The Sneaky Pint: Santa Who?

Posted on December 13, 2019 / by The Drunken Poet

His name was Jack. An auld fella from Belfast. A grizzly white beard. A curly white mop of hair and the bluest eyes you ever did see. He lived rough, down beneath the train overpass on Flinders Street. Every now and then he’d turn up for a pint of Guinness. Sometimes he’d have a bloody lip or a black eye. If he ever sat next to you, his quiet charm and dry humour would draw you in and keep you there. No one knew Jack’s past. He could dodge a probing question with a deft joke or change of subject without it even being noticed. The Drunken Poet was his refuge. When it got too much; when he was at his lowest ebb, it picked him up and set him back on track, or near enough at least. That won’t come as a surprise to most of you loose units. The Poet’s there, like a warm blanket in the cold. An outstretched hand over the ravine. That’s the Poet. Jack knew it, you know it (you reprobates), and the Sneaky Pint knows it.
Human kindness is a rare commodity these days. We live in a world where profit seems to be more important than people. In the Banking Royal Commission we heard of a young man with Down’s syndrome forcibly coerced into buying insurance. Westpac has facilitated transactions that have enabled child exploitation in the Philippines. The Royal Commission into Aged Care has uncovered systemic abuse/assault of elderly and disabled people. The gambling industry survives and thrives on the premise of exploiting human frailty. BHP was aware of significant problems with the Samarco Dam years before it burst killing 19 people and destroying 3 villages in Brazil. Nestle uses cocoa harvested by slave labour. The world’s largest pharmaceutical company, Pfizer, tested experimental drugs on poor, critically ill Nigerian children, masking the trial as a “humanitarian mission”. Eleven children died and others developed brain damage and crippling arthritis. Monsanto has spent $8 billion in recent years buying up seed companies- including organic seed companies- and making it illegal for farmers to retain the seeds from their crop for the following year’s planting. Farmer’s are forced to pay Monsanto for new seeds again and again. Many of Monsanto’s genetically modified seeds produce plants that are reportedly dependent on Monsanto herbicides and fertilizers. Are you picking up what I’m laying down here? (You also never thought The Sneaky Pint could be so informative. So little faith.)
Christmas is upon us, but maybe Christ isn’t your flavour. Maybe you believe in some other deity. The Sneaky Pint believes in human kindness and he knows where it’s always found. A place where people and the treatment of them is of paramount importance. A place where Jack always felt welcomed, despite his shabby appearance and infrequent showers. The Poet doesn’t judge, it just serves and makes you feel welcomed.
So Jack’s setting up camp for the night underneath the overpass. The wind is whipping in from the Antarctic. It cuts through to the bone and leaves Jack fearing he’ll see the night through. In that moment, a blip of memory surfaces from the depths of his consciousness. He’s four years old, looking up at his Mammy. It’s a rare Summer’s day in Belfast. She’s smiling down at him and she looks so beautiful. Her hair tied up in a black velvet band. She gives him a strawberry. It’s so sweet. As he looks up at his mother, Jack is blinded by a light. The light begins to fade, Jack wakes and sees the 58 tram parked at a stop near him. The streets are empty. He ambles over and steps onto the tram. It’s empty except for the driver. Jack walks up to the driver’s door and for some reason he recognises the back of his head. The driver turns and Jack sees his father and then he knows. Ah yes, he knows he’s in another place. “Da, is that you?” “What kind of daft question is that Jacky, of course it’s me? It’s good to see ya lad. Now we’ve got some work ahead of us. It’s Christmas day tomorrow and we’ve got a lot of presents to deliver.” And with that, the 58 tram took off into the sky.

*Christmas Eve at The Poet is a feast of human kindness. Jack might pop in for a pint if you’re lucky.