PJ Breakdown and the Tits of Christ by David McGrath

Father Horsebox comes storming into Phelan’s pub on a mad one. Pint, he says.

Did you see? asks Tom Phelan as he pulls him one.

Course I saw.

Tits.

Didn’t I say I saw.

I told him not to upset anybody. Nothing controversial I said. I swear to fuck, Father.

Father Horsebox tucks into his unsettled pint without stopping for breath. He gobbles it whole. Another.

In then walks PJ Breakdown, fuckin whistling, a smile on him that looked poured there by a front-end loader. Morning men, he says.

Tom Phelan and Father Horsebox don’t give him the pleasure of an acknowledgement.

Like a morgue in here this morning, Breakdown says.

What did I say? Tom Phelan asks like a crocodile. What did I tell you?

A bit of a stir you said.

A stir, says Tom Phelan. Not tits. You have to be the stupidest fuckin—tits?

This will shake them up.

You know why I never went after them for the condom machine? Tom Phelan asks. You know why nobody’s gone after them for anything ever?

Why, Tom?

Because The Coogans are fucking nuts.

 Look. I created a bit of stir for the donkey derby and at the same time, I stuck it to the Coogans forever trying to shove their all-powerful God down people’s throats. 

But it’s not an all-powerful God, is it? Father Horsebox says. I don’t see a younger priest being sent to Ballybalt so that I can retire. You know why? Because there’s no priest to replace me. God’s bollocksed. It’s an all-bollocksed, all-knackered, terminally ill God. And what it takes for The Coogans to ignore that when confronted by such an overwhelming amount of scientific and philosophical evidence on a daily fucking basis is what you’ve stirred up. 

They’re going to rip you apart. 

I’d like to see them try.

They’re going to do some number on you for them tits. 

Well, first of all The Coogans have sworn a solemn oath to never set foot in Phelan’s pub ever again because of the condom machine. And second of all, yes I superimposed tits on Our Lord’s bare chest as he’s crucified and put the image on the front page of the town’s newspaper but when all things considered wouldn’t Jesus Himself forgive me for it? And finally, for all the money I’ve put into this place over the years, sacrificing my whole life for this pub—blood, sweat and tears gone into drinking in this pub everyday of year bar none—the marriage, the job, the kids—all falling by the wayside for this pub—I’d like to think that this pub will stand behind me when I need it? 

Outside then arrives the Coogans, rolling up to Phelan’s en masse. They are donned in their Sunday best because they are accompanied by His Lordship, the bishop, as well as a representative from the Censors Office and the Media Standards Authority. Bunny Coogan’s first and foremost priority is keeping the bishop comfortable. There is a tea flask, trays of sandwiches, sleeping bags, a battery operated wireless, even a bottle of whiskey if His Lordship fancies a discreet tipple. His Lordship is the only person exempt from the lookout rota she has drawn up. The representative from the Censors Office and the head of the Media Standards Authority are there because of favours they owe the Coogan family so they’re have to take their turns keeping watch like everybody else. Every capable body was needed. No way was Breakdown slipping between her fingers under the cover of darkness—no way.

The sergeant arrives in his squad car, lights flashing.

His Lordship says such a militarised operation is maybe a bit all too much. 

Bunny Coogan tells His Lordship they catapulted bodies of plague victims over city walls in the old days to force them to open the gates and similarly, she will do whatever it takes to save these men from themselves. Bunny Coogan shoves her copy of The Bugle into His Lordship’s chest. This is what happens when you let your flock go untended, Your Grace. 

The tits are unavoidable.

Tom Phelan, Bunny Coogan shouts. I know you’re listening—send out Breakdown or woe betide you.

There is another person in Ballybalt known as Breakdown. Her name is Maureen Breakdown, forever broken down and waving down cars for help on the Carrickbeg Road. Her father had been a mean drunk. Maureen Breakdown vowed never to follow suit so she had been a teetotaller her entire life. So when Bunny Coogan orders Breakdown come out of Phelan’s and face the charge of blasphemy, citing The Defamation Act after the arrival of the State Prosecutor, it was quite the anti-climax to be asked which Breakdown by Tom Phelan.

You know full well which Breakdown, Bunny Coogan shouts.

Maureen Breakdown? Tom Phelan shouts back through the snug door. She hasn’t been in here in I-don’t-know-how-long, Bunny. I don’t even think she’s ever been in.

Quit your play-acting, Tom Phelan, Bunny Coogan shouts. You know full well we’re not after Maureen Breakdown. Send out the journalist P.J. O’Malley. Or face the consequences.

Right you are, Bunny, Tom Phelan shouts. The crowd outside Phelan’s pub that morning looked at each other doubting it all would be that simple.

Here he is, Tom Phelan shouts and out through the front window crashes a gift-wrapped PJ Breakdown, bound at the wrists and gagged with The Ballybalt Bugle, falling on the street and receiving a hoor of a clatter to his head. 

Now fuck off, Tom Phelan adds, ending what becomes known as The Siege of the Tits of Christ, not the shortest of sieges ever laid on Phelan’s. 

But close enough.