Just a Sunday evening in July (by Kevin Boyle)

For information, Kevin is a long standing friend of ours and regular of The Ship.  A couple of weeks ago he emigrated again suddenly to Utah and sent us this. We love it. Thanks Kev. Oisin

Were there anyone else other than me here, you might say that the comment was intended for nobody in particular.

-          Jeez, boy, it’s awful quiet, isn’t it?

He’s right. It is awful quiet. I look up towards Richmond Bridge from my spot near the slipway. The guy in the ice-cream van looks bored.

It’s a Sunday evening in July and there are not a whole lot of people here at all.

-          Could make a cameo at the Ship, I suggest.

Eddie’s already half way up Waterman’s Lane. He has that look in his eye. I’ve seen it before.  We don’t quite make it to the station; he’s spotted one of his landlord buddies and the doorway is only very briefly darkened before he makes his presence felt inside.

-          Alright Eddie! Bloody quiet, ain’t it?

-          Ya! We were just down by that water and there’s nobody around at all, boy.

He’s in full flight. I get them in and don’t get involved.

I mind the gap as we’re getting off at Wandsworth Town. We negotiate the traffic and McDonald’s, sidle past the depot where the tour buses go when it’s time for bed, hang a left down toward the cement works and wonder how the hell the people who are filling the roadway at the end of Jews Row managed to find their way here in the first place. As I get closer, I notice that there’s some sort of a Persian rug spread out on the tarmac and a couple of leather couches sitting within Pimm’s pouring distance of each other.

I turn to pass comment to Eddie, but I just manage to catch sight of his chrome dome disappearing though the back door into the public bar.

I follow him and make it inside in time to see him nip in through the corridor bit, past the wines that are so good they have to be kept in a cage. By the time I make it through, he’s chatting to Charlie and Phil.

-          Howaryiz, lads, says Charlie. Jeez, it’s a bit quiet isn’t it?

There are a couple of tables left in the main bar and some kid in skinny jeans is in the process of moving one of them to replace it with a couple of guitar cases and an amp. It’s standing room only on the rug.

-          I think you’ve got just about all the pub trade in London, Charlie. It’s dead everywhere. What’s the story with the carpet?

-          Ah, ya know. Thought it might be a laugh. Had a couple of lamps and a TV out there but took them in because we thought it might rain, you know.

He scampers off behind the bar and starts polishing something, grins back in our direction. I’m not sure if he’s serious. Phil tosses his hair and wafts off somewhere. Eddie’s beaming.

-          Pint bottle of cider. No ice.

It’s getting dark, now. The place is buzzing. I’m buzzing. Eddie’s being controversial about something and I’m pretty sure he’s winding me up. The band can’t decide between posing and rock-and-rolling until the guitarist starts the intro of Sex on Fire. Emma’s sitting over the otherside of Charlie’s living room arrangement. She has lovely brown eyes and she’s a writer. That doesn’t seem to do it justice though. Writeuse. That’s more like it. I tell Eddie I’m going to the jacks and skip over to say hello. I don’t make the grand and witty entrance that I merit though, so I’m back a few minutes later. One of these days.

Oisin arrives down later for a late one. He’s particularly amused at what his staff have been up to with the carpet and the couches. I look around and realise everyone else is too, particularly the Brylcream and GHD couple who are sprawled out in full pizza-and-DVD mode. It starts when you get to the top of Jews Row and you realise you’ve stumbled upon the place where those red buses live, and by the time you get to the bottom, it’s all a bit lively and you feel a bit like you’re doing something your headmaster wouldn’t approve of.

It’s closing time, and I’ve almost a full pint of cider left. No rush- nobody’s going to swipe it and tell me to go home and iron my shirt for the morning. I look across to the writeuse and the bottle of wine and I formulate the witty observation or bon mot that I’ll leave until too late to deliver.

The phone rings a few days later, and a few days after that I’m stepping out of an airport into a blast of hot air that makes me turn my face away and fumble for my shades. Utah. No footpaths. Off licenses run by the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control. Can I see your ID, sir? The locals don’t recognise my accent and politely ask me where I’m from. I think if I told them I was from Alabama they’d believe me.

-          Ireland, I say.

-          Arr-lan?

-          No, Ireland.

-          Oh! Aye-yur-land! Is it as hot there as it is here during the summer?

It’s all about the service here. They have greeters at the supermarket who offer you a mobility scooter with built-in basket to carry your cheese and Cheerio’s and tell you that they already miss you as you leave. They’re mannerly and courteous and I might as well be from Mars.

I went out for my birthday last Wednesday. There were eleven choices on the menu, all but one contained cheese. I’ll have a number 3 with no cheese, I say. You bet, they say, but the chef forgets and puts cheese in anyway. Somebody told the staff about the birthday thing and all twelve of them had to leave their posts to surround my table and sing me the specially Iggy’s Sports’ Bar Birthday Song. There were no winners.

I couldn’t face the palaver tonight so I stayed in and I’m drinking light beer from a can and watching the sun go down over some scrubby sunburnt hills, waiting for the room to go dark before I fiddle with the air-con and lock the door to keep out the neo-cons. I could do with a pint. In a glass. In a real pub.