Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— D’yeh think?

— Yeah — I do. I mean, I had tha’ chipper van at the time. With Bimbo, d’you remember?

— Yeah.

— An’ it was a bit of a disaster, tha’. But I was never unemployed again — after Italia ’90. I wouldn’t let myself be. I was always doin’ somethin’, even before the buildin’ took off. Because — an’ this is true. We felt great about ourselves. For years after. An’ tha’ only changed a few years back. Now we’re useless cunts again.

— Thanks for the analysis.

— Fuck off. You asked.

— An’ 1932 was like tha’, was it?

— Yeah, said Jimmy’s da. — A bit. The country was only ten years old, remember. An’ dirt poor. Then, like, the man in the flat next door to my mother’s gets a radio — a big fuckin’ deal. An’ everyone bails in to hear it. She always spoke about hearin’ your man, John McCormack, singin’ live on the wireless. At the mass. Like he was Sinatra or — I don’t know — some huge star today. The Bublé fucker or someone. My father said it was like the whole world was listenin’ to somethin’ tha’ was happenin’ here in Dublin. An’ it probably was as well. Why did you ask?

Jimmy told him.

— An’ you came up with that idea, did yeh?

— I did, said Jimmy. — Yeah.

— It’s a winner.

— D’yeh think?

— Fuckin’ sure. If you do it properly.

— I will.

— Oh, I know, said his da. — D’you remember my cousin, Norman?

— No, said Jimmy. — I don’t think so.

— He’d be your cousin as well, I suppose. Second cousin, or first cousin twice removed or tha’ shite. Anyway, he has a huge collection of old 78s an’ stuff.

— Great, said Jimmy. — From back that far?

— I’d say so, yeah, said his da. — He wouldn’t throw out his shite, Norman. He’s a bit older than me as well. An’ he’s a real collector, yeh know. Goes to meetin’s an’ all. So I’d say he could help yeh.

— Brilliant, said Jimmy. — Will yeh introduce me to him?

— Does tha’ mean I have to go with yeh?

— Just the once, said Jimmy. — Till I get me foot in the door.

— Okay, said his da.

— Come here, said Jimmy.

He leaned to the side.

— Don’t fart, said his da. — Not so soon after the chemo.

— Fuck off, said Jimmy. — I’m just gettin’ my iPod out. Here we go.

He untangled the earphones and handed them to his da.

— Here, he said. — Yeh know where these go.

He watched his da shove one into each ear, like he was trying to make them meet in the middle. Then he — Jimmy — turned on the iPod.

— What the fuck is this?! his da roared.

But he kept the earphones in, and laughed once, and kept smiling for most of the two minutes and twenty-three seconds.

Jimmy turned it off, and his da unplugged himself.

— What was tha’?

— The Halfbreds, they’re called.

— There’s no way they’re from 1932.

— No, said Jimmy. — It’s a different thing. A different project.

— There’s no stoppin’ yeh.

— You’re beginnin’ to be too nice, Da.

— Okay, said Jimmy’s da.

— They’re the Halfbreds.

— They fuckin’ sound it.

— A husband an’ wife combo. They’re old punks. From way back. But they recorded that one last week. An’ everyone loves it. Marv, young Jimmy, Aoife, all the gang at work. They all think it’s great.

— Specially the endin’.

— Tha’ wasn’t rehearsed.

— You could tell, said Jimmy’s da. — Howth Junction, wha’.

— Yeah.

— Always my favourite Dart station.

— Windy oul’ place.

— Great view but.

— Anyway, said Jimmy. — Everyone loves it. But d’you know how many will actually buy it?

— Go on.

— No one, said Jimmy.

— Why’s tha’?

— Would you buy it?

— No.

— Why not?

— It’s shite.

— You just said you loved it.

— Yeah. Because it’s shite.

— Ah, for fuck sake, listen. Nobody’s buyin’. The kids don’t think they have to.

— They download it for nothin’.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Exactly. My age group an’ a bit younger, we still buy. But they don’t buy much. An’ very little that’s new.

— Make a video.

— We’re goin’ to —

— A good one, said his da. — Make us laugh. Get your woman from the Rubberbandits video.

— You know the Rubberbandits?

— Of course I know the fuckin’ Rubberbandits.

The Rubberbandits were a pair of clever lads from Limerick who wore SuperValu bags over their heads, and rapped. Their song, ‘Horse Outside’, was the new national anthem. Jimmy hated them.

— More than eight million YouTube hits, said Jimmy.

— Twice as many as live in this poxy country, said his da. — It’s the way to go.

— But only about nine thousand bought the song, said Jimmy.

The misery in that statistic pleased him, all the noughts in the millions falling away — the state of the fuckin’ world.

— Beats a kick in the bollix, said his da. — An’ listen. I remember when you were a kid. You sat on the floor in front of the telly when Top o’ the Pops was on — don’t fuckin’ deny it. An’ yeh held up a microphone and taped every song yeh liked, an’ played them all on your little cassette recorder. For nothin’.

— That was —

— No, it wasn’t different. There were thousands of yis, doin’ the same thing, all over Ireland and over in England. Robbin’ the artists. An’ the artists were still multi-fuckin’-millionaires.

— You might be right.

— I am right. I know more than yeh give me credit for.

— I know, said Jimmy. — Sorry.

— So, said his da. — Make a fuckin’ video an’ get the young one from the Rubberbandits one — with the dress an’ the eyebrow, yeh know her?

—’Course.

— Or someone like her, said his da. — Shoot it at Howth Junction station. On the platform. Northbound or southbound, I don’t mind. An’ when your man there sings, She’s showin’ me Howth Junction , just get her to point at the sign an’ raise her eyebrow, the way she does for the Rubberbandits. Then stick it up on YouTube an’ see wha’ happens. An’ don’t worry, I’ll phone Norman for yeh.

Des was sitting on the bed.

— Sorry there’s nowhere else, said Jimmy.

— It’s fine, said Des.

— I didn’t realise the house would be full, said Jimmy. — There’s usually an empty room at the weekends.

— Jimmy, said Des. — You’re just looking for excuses not to start. Go on.

— Am I standing right?

— It’s not a photo shoot.

— Fuck off, Des. The hernia.

— What hernia?

— If my stance is wrong, I could give myself a hernia. I saw it on YouTube.

— You’re fine, said Des.

He looked behind him, like he was checking the distance to the pillows. If he lay back there on the bed, Jimmy would sack him, or fuck the trumpet at him. He was already a shite teacher.

This was terrible.

He looked at the window. He put the trumpet to his mouth. He blew.

— There now, said Des.

— Wha’?

— It’s not about force, said Des.

— I know.

— It’s the buzz.

Des pursed his lips.

— My cheeks didn’t fill with air, he said. — Did you notice?

— Yeah, Jimmy lied.

— Take two breaths, said Des.

Jimmy looked down at him.

— First one, said Des. — Then the extra one.

— Tell yeh wha’, Des. Stand up and show me.

— Oh, said Des. — Sure.

He stood up, and stood beside Jimmy.

— So, he said. — Breathe in. Fill your lungs.

Jimmy did.