TD 1
“I’m not a regular, but I’m not a stranger.” The
sun hadn’t yet risen at half past seven as the seagulls cawed above the docklands and the quays. On Lombard Street East, the purple painted exterior of the Wind Jammer pub’s first floor faded naturally in with the dark violet morning sky. “Open 7am,” read the golden letters on one of the steel overhangs above the windows of this early house pub, one of approximately six, still serving alcohol with a special early morning licence, which haven’t been issued in the state since 1962. Inside the Wind Jammer, the deep babel of a few dozen male voices chattering boomed through the barroom, and the bright white lights emanating from its chandeliers sent a jolt through each punter stepping in to escape the drowsy city. “I can tell you a lie about the milkman,” said a man in his early fifties, wearing a black pork pie hat and perched on a stool at the rounded marble counter, a large bottle of Bulmers before him. “In the eighties. You wouldn’t remember them. We did have milkmen. We had Paddy.” “Paddy had a horse in his back garden on Heytesbury Lane,” the man said, while his neighbour muttered that he had to go to the café next door to grab coffee beans. “And the Harrisons had a fucking shop,” the man said, leaving a long pause between each sentence. “You wouldn’t see it now unless a fucking set designer built it. Penny sweets. Well before Spar.” “Brendan Behan used to shop in the Wee Stores apparently,” he said. “And the Wee Stores used to open on a Sunday. Because they were Prods. They’d open and sell the newspapers, while all the Catholic stores were closed. And they made a nice little earner there selling milk.” His friend returned from the café, hopping back up onto his stool, where half a pint of cider was waiting for him. He tore open the bag of coffee, reaching in to take out three individual beans. Sliding towards him a shot of sambuca, he dropped the beans into the viscous spirit and set the surface of it aflame. He’s a maths tutor and today is his day off, he said, with a relaxed smile. “I’d be fond of the early houses, myself. There’s no messing in here.” “This place is a nice friendly shop,” the man in the pork pie hat said. “I’ve seen taxi drivers drop off Americans in here, off a flight. They’d be awake all night and are looking to get a beer. So, I’ve been in here, fucking nine in the morning with a singsong, drinking with cunts from New York.” 16 “And the Wee Stores used to open on a Sunday. Because they were Prods. They’d open and sell the newspapers, while all the Catholic stores were closed.”