Frootee

I had a spring in my step as I arrived at the little beer shop that I like to visit on a Friday.

What wondrous sights would I behold today? Beers brewed with exotic roots of the earth, aged in old women's shoes perhaps? Or maybe ones that were fermented underground with rotten fish by sage old Nordic men?

Hot donk, the possibilities are endless. I love Fridays for this very reason.

I pushed open the door of the shop and entered.

The shaggy haired, wild-eyed Bear-Man who owned the place nodded cheerily to me from the counter.

Ey-op, lad!

He grunted in his dense and smoggy Northern English accent.

I smiled and made to reply when the small person standing at the counter with the Bear-Man looked my way and also spoke.

Carfar barfar, car bar?

Said the Bear-Man's counter buddy in a very high pitched voice..

I stiffened instantly and not in the down-belows.

Oh fuck, it was an Irish.

What did he say? I had no idea. I had never been able to understand the Irish. Particularly the Northern ones. And this one sounded very Northern.

I put my best poker face on and nodded.

Just checking out the new beers.

I said, smiling in that mad way that you do when your friends dog keeps sniffing your balls no matter how hard you try and push it away.

Ars am eyt crackers, down wey ey.

Said the Bear-Man nodding at the shelf beside me.

I nodded and made a strange hooting noise of agreement before turning my back on the pair of the indecipherable bastards to look at the beers.

Fuck, what if a Welshy walked in as well. That would be the icing on the cake. Trapped in a small shop with three fellow UK dwellers and not able to understand a word anyone of them was saying.

I decided I had better choose my beers and escape sharpish.

Something nudged my shoulder.

See that wun dare, carfar bar car far, ded on, so it is.

It was the Irish.

He was right beside me pointing at a Belgian beer, smiling.

I grimaced in an attempt at a smile as if I had had a coarse wooden stick inserted into my rectum by a pantomime horse.

He winked.

Gorn. Isa wee crackar, so it is.

He said cheerily.

Aye, is it. Brilliant. Cheers.

Said I, in return.

I think he was recommending the beer. I picked it up and he nodded at me furiously.

Ee likes em frooty!

Jeered the Bear-Man. from the counter.

Frootee, bar far carcar, eh?

The Irish asked with a glint in his eye. Despite his apparent friendliness he looked like a nutjob that was ready to fly off the handle at any second.

Something Glaswegian deep inside me woke up and stretched.

Aye man, aw whit, atul do me. Right, cuntos, need tae get back tae ma wurk, no'at'a'mean?

I took my solitary beer to the counter. The Bear-Man took my beer and rang it through the till. He and the Irish looking perplexed at the gibberish that had just fell out of my mouth.

I was perplexed too.

I paid and fled.