The stage was black and strong and sixteen foot deep by about forty foot wide.
Canned lights and big speakers on the walls.
A trapdoor. Curtain legs. Curtains. Caramel smell of smoked theatre.
I asked your man: ‘What would it take, 250?’
‘Would it take that many?’
‘With the balcony as well you see.’
‘And who would I talk to about puttin on a show?’
‘They’re on holidays I think.’
‘For a week or two?’
‘No, usually most of June, July and August, there doesn’t be much happenin in the summer months. Sure who goes to Plays these evenings?’
‘But it’s still open?’
‘We use it for the bingo.’
‘Is that popular?’
‘It’d crack your fuckin head.’
‘Aragh, there’s a fella that comes in and he thinks he knows it all. I do be tryin to call out the numbers and he’d start shouting up at me.’
‘Thinks I don’t be counting the balls properly. Thinks I’m doin a con. And as if I’ve nothin better for doin than comin in here readin fuckin bingo balls. There’s supposed to be 15 balls. And he claims I’m only callin out 14.’
‘Are they big prizes?’
‘€150 for a full house. €50 for a box.’
‘Tisn’t too bad.’
‘Do ye not do goalposts?’
‘What the fuck are they?’
‘I think it’s when you get the numbers on the corners and there’s a prize for it.’
He shook his head, said: ‘Never heard of that.’
‘Sure they do things different everywhere.’
‘Everythin is different around here alright.’
‘So when do you think there might be another Play on?’
‘September to May does be manic. Tickets like gold dust. Other than that – does be quiet. What you need is kids.’
‘Yeah, if you can get two or three kids into a Play sure that’s ten tickets sold.’
‘Think about it – Parents, brothers, sisters, grandmothers, cousins. They all come and see it. Kids are the way to go.’
‘Never thought of it like that.’
‘There you have it now. Do you want a cigarette?’
He went outside.
I took a look around.
Dressing rooms. Green room.
This is how it starts. A random meeting. An overfed hard drive. A top class theatre that spends quarter of the year sitting cold and empty – except for the bingo.
Then your man was back from outside with: ‘Is there a crackling on them speakers. I hope they aren’t blown.’
‘Check it there and see.’
He checked it like this: ‘Two fat ladies, testing testing, legs eleven….testing…Kelly’s Eye number one….’
Then he left down the microphone and said: ‘Thank fuck for that.’
Then there was silence. Nothing left to say, til I said: ‘Sure I’ll go.’
‘Aragh yeah, sure I better get ready for this bloody bingo.’
‘When do you reckon they’ll be back for a chat so….about maybe puttin somethin on?’
‘Leave it til September, I’d say. Not a thing happenin til then.’
Fisherman’s Blues – is the hilarious new novel from Mick Donnellan.Dark and audacious, written in a distinct West of Ireland vernacular, it covers a myriad of genres from Crime Noir to comedy and an odd bit of religion. Fresh in its language, vivid in its descriptions, the book sings with the signature style of all Donnellan’s previous work, and a bit more. Delving into the lives of drinkers, lovers, thieves and scam artists, the story weaves a web of intrigue and curiosity that ends with an unforgettable bang. Not without its poignant moments, the plot hinges on the chaotic consequences of three unlikely comrade’s attempts to save their lost relationships, while unintentionally ruining the plans of a rising criminal’s efforts to take over the city. The question is: Can they succeed? And if they don’t, what then? And where have the women really gone?