Davy’s really gotten the hang of the auld smartphones now. So much so, that when I meet him for a pint now, it’s hard to get a word out of him.
I suppose I should be grateful for such small mercies but pints are expensive and if I wanted to have a drink on me own, I’d just stay at home watching telly with a few cans.
“Would ye ever get your head out of that bleedin’ phone,” I snapped at him impatiently.
“I may as well be at home staring at the walls.”
“Ah sorry Gaz,” he says to me before looking up at me thoughtfully.
Well, I say thoughtfully. When Davy’s deep in thought, he looks more constipated than anything else. He’s not the prettiest sight at the best of times, so ye can only imagine what Thoughtful Davy looks like.
“Do ye think young people are a bit more precious than our generation?” he says to me.
“You’re not going to start banging on about snowflakes are ye?” I bark at him. “That’s a term them alt-right clowns use and I’m not interested in adopting that language.”
“Ah no, I know tha’,” he says, even though I’m willing to bet a substantial sum that he had no clue where the term came from. A lot of people don’t.
“It’s just I was reading about young Arter and how he won’t come back and play for Ireland because Keano gave him a bit of a bollocking. Ye wouldn’t have seen that years ago like. Sure, didn’t Clough hit Keane a dig once and he just got on with it.”
“He also lost the plot with McCarthy when he was accused of faking injury,” I says. “And it sounds like that’s more or less what he was accusing young Arter of. Do ye not think it’s a bit hypocritical?”
Davy took a big swig of his pint while he weighed up my point.
He finally left it back on the table, beside the beermat rather than on it for some unknown reason.
“Yeah I know what ye mean,” he says eventually.
“But I can’t help thinking that some of these younger people need to develop a bit of a thicker skin. Like, ye see the way they over-react to things on social media and all that. Maybe they need to lighten up is all I’m saying.”
“Ah here,” I says to him.“Would you be lightening up if ye were working in precarious jobs, had little hope of ever getting a mortgage and even had to move to a different county because, not only can ye not get a mortgage, but ye need to go through a vetting process the FBI would be proud of just to rent a mouldy shoebox in your home city?”
“Arter doesn’t have to worry about that though,” says Davy.
“He’s got a fair few quid I’d say. He’d need to be mentally stronger I reckon.”
“Ye see that poxy phone in your hand?” I fired back at him.
“Do a bit of Googling on Harry Arter and then come back to me and let me know if he needs to be mentally stronger.”
I sat back and sipped away at me pint as I watched Davy’s lips move while he slowly read a few articles about young Arter.
“Jaysus,” he says eventually, looking back up at me.
“Exactly!” I says.