The Sneaky Pint: Stumpy O’Thunder

Posted on May 28, 2020 / by The Drunken Poet

The Poet’s Clurichaun
As you’re no doubt painfully aware, the Poet is shut and has been since mid March. It’s a terrible state of affairs and the last thing you need is The Sneaky Pint reminding you of how terrible it is to go months without a proper pint of beer or the whiff of a Poet toastie or the sheer serenity of watching a Guinness settle. Oh the humanity! What might be even more painful to hear is that someone has been enjoying all these luxuries during the lockdown. Since you’ve taken time out from watching Netflix and baking banana bread, I suggest you make yourself a cup of tea, tuck the knee rug a little tighter around your legs and whatever you do, don’t read this in the dark, as it’s likely to make your skin crawl.
It was a bleak Tuesday night sometime during the winter of 2009. Wind howled down Peel Street, thunder shook the windows and the sideways rain beat against the closed door of the Poet. Inside of course, all was warm and convivial. It was getting late, maybe around 11pm. Neil Young lazily drifted from the jukebox and the ten or so punters who’d braved the weather that night were clustered together at the bar; (ah clustering…remember when it just meant standing in a group and not causing an outbreak?) laughing, talking and generally forgetting their cares. So when a loud, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, came from the front door, everyone in the bar stopped talking and turned. Quizzical looks were exchanged as the door wasn’t locked and there was no need to be knocking. The bartender, who shall not be named, muttered expletives as she went to see who this bollix was disturbing a perfectly enjoyable little night. As the door opened wind and rain spilled in, but no one was there. After looking up and down the street, she closed the door behind her, but something caught her eye from the far end of the bar. The sparkle of a gold coin. And it was then that they all saw him. A very small fellow, his white whiskered face just above the surface of the bar. A black hat upon his head and a gold coin in his fat little fingers.
As you know all too well, the Poet accepts all comers and creepy little guys who sneak in on rainy nights are just as welcome as the next ratbag. “A pint of porter please,” came the squished up voice in a thick Cork accent. The little man was duly served. He kept to himself and everyone almost forgot he was there after a while. The pints disappeared swiftly and the gold coins kept appearing. (Fun fact: the Poet accepts pure silver and gold coins as payment and they also work on the jukebox. ) Just after last drinks were called he ordered another pint. No one saw him leave, but the empty pint sat on the bar, drained of it’s last drop.
When the float from the till was counted the next morning, the gold coins were missing. All the Guinness kegs were empty and there’d been 4 full ones the night before. The following night, whenever someone punched in a song on the jukebox, the wrong song played, which as everyone knows, is quite possibly THE MOST FRUSTRATING THING EVER! The toasted sandwiches were full of chillies. The whiskey was watered down. The P.A was on the blink. The band was out of tune. It was chaos at the Poet and much distress was felt in general. Loyal patrons walked away shaking their heads vowing never to return. (Of course they did return, they weren’t insane.) By the next day all had been rectified, but everyone was still shaken. No one really connected the dots until the next stormy night.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. No one at the door, but then there he was at the end of the bar. A mischievous grin on his smug little face and an unquenchable thirst for the black stuff. This time a few regulars sidled up to him and ventured some conversation with this odd little guy. His name was Stumpy O’Thunder, he was from Cork and loved the drink. Apart from that, he was a closed book or at least an unintelligible book, as he talked more shite than a politician explaining a $60 billion hole in a welfare package. After last drinks he vanished without a word, but maybe he hadn’t left at all because the same havoc ensued, only this time it was worse. This sort of shit doesn’t fly at the Poet and the little guy quickly became enemy number one. Thing is, he was never seen again. The Guinness kept disappearing after closing time, but the pranks slowed down. Every now and then someone would complain about the jukebox playing the wrong song or the P.A would start to play up and so we knew he was still lurking about the place. But since Covid hit no Guinness has been delivered to the Poet. He’d drunk the last drop. He’d eaten all the Taytos and gorged himself on toasties till he had to loosen his belt. With no one to play pranks on he got quite depressed and we think he’s moved out. Someone saw him on a Centrelink queue, but surely he isn’t eligible for jobkeeper! Someone else said they saw him protesting the lockdown out the front of Parliament house; yelling something about the 5G network.
It’s true, Clurichauns are the forgotten victims of Covid-19. He might be in your neighbourhood, so if you see him, maybe leave a bottle of porter out for the poor little fecker, but whatever you do, don’t open the door when he comes a-knocking.