuming we’ll be goin our separate ways later on, let’s just say now that if ye want a lift back to the hotel, meet there and there will be a taxi to pick us up at 3am. Everyone ok with that? I’d recommend doin it cos it’s not easy to get a taxi around here and it’s quite a walk up a dark country road!”
“Ah, now I’m sure yer man Mick wouldn’t mind putting some of us up anyway! Isn’t that right, Mr Hutton?”
Yes, you guessed it, that was Zokora, trying once again to be funny, failing once again to be funny. At least Hutton wasn’t laughing.
“Eh, right,” Robinson hastily continued before someone else lunged at the man he wished he’d never invited, “so before we split up, remember, Burgertown, 3am!!! Cheers lads!” and up went his pint in the air as a salute, while the others joined in.
A couple of hours later…
“Hey, can I ask a favour, man?”
Hutton had just manoeuvred his way to the bar to get himself a pint when he was tapped on the shoulder by someone else from the stag party. Unfortunately he couldn’t see the back of him and couldn’t remember what to call him.
“It’s me, Jim-I mean, FUCK! Jenas. I’m getting sick of these fuckin names!”
“Do ya want me to get a jar in for ya?”
“No, no, I have one, thanks, I was just wondering if I could borrow yer phone off ya – I left mine back in the hotel room?”
“My phone? Sure, why?”
“Cos I’ve just seen Zokora wearing the face off some bird and I want to take a picture! I’ll split the money with ya!”
“Jesus, sounds good to me! Be worth makin a few bob off that gobshite!” and he handed his phone back to him.
“Somehow I knew you wouldn’t mind thanks!”
“You know how to use it?”
“Yeah, sure I have one just like it meself, thanks! I’ll get it right back to ya, ok?”
“No bother, man. Just get us that money before someone else spots him!”
“I’m on it.”
Robinson was indeed a safe pair of hands. Even with all the drink he had taken, he was sure to be at Burgertown for bang on 3am.
He had even taken the provision to ask his mate Alan to be there with his mini-bus for 3:30 to allow for latecomers.
The extra time was much needed, since when he went into the burger place, the only person he could see there was Zokora, and it looked as though he had been there for a while.
“You here on your own, man?”
“Yeah, I left early, I’m not on good form tonight. Thought I’d better meet you lot here anyway though in case you were wondering.”
“Ah, ok, sorry to hear that. You didn’t think Jim was still annoyed about the bullet did ye?”
“No, no, sure I was chattin to him earlier, he seems grand.” Zokora thought it best not to admit that in actual fact nobody from the group had talked to him all evening.
“Ah, ok, grand.” Then, as he was about to go up and order himself a burger, Robinson remembered the pool. “Uh, Jesus there were some fine women knockin around Glanton’s tonight, weren’t there?”
“What? Eh, yeah, there were, yeah.”
“Did ye manage to score yerself?”
On most nights, Zokora would have lied to save the embarrassment. But on this particular occasion, he didn’t see the point.
“Nah, nah, there was nothing happenin!”
“Ah, ok, not to worry.”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason!” the chap looked depressed enough as it was without telling him he was the subject of a bet!
Then in walked Keane, Hutton and Jenas, and on spying Robinson at the counter ordering his food, they gave a cheer.
“Hey, lads! Ye made it I see!”
Keane was a little bit more under the influence than the others, which wasn’t surprising, since he was expected to do two baby Guinnesses to every one the others had all night.
“Robinson, me old mate, me old pal, thanks a lot for this fucking night, it was the best! You’re not a bad lad, even if you do prefer fuckin hurling to soccer!!! COOOME OOOON YOU SPURS!!!!”
“Jesus man will ye shut up! Sit own over there I’ll bring ye a burger!”
“Cheers, man, Burgertown Double Deluxe meal please!!! Ah, if it isn’t old Zokora over there? Ya boy, ya!!!” and with that the stag went over to join his forlorn looking colleague.
Meanwhile Hutton and Jenas had joined the queue for food a few spots behind Robinson.
“Yeah, we’ll have the same as him, and you can take it out of our winnings!”
“What?”
With that Hutton took out his phone and showed it to the day’s organiser.
“See? There is the man himself, playin tonsil hockey with a young one in a blue dress!!!”
Robinson looked closely at the photo.
“But he’s just after telling me he never did hook up on the night!”
“He must be lyin so! See, you can just make out the “K” on his jersey! That’s him alright!”
“Well it does look like him, but I’ve known the chap for years and he wouldn’t lie about that sure he’d be shoutin it from the rooftops!”
“You tryin to get out of payin us or what?”
