I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society

Host: The bar was dim, wooden beams soaked in the scent of old whiskey and wet coats. Outside, rain struck the windows like angry fingers, scattering the neon light of a nearby pub sign across the floorboards. A fireplace crackled lazily, casting amber light on two faces that had seen both hope and disappointment.

Jack sat at the corner, his grey eyes fixed on the foam of his beer, jaw tense, posture slouched but alert. Jeeny sat opposite, hands curled around her cup, eyes reflecting the firelight like liquid chestnut. Between them, the air was thick — not with anger, but with the weight of something real, unspoken, almost sacred.

Host: It was the kind of evening where words carried the gravity of confession, where truths emerged like steam from the cold.

Jeeny: “You always seem… disconnected, Jack. Like you’re watching the world but refusing to feel it.”

Jack: “Feeling doesn’t make the roads safer, Jeeny. Or the beer stronger, or the food cheaper. Or the old folks any warmer in the winter. That’s the only kind of society that matters to me.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a growl, echoing Brendan Behan’s irreverent spirit — the rebel who loved the common people, not their institutions.

Jeeny: “You’re quoting Behan again.”

Jack: “He had it right. Society spends too much time worshiping its own reflection — its laws, its rituals, its morality plays — and forgets the only things that actually matter.”

Jeeny: “You mean comfort, safety, pleasure?”

Jack: “Yes. The bare essentials. What keeps us alive. Not all that decorative nonsense they teach in political speeches or corporate retreats.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and the fire flared. Jeeny’s brow furrowed — her expression softened, but her voice gained an edge.

Jeeny: “You think that’s enough? To make life about warmth and beer? What about art, love, dignity? What about the idea that we can be better than just comfortable animals?”

Jack: “Tell that to someone who’s cold and hungry. You can’t paint a sunrise for a man who’s got no roof. You can’t talk about dignity when he’s got no food to chew.”

Host: The firelight trembled on Jack’s face, outlining the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the weariness beneath his eyes.

Jeeny: “But that’s not all there is. If you strip away everything beyond survival, you take away the soul of the world. Look at Gandhi — he fought not just for bread but for freedom, for truth. He said, ‘There’s more to life than increasing its speed.’ Don’t you think Behan’s kind of irreverence risks losing that?”

Jack: “Gandhi also starved. I’m not saying principles don’t matter, Jeeny, I’m saying they come second. I’ve seen people die waiting for freedom, when what they really needed was medicine and a hot meal.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes shimmering with something fierce, her fingers trembling slightly around her cup.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it freedom that makes the soup taste right? Isn’t it hope that gives us the will to keep eating? Behan mocked society, yes, but he never mocked the heart of the people. He wanted them to be alive, not just surviving.”

Jack: “You romanticize it. You think there’s virtue in suffering. I don’t. I think people should drink their beer, laugh with their friends, and not be told by some bureaucrat how to do it. That’s freedom to me.”

Host: A silence settled, broken only by the patter of rain and the slow heartbeat of the fire. Jack’s hand tightened around his glass.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up on the idea of change.”

Jack: “Not change. Just on the illusion that society’s ever going to get it right. Every generation thinks it’s the first to invent morality, but in the end, all we want is the same — a warm room, a cold drink, a little joy before the dark.”

Host: Jeeny’s expression softened — sadness, perhaps, or compassion. The lines of her face caught the firelight, fragile but determined.

Jeeny: “You speak like someone who’s been disappointed.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe I’ve just seen too many promises broken. Too many revolutions that turned into new forms of control. Every ‘better world’ just builds a new kind of cage.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live in apathy than hope?”

Jack: “I’d rather live in truth. And the truth is, people don’t need ideals. They need comfort. The idealists come later — when someone else has built the roads.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a spark across the floor, a brief flash like a heartbeat of light between two souls too far apart to touch but too close to deny.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man afraid of disappointment. So you settle for comfort.”

Jack: “And you sound like someone afraid of the ordinary. So you chase meaning like it’s a religion.”

Host: The words landed heavy, like stones dropped into still water. The air shifted — the anger between them was no longer cold, but burning, human, almost intimate.

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Because the ordinary kills me. The idea that we’re just meant to eat, sleep, and die a little warmer each year — it’s unbearable.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s your expectations that kill you, not the ordinary.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it’s your fear that keeps you numb. You hide behind Behan’s cynicism like it’s armor. But he wasn’t cold, Jack — he was furious at how little we ask of life. He wanted a world where people laughed, yes — but also one where they mattered.”

Host: The firelight caught the wetness in her eyes. Jack’s face softened for the first time. The silence between them shifted again — from battle to confession.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? My old man used to say almost the same thing. He worked in a factory all his life. Came home every night smelling of oil and metal. Never once complained. He’d say, ‘If the roads are safe and the beer’s cold, I’m happy.’ When he died, the whole town came to his funeral. They said he was a good man. That’s the kind of happiness Behan meant. Honest. Earned.”

Jeeny: “And I respect that. Truly. But don’t you see? That’s not cynicism, Jack. That’s love. That’s what Behan meant — not to worship systems, but to care about people in the simplest, truest ways.”

Host: Jack’s lips curved, not quite into a smile, but something near it — an admission, a quiet surrender.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe all this talk of warmth and beer isn’t about giving up — maybe it’s about protecting what’s left of the human heart.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To love the small things fiercely — that’s not irreverence, it’s rebellion. It’s saying: even if the world collapses, we’ll keep each other warm.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased. The window glass shimmered with the faint reflection of a streetlamp flickering like a tired soul. Inside, the fire burned low, steady and golden.

Jack: “So maybe Behan wasn’t mocking society after all. Maybe he was mocking everything that forgot the people in it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be irreverent toward power is to be reverent toward kindness.”

Host: The firelight dimmed into embers, painting the walls in soft, breathing shadows. Jack leaned back, his eyes no longer made of steel but of something tender, almost hopeful.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. You win this one.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We both do.”

Host: Outside, the storm was gone. The streets glistened, empty and quiet. Inside, two voices lingered in the warmth, surrounded by the echo of laughter from a forgotten poet, and the quiet truth that sometimes, the most rebellious thing in the world — is to still care.