Beer and Justice

For the last couple of weeks I have had this hectic routine going over the weekends in a final push style affair to  get my new tkd gym up and running.

I work thursday, friday and staurday nights in this nightclub and work the friday (if I’m not minding the child), saturday and sunday daytimes in the gym.

It’s a hard auld slog by times, and the friday mornings when I can’t work at the gym due to fatherhoody responsibilities are no easier because wee Róisín really dosen’t give a flying fuck what time I got in at last night, if I was going to need lie-ins of a friday morn – well then I should have thought of that fifteen months ago when there was something I could have done about it.

So to make it all better I had a beer with my enthusiastically over-filled  centra roll for on-site lunch today, twas magical.

If I wasn’t so busy I’d seriously have to contemplate taking up alcoholism, its a very attractive lifestyle. The functioning alcoholic style that is, not the sleeping in own vomit style, that would be a bit too street for me. I ‘m just not cool enough to pull it off.

But yeah, I was shockin tired when I arrived at the gym this morn (11am is still morning, yeah?),  the bro thought I was sick or terribly frightened or something. Actually, now I think of it he said something closer to: hey man, you look like shit. I felt like it too, real sand-on-the-eyeballs type hangover feeling, without the hangover.

I soldiered on anyway, good man that I am. We got stuck into bits of carpentry and  sticking stuff with construction filler,  mis-measuring things and cutting them too short, drilling holes in the wrong places and general buffonery.

There are very good and valid reasons why it has taken me six months to do a two month job. Clownishness is all of them.

Come lunch time I sent myself down to get food, because the bro’s the talent and wields a mean chisel, while a mission to centra for vittels pretty much exercises my natural talents to their limit. Its all about people economy, HR style.

They were singing to me, them two bottles of Lech, from the moment I swished into the shop. Swished because thats the sound the automatic sliding doors make, and deep down inside part of me  believes I’ve just stepped onto the bridge of the Enterprise, every time, on the way out too. The beer sang to me while I pointed at things I wanted in my roll, sang louder and glowed a bit with halos when I picked them up and sang from my pockets all the way back to work.

We worked on for another little bit just to make everything taste better. Then I pulled up a punchbag for the sitting and the bro popped the beer with a chisel. Can do just about anything with a chisel that fella.

There’s many a time I’ve gone out and drank pints without number, or without a number that I could keep track of at any rate, but not one of them could hold a candle to that single beer in the dust.
It’s about rewards and shit probably, beer is currency for my psyche; work hard, drink beer – justice done, I’m all right with the world and the world’s  all right with me . Not that I work hard, but then my psyche seems more than a little forgiving when the balance of justice tips in my favour.

Also: it didn’t occur to me at the time but look at this picture. Taking a break from construction work to drink a beer opened with a chisel, while sitting on a punchbag in the dust and wood shavings. Its not exactly Hemmingway, but thats some pretty damn manly shit right there.

Shame there wasn’t a photographer handy to catch the moment. And maybe a stylist for my poodle, her fur-do is atrocious.

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