Roddy Doyle - The Van

— Ah, Christ.

Water fell onto his shoes, not much of it; most of it was at the back, on the floor, along with some of the spice-burgers and the fish. The bin hadn’t turned over but there was an awful lot of water there, too much to call a puddle. The spice-burgers were the worst; the water had made them soggy and they were falling apart; they’d have to throw them out. The fish, though, weren’t too bad.

They got the cartons up off the floor before the water could get at them. There was no other damage.

Still though, it was depressing.

Jimmy Sr leaned over and poked one of the fish with a finger. It was still good and hard.

— We need a mop, said Bimbo.

— We need a fuckin’ engine, said Jimmy Sr. — Come on. We’ll clean it up an’ go in an’ watch the match.

They cleaned up the mess, shoved all the bits of spice-burger and the water and the rest out onto the road with a bit of cardboard, and dried the floor with a tea-towel. Jimmy Sr gave the fish a good wash with some of the water from the milk bottles. He threw out the really dirty ones; where the dirt had got into the fish.

— There now, said Bimbo when they’d finished. — It wasn’t as bad as it looked.

— Come on, said Jimmy Sr. — Or all the good places’ll be taken.

— Sheedy gets it back — and Sheedy shooTS!

The place went fuckin’ mad!

Ireland had got the equaliser. Jimmy Sr grabbed Bimbo and nearly broke him in half with the hug he gave him. Bertie was up on one of the tables thumping his chest. Even Paddy, the crankiest fucker ever invented, was jumping up and down and shaking his arse like a Brazilian. All sorts of glasses toppled off the tables but no one gave a fuck. Ireland had scored against England and there was nothing more important than that, not even your pint.

— Who scored it!? Who scored it?

— Don’t know. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter!

They all settled down to see the action replay but they still couldn’t make out who’d scored it, because they all went wild again when the ball hit the back of the net from one, two, three different angles, and looking at poor oul’ Shilton trying to get at it, it was a fuckin’ panic.

Word came through from the front.

— Sheedy.

— Sheedy got it.

— Kevin Sheedy.

— WHO PUT THE BALL IN THE ENGLISH NET — SHEEDY—

SHEEDY—

God, it was great; fuckin’ brilliant. And the rest of the match was agony. Every time an Irishman got the ball they all cheered and they groaned and laughed whenever one of the English got it; not that they got it that often; Ireland were all over them.

— Your man, Waddle’s a righ’ stick, isn’t he?

— Ah, he’s like a headless fuckin’ chicken.

A throw-in for Ireland.

— MICK — MICK — MICK — MICK — MICK—

They all cheered when they saw Mick McCarthy coming up to take it. And there was Paddy Mick-Mick-Micking out of him and only an hour ago he’d been calling Mick McCarthy a fuckin’ liability.

— OLE — OLE OLE OLÉ—

— OLÉ

— OLÉ—

There was ten minutes left.

— Ah Jaysis, me heart!

— No problem, compadre.

Jimmy Sr was about ten yards away from where he’d started when Sheedy’d scored. He didn’t know how that had happened. He tried to get back to his pint.

—‘Xcuse me. — Sorry there; — thanks. — ’Xcuse me. — Get ou’ o’ me way, yeh fat cunt.

His pint was gone, on the floor, or maybe some bollix had robbed it. He looked over at the bar. He’d never get near it; it was jammered. Anyway, Leo the barman was ignoring all orders; he was looking at the big screen and praying; he was, praying.

— Look it, Jimmy Sr pointed him out to Bimbo.

He had his hands joined the way kids did, palm against palm, like on the cover of a prayer book, and his lips were moving. When everyone else cheered Leo just kept on praying.

— How much is there left?

— Five, I think.

— Fuck.

He looked around him. There were a lot of young ones in the pub. They hadn’t been paying much attention to the match earlier but they were now. There was one of them, over near the bar; she was in a white T-shirt that you could see her bra through it and—

There was a big groan. Jimmy Sr got back to the match.

— What’s happenin’?

— They have it.

Gascoigne got past two of the Irish lads and gave it to someone at the edge of the box and he fired — Jimmy Sr grabbed Bimbo’s arm — but it went miles over the bar.

They cheered.

— Useless.

— How much left now?

— Two.

— Take your time, Packie!

— ONE PACKIE BONNER

THERE’S ONLY ONE PACKIE BONNER—

— Up them steps, Packie!

— Ah, he’s a great fuckin’ goalkeeper.

— ONE PACKIE BOHHHH-NER -

— He’s very religious, yeh know. He always has rosary beads in his kit bag.

— He should strangle fuckin’ Lineker with them, said Jimmy Sr, and he got a good laugh. — How much now, Bimbo?

Before Bimbo answered the Olivetti yoke came up on the screen and answered his question; they were into time added on.

They cheered.

— Come on, lads; go for another one!

— Ah, Morris; you’re fuckin’ useless.

— Fuck up, you. He’s brilliant.

— ONE GISTY MORRIS

THERE’S ONLY ONE GISTY MORRIS—

— Blow the fuckin’ whistle, yeh cunt yeh!

They laughed.

Jesus, the heat. You had to gasp to get a lungful; that and the excitement. He couldn’t watch; it was killing him.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE—

Jimmy Sr was looking over at the young one again when he got smothered by the lads. They went up — the ref had blown the whistle — and he stayed down. But he grabbed a hold of Bimbo and hung on. Everyone was jumping up and down, even Leo blessing himself. The tricolours were up in the air. He wished he had one. He’d get one for the rest of the matches.

Bertie was back up on the table doing his Norwegian commentator bit.

— Maggie Thatcher! — Winston Churchill!—

— WHO PUT THE BALL IN THE ENGLISH NET — SHEEDY — SHEEDY—

— Queen Elizabeth! — Lawrence of Arabia! — Elton John! Yis can all go an’ fuck yourselves!

They cheered.

Jimmy Sr was bursting; not for a piss, with love. He hugged Bimbo. He hugged Bertie. He hugged Paddy. He even hugged Larry O’Rourke. He loved everyone. There was Sharon. He got over to her and hugged her, and then all her friends.

— Isn’t it brilliant, Daddy?

— Ah, it’s fuckin’ brilliant; brilliant.

— I love your aftershave, Mister Rabbitte.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr when he got back to Bimbo.

— An’ we only fuckin’ drew. Wha’ would happen if we’d won?

Bimbo laughed.

Everyone in the place sang. Jimmy Sr hated the song but it didn’t matter.

— GIVE IT A LASH JACK

GIVE IT A LASH JACK

NEVER NEVER NEVER SAY NO

IRELIN’—IRELIN’—REPUB-ILIC OF IRELIN’

REV IT UP AN’ HERE WE GO—

— It’s a great song, isn’t it? said Bimbo.

— Ah, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

It was that sort of day.

— We’d better get goin’, I suppose, said Bimbo.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.

He was raring to go.

— Red alert, he shouted. — Red alert.

They came charging out of the pub, the two of them. Jimm ySr let go of a roar.

— Yeow!!

His T-shirt was wringing. Fuck it though, he was floating.

Bimbo got the back door open and hopped in; really hopped now; it was fuckin’ gas.

Jimmy Sr stopped.

— Listen, he said.

They could hear loads of cars honking. And there were people out on the streets, they could hear them as well.