Roddy Doyle - The Guts

Outspan had gone into one of the phone boxes and he’d been in there for a fair while.

— Is he okay?

— He’s dyin’.

— Not now though — is he?

— Will I knock?

— Don’t know.

But Outspan spared them the decision. He climbed out of the thing, like he was getting out of a car. The kid who was next in line for Outspan’s jacks waited till Outspan had gone past, then moved to the back of a different queue.

— Alrigh’? said Jimmy.

— Grand, yeah, said Outspan. — That’ll do me till Sunday, I’d say.

— Ah good.

— Look.

Darfur had grown four or five times bigger since they’d arrived. The average age had gone up too, and some of the tents had seen serious use — these were people who’d brought families camping. There was movement; the kids were starting to migrate towards the stages and the main arena.

— I’ve changed me mind.

— Wha’?

— We’re not the ugliest nation in the world.

— Some of them are lovely, aren’t they?

— Most of them.

— Fuckin’ all o’ them. ’Cept your woman over there in the Donegal jersey.

— Were their mothers as good-looking?

— No way.

— Yeh sure?

— Positive, said Des. — I’d remember.

They could hear a band tuning up now, the noise drifting across at them.

— Who’s that?

— Don’t know, said Jimmy.

He hated having to admit it.

— Sounds shite anyway, he said. — Are we righ’?

They went back across to their tents. They packed jacks paper, rain jackets, middle-age hoodies, and Ambre Solaire –

— You’re fuckin’ optimistic.

— into two backpacks. They left everything else. The sun came out, sudden and strong, and Jimmy could see right through their tents. If the sun could do that what would the fuckin’ rain do?

— Will we bring the wellies?

— Fuck the wellies.

There were two young lads sitting on folding chairs outside their tent, a better-looking tent than Jimmy’s. Les turned to them.

— Gentlemen.

— What’s the crack, man? said one of the young lads, a bogger. They were both wearing Kilkenny jerseys.

— You staying here for a while? Les asked — actually, he said it; it wasn’t a question.

— Probably.

— Keep an eye on our stuff, a’righ’.

— Oh. Right.

They wouldn’t budge for the night, the poor fuckers. Les wasn’t big or muscle-bound or anything like that. But there was something about him — certainty, solidity. And the English tail on his accent — it made him a bit of a Kray twin. The drink was safe. They could have left their watches and wallets.

— Thanks, lads.

— No bother, man.

They were on their way. Back through expanding Darfur, back past the jacks. They’d been given wristbands at the outside gate and now they had to show them again to a stoned-looking security man — and they were through, in. At the Picnic.

— Brilliant.

It was, immediately. It was like someone’s huge mad back garden. There was a helter-skelter and a ghost train, and Jimmy could see four big tents, and the outdoor stage was off to the right somewhere. There was a row of great-looking food places, and a bar or something that was already hopping, even though nothing had really started yet. And as they walked further in, they could see huge wooden sculptures and all kinds of hippy stuff going on in under the trees.

But Outspan was struggling again. They’d had to slow down. The year’s rain was right under them, sloshing at their soles.

— Alrigh’? Jimmy asked Outspan.

— Grand, said Outspan.

It was as if he’d got over some sort of obstacle, and he started to look around again.

— I wasn’t expectin’ this, he said.

— It’s cool.

— Body an’ Soul, said Outspan. — Wha’ the fuck is tha’?

— Yoga an’ knittin’.

— At a fuckin’ rock festival?

— Just ignore it.

They stood at what seemed to be a corner. Four men — one decision.

— How many stages are there? Des asked.

— Five, said Jimmy. — I think. More.

— Five gigs at the same time?

— Think so.

— Brilliant.

— Hungry, lads?

— Starving.

— Wouldn’t object to a nibble, said Les.

Outspan had the money. Or Jimmy hoped he did. Des hadn’t a bean, and Jimmy hadn’t a clue about Les. He had a couple of hundred quid himself.

— Liam?

He spoke quietly.

— Wha’?

— You know — the yurt an’ tha’. And how you were short o’ funds?

— Yeah?

— Are we okay?

— We are, yeah, said Outspan. — I just thought we could put it to better use.

— Grand.

— What do we fancy? said Outspan.

— Burger.

— Excellent.

Outspan and Les queued at the Gourmet Burger, and Jimmy and Des went across to another queue, to get the beer.

— It’s Heineken, Heineken or fuckin’ Heineken. Or look — Tiger.

— Fifty cent extra for the Tiger.

— Then fuck it.

There was no change out of twenty quid and they spilt about a fiver’s worth on the way back to Outspan and Les. They were sitting on a plastic poncho under a tree. There were no real sounds, no songs, coming from any of the tents, or the main stage. Just the occasional chord, or a testing one, testing two.

Outspan looked angry and happy.

— Enjoy these burgers, men, he said. — They’re the last you’re gettin’.

— What’s up?

— Price o’ the fuckin’ things.

— Steep, said Les.

— Fuckin’ criminal.

— Are they anny good but?

— That’s beside the fuckin’ point.

— Okay. The beer’s dear as well, by the way.

— Good burger.

— Great burger. Good chips.

— Great fuckin’ chips.

— They’re hand-cut, said Outspan. — An’ the burger’s organic.

— Hand cut?

— So it says on the van.

— How else would they be fuckin’ cut?

— Fuck knows, said Outspan. — Unless it’s Christy Brown. Left-foot-cut. Ah fuck it, I’m after gettin’ goo on me front.

— There’s jacks paper in the backpack there, said Jimmy.

— Sound.

They watched Outspan dipping a wad of paper into his Heineken and rubbing the ketchup off his hoodie. It came off without a struggle.

— Jesus, said Des. — What’s it doing to our insides?

— I couldn’t give a shite, said Outspan. — I’m not even sure I have any fuckin’ insides.

He looked around for somewhere to put the wad. It was funny how they’d all been tamed by age. Making sure they didn’t get damp, looking for places to put the litter.

Outspan dropped the paper beside him.

— Here, he said to Jimmy. — You never told me Leslie was in the club as well.

— The club?

— Cancer.

Des’s mouth stopped working, even though he was dug into his burger.

Something — some band — started in one of the tents.

— What’s tha’?

— Don’t know, said Jimmy.

— The fuckin’ expert.

— Fuck off, said Jimmy.

He got the programme from his pocket.

— It might be Gypsies on the Autobahn.

— Sounds more like Gypsies on the M50.

— They’ll survive without us.

— What’s the first band worth seeing, Jim? said Les.

— Grandaddy, said Jimmy. — I’d say.

— One of the tents, yeah?

— Tha’ one over there — I think.

— Great.

— All tha’ way?

— Fuck off.

— What sort o’ stuff do they play?

— It’s kind o’ unique, said Jimmy.

— Oh fuck.

Des needed rescuing. He was eating again, but he didn’t look like he was enjoying himself.

— You’re the odd man out, Des, said Jimmy.