Jose Mourinho and pub landladies

I was in Magowan's on Tuesday watching the Chelsea match with Paddy Mulhall. Paddy knows about as much about football as I do about the workings of the female brain.

'Tha' fella Josey Mooringo is an awful gobshite,' he said.

'What are ya talkin' about?' I said. 'Sure hasn't he won the Premiership, the Champions League ... the lot. He could probably get Wicklow to win the All Ireland football if he put his mind to it.'

'Don't be ridiculous. Wha' would a Spaniard know about the gaah?'

'Tha' doesn't matter. It's all abou' man management. Motivation. Knowin' when a player needs a pat on the back or a kick up the arse. Anyway, he's not from Spain. He's a Portugeezer.'

'Same thing,' says Paddy. 'Anyway, I think he's useless. He can't hold down a feckin' job.'

Our analysis was interrupted by a drunk who fell in through the door, and made for the bar. Betty Magowan clocked him immediately. She stood waiting for him to park himself, which he just about managed like an aeroplane landing in a hurricane.

'Yes?' Betty asked him, at a temperature far lower than her normal warm greeting.

His chin seemed to be stuck to his chest, so it was hard for him to speak clearly.

I thought I heard 'Gizapint', and I provided a translation.

'He wants a pint,' I explained.

'Does he now?' Betty asked. She addressed the man directly and loudly.

'Ya'll get no drink in here. Ya've had enough. Now g'wan an' take yerself home like a good man.'

The drunk may not have had all of his wits about him, but he got the message. Betty has been in the game for years, and is as adept at this stuff as Josey is at the half-time team talk.

The man looked around to remind himself where the exit was. With a great effort he pushed off and just about got there after bouncing off Paddy and a few items of loose furniture. He clattered through the door, and via the window we could see him moving slowly along outside, clinging to the building like he was on a high ledge. He disappeared around the corner, and a minute later he slid in through the door of the lounge. We could see him clearly from our side.

He managed to weave his way up to the bar, just before Betty spotted him.

'Gizapint,' he said again, this seeming to be the limit of his conversation.

Betty is not used to having her writ challenged, and would want to quash any notion amongst the rabble that such a thing might be tolerated.

'I told ya,' she said. 'Ya're gettin' no drink in here. Now get yerself out to hell, before I come 'round to ya.'

The man unglued his chin from his chest, and eyed Betty.

'Jaysus,' he said. 'Do you run all the bleedin' pubs aroun' here?'

The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is now available as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com