Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Yeah, said Des. — But they had their label behind them.

— Yours was better, said Jimmy.

— I’m not sure, said Des.

Jimmy decided: he liked him.

— But, said Des. — You saw us. Back then.

—’Course, said Jimmy. — In the Magnet.

— God, said Des. — The Provos owned that place.

— We didn’t know it at the time though, said Jimmy.

— No.

— Would you have cared?

— No.

— Same here.

— I would now.

— Same here, said Jimmy.

— But anyway, said Des. — God. I feel like I’m in a time machine.

— Same here, said Jimmy.

They met. They liked each other. They knew they would. It was funny that, how you could just decide to like someone. They were home and dry before they were both sitting down.

— What’ll yeh have, Des?

— Coffee, thanks.

— Anything with it?

— No.

They were men who didn’t eat buns in public.

— So, said Des. — Tell me about celticpunk. Dot com.

Des was Southside. Rednecks and southsiders need not apply . But that kind of shite didn’t seem to matter much any more.

— So, said Jimmy. — Here’s what happens. Someone googles the Irregulars and —

— Who’d do that? Des asked.

— Well, I did, said Jimmy. — Before I came out. Did you?

— Yeah.

They laughed.

— There yeh go, said Jimmy. — People like us. Old heads, music fans. And actually. Kids. D’you have kids, Des?

— I do, yeah, said Des. — Well. One.

— Boy or —

— She’s in Germany, said Des. — With her mother.

— That’s messy, said Jimmy. — Is it?

— It is, said Des. — I try to get over every six weeks or so.

— Does she speak English?

— I speak German.

— Do yeh?

— I do, yeah. I lived there for a long time.

— Back to google, yeah?

— Okay.

— So anyway, said Jimmy. — We both googled the Irregulars and we got stuff about Irish history. No surprise there, that shite’s never far away. And grammar. Verbs and shite.

— Yep.

— Nothin’ about the band.

— Nope.

— We’ll sort that, said Jimmy. — That’s what we’ll do. Get it up near the top of the list.

He hadn’t a clue how that was done, but he’d find out — himself and Aoife would.

— You mentioned kids.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Yeah. I forgot. I got carried away. Yeah, so — kids. Teenagers, like. Like my own lads. They love the old stuff.

— Really?

— Oh yeah, said Jimmy. — Absolutely. And it’s not just mine. All kids. Boys especially. So —

The coffee had arrived. They both drank it black.

— Our job, said Jimmy, — will be to push the Irregulars, the band like, up the charts. I mean, we get a Wikipedia page up and maybe a website, if the other lads are interested. Have yeh spoken to them yet?

— Not yet, said Des. — I wanted to hear a bit more first. To make it a bit more — less vague. And to meet you as well. And, well.

He picked up his cup.

— I haven’t spoken to any of them in years, he said.

— I don’t remember, said Jimmy. — Did yis break up, yeh know, dramatically?

— Not really, no.

— Good, said Jimmy. — That’s probably good. My crowd but. The Commitments. Fuckin’ hell.

— No, said Des. — Only, there’s been no contact. So it would be a bit awkward, I suppose. But if I know a bit more, it’ll make it easier.

He smiled.

— That’s the theory.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — That makes sense. So. We build your presence there. Website, Wiki. Info, discography.

— It was only the one single.

— Doesn’t matter, Des. It’s still a discography. And here’s the real trick. Links.

— Gotcha.

— Links. Wiki to the website. Website to Wiki. Wiki to us.

— celticpunk.

— Exactly.

Jimmy was giving Des Aoife’s research. She’d done most of the early homework while he was at work selling cars.

— Where they’ll find the single and the B-side for sale, upload or download.

— Great.

— Like iTunes, said Jimmy. — But boutique. More personal. Welcomin’. Not just buy or fuck off. There’ll be pictures, info, a where are they now. A nice obituary for Necko.

Des nodded.

Jimmy rested for a bit. He was loving it, too much. He didn’t want to get carried away. Or make Des greedy.

— And, he said. — But this might be a bit tricky. Given the fact that Necko’s no longer with us.

— What? said Des.

Perfect.

— Reunion gigs, said Jimmy.

— Jesus, said Des. — I don’t know. I haven’t played in years.

Jimmy said nothing.

— And Necko, said Des.

Jimmy nodded.

— How would we manage it? said Des.

— Well, said Jimmy. — It’s tricky.

— Tasteless?

That was a surprise.

— No, said Jimmy. — Well, I don’t think so. There were four of yis. Is there a widow?

— There’s, I suppose you’d call her an ex-widow.

— Grand.

— They had two kids.

— Grand.

— We ask her? said Des.

— I don’t think yeh need to ask, said Jimmy. — Ask for permission. I don’t think that’d be an issue.

He didn’t know; he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t a clue.

— But it’d be nice to let her know, he said. — It’d be good. Get her to come along. What age are the kids?

— I’m not sure, said Des.

— Doesn’t matter, said Jimmy. — It’d be emotional. And I don’t mean that cynically now. I mean really. But then —

Des nodded.

— I know, he said. — Necko was the singer.

— There yeh go, said Jimmy.

Des shrugged. He was handing the problem over to Jimmy.

— Other bands manage it, said Jimmy.

— Yeah, said Des.

— Queen, said Jimmy.

— We weren’t fuckin’ Queen, said Des.

They both laughed.

— But you know what I mean, said Jimmy. — They have your man, Paul Rodgers, instead of Freddie and no one complains or wants their money back because it’s not Freddie. Or that’s what I’m assumin’. Because I wouldn’t be caught dead — sorry, didn’t mean to be insensitive.

— No, no.

— I fuckin’ hate Queen, said Jimmy. — Before and after Freddie. A glorified cabaret band. A bunch of fuckin’ chancers. And I’m guessin’ that you, as drummer of the Irregulars, agree with me.

— No, said Des. — I thought they were brilliant.

There’d never been an Irregulars reunion gig. The bassist wasn’t dead but he was a born-again Christian.

— That’s fuckin’ worse.

He’d turned his back on the evils of rock ’n’ roll.

— Fuckin’ eejit.

Three-quarters of a band was a legitimate reunion, but half a band wasn’t.

— Half the Who are dead, said Des.

— And the other half should just get on with their fuckin’ lives, said Jimmy.

— You’re probably right, said Des.

— So. Des. No reunion?

— No.

But the meeting with Des had been the start. When Jimmy had said –

— We’ll look after you, Des.

— he’d wanted to whoop, because he’d believed every word. He’d found something great for himself — himself and Aoife had. They’d spent a night coming up with the proper name for shiterock. A cousin of Aoife’s had a website that sold all sorts of Irish tack to the Yanks and Germans — bits of sod, teatowels, tins of stew —

— The Corrs’ pubic hair.

— Ah Jimmy — stop!

Anyway, he — the cousin — told Aoife that the key word was Celtic.

— But we won’t be sellin’ stew.

— It’s just the word, Aoife explained. — Typed into the search engine.

— Google.

— Yes, she said. — And Yahoo. All of them.