Red Leeroy : The Struggle for Power

I had a touch of writers block. I would start writing and it would turn into mush.

My only solace was alcohol. I went to one of my favourite bars in Dublin to read the paper and have a quiet pint of Guinness. I brought my little black fliptop leather book with me. It is perpetually in my back pocket. My friend Ovak gave me the idea. Its great for remembering fleeting thoughts, moments, sentences and idea’s that might otherwise get lost. 

A paper and a pint would sooth what ails me I thought, as I stepped in out of the cold to an empty bar, with a real fire belting out the heat into the room. The barman was about 75 years old. At the exact moment that I walked in he fumbled with a glass he was polishing and it crashed to the floor. “jesus fuckin christ” he muttered but still managed to greet me with a “howerya what’ll it be?”

I ordered a pint of Guinness and I perched myself at the bar and unfolded my newspaper. I had a quick look around A couple in the corner having a quiet chat, a man at one end of the room doing exactly what I was about to do. And behind one of the divides that seperated the long wooden bar I could see a pair of hands holding a drink. Dirty white shirt cuffs and long yellow fingers. My beverage was delivered and I sat and watched it settle as I unfolded my newspaper. Perfect.

I had got about 5 paragraphs into the sport section when I heard mumbling and the tink tink tink of a coin tapping against a glass. I looked over at the hands again. The glass was empty. The barman turned around and cursed to himself again and went over to serve the tapping man. “Another Guinness Arthur” and the drink was being poured before the reply had come. A few minutes later I heard footsteps and the hands had left their place at the bar and I felt someone behind me.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”. I turned myself on my stool to see who was addressing me. Then I stopped for a second. It was an albino. White hair. White eyelashes. White shirt. White everything. The only thing that wasnt white was the Sherlock Holmes style hat that he wore on his head. I held back a chuckle and raised my eyebrows as this was the strangest thing I had seen in a long time. “Sure have a seat” I replied.

The albino sat down. Of course I realised he was an albino. An very drunk albino. A very drunk albino wearing a Sherlock Holmes stlye hat. A very drunk albino wearing a Sherlock Holmes style that wanted to sit and converse with me. Why me I thought. I just wanted to read my paper. Drink a beer. In a quiet, fire lit pub. Was this too much to ask for?. Obviously it was.

“Arthur” - came the greeting with an offered handshake to which I accepted as he perched himself uncomfotably close to me on the adjacent stool. He glanced down at my paper. “Ahh Stuart Townsend” he boomed and slammed his hand down on the bar as he caught a glimpse of Townsend and Theron on page 6 of the paper. “What a bollix” he quickly added just to make sure I knew where he stood on the matter. “Yes my friend doesnt like him either” I replied. I had been down this road before and quite enjoyed the Stuart T debate (although not previously with a fancy dress albino)

There was an uncomfortable silence which lasted about two minutes. “Well enjoy the rest of your fuckin paper” Arthur said. I smiled and nodded. “thanks very much, eh good to meet you”. I watched him return to his seat and he became the pair of hands and dirty cuffs again. The barman polished another glass. I continued to look over towards the only part of him I could see. The barman saw me staring, leaned his head over slightly and whispered “he’s an alcoholic”. I grimaced sympathetically and took out my little black book and began to scribble in it.

Arthur the angry albino alcoholic I hurridly jotted it down. It looked like my writers block was officially over.