“NO, no, far from it…let’s go over and confirm it with him, yeah?”
By this stage it seemed that the whole of the stag party had arrived at the rendez-vous, which was now chock-a-block with customers now all the local late bars and niteclubs were closed.
Once they all had their food they joined Zokora and Keane at the table.
“Uh, Zokora, mate, can I ask you something?” Robinson queried.
“You mean apart from what you just asked me?”
“Ah for fucks sake man do ye hafta be so feckin smart? Look, we had a bet goin that ya wouldn’t fuckin score, and the lads say they have a picture of ya with a bird, so were ya telling the truth or what?”
“Show me?” and Hutton handed it over to him.
“Well that looks like me alright, and yeah, I remember her being there alright she was a fuckin babe! Surely ye saw her, the one with the highly bodacious ta-tas wearin the blue dress?”
“Ah well if she was good lookin, it couldn’t have been you, so!” chimed in Berbatov to everyone’s amusement.
“Ha fucking ha. Well anyway that wasn’t me.” And looking closer at the picture on the camera, and he turned his head around trying to look at his back, “besides, I’m number twenty-something amn’t I? This chap is number four! So, it must be someone here, which one of us is it?”
“COME ON YOU SPURS!!!!” shouted Keane again, which broke the silence going around the table. Let’s just say the stag wasn’t exactly aware of the ongoing conversation he was too busy devouring his Burgertown Double deluxe.
All at once it dawned on Robinson what was going on.
“Give us that fuckin phone man!!!”
Zokora looked at him blankly.
“GIVE US IT!” and he reached across and grabbed it out of his hands. “Will you lads come outside for a sec for a quick word? You as well, Zokora.”
After exchanging quizzical glances the lads joined him in front of the restaurant.
“What’s wrong? Why the FBI shit all of a sudden?” asked Zokora.
Robinson was running his hand across his face as he tried to work out what to do.
“Did any of notice who’s not here with us?”
The boys shook their heads.
“King! Or whatever his name is…” he looked at Hutton.
“I don’t know the man, just met him this morning when we all met up in Dublin!”
“OK, well ye know the way we can see a K in the name on his shirt in the picture?”
“Ah, so it’s him!” said Zokora “Well, that explains it!”
“hang on,” chipped in Jenas, “Isn’t he…”
“…the married to the stag’s sister? Yes he fucking is!!! If he finds out he’ll fucking kill him!”
“Fucking hell that was right in the bar where everyone could see him what was he thinking?”
“Holy God, what a mess!”
“Jesus, what do we do?”
“I don’t fucking know!!!”
“Here’s what you do, man…” Zokora had it all worked out. “Everyone else was in there and noone said anything, right?”
The others nodded.
“Right. So only you two could have seen him snogging the bird!”
“Yeah?”
“So, all we have to do is delete the photo, tell them it WAS me, and Bob’s your uncle!”
“But what do we say to him if we see him?”
“Better think of something right now I think!” said Jenas as he spotted King walking up the road towards them.
“Hi you guys! Glad I’m not too late for the taxi! Hope I can get one of those double Deluxe burgers first though I’m starving!”
The four lads looked at him with disbelief, and it made him feel uneasy.
“What’s the matter?”
“Lads” said Robinson, “go on in join the others, we’ll do that, ok I’ll divvy up the cash later. Mind if I hold on to your phone, man?”
Hutton nodded as the other three went back to the table inside. Zokora had a wry smile on his face, partly because he was glad to have actually been a help on the night, yet even more glad that he hadn’t been the biggest asshole in the group.
King had an idea what was going on.
“Look, I think I know what this is about…”
“Listen, man, I don’t know ye, I don’t even know you’re fuckin name! But I know what happened tonight…”
“Fuck! Did he see me?”
“No, he’s too pissed to see anything!”
“Look, man, I didn’t mean for this to happen…”
“I don’t wanta fuckin know, ok?
“Yes, but I have to tell someone PLEASE I can’t talk to anyone about this back home! That wasn’t just any girl, I work with her, and…”
“Listen…my loyalty is not with you, it’s with my best mate – and the only reason I’m not going to tell him is that he doesn’t need an assault charge a couple of weeks before the wedding! So you see this?”
He held up the picture which was still on the screen of the camera. King was amazed that he had been snapped.
“Well, it looks like you’ve gotten away with it boy!” and pressed delete. “fate has given you another chance, the rest is up to you. This never happened, and the boys in there all agree.”
“Ah, thanks, man, THANK YOU!”
“Don’t thank me. Personally, I think you’re a fuckin disgrace carryin on like that. Now we’d better go in like nothing has happened.”
And so they did.
