Ryle’s off with his RTÉ mates, roysh, knocking back glasses of – I kid you not – white wine, and me and the goys are just sitting there, roysh, saying how much the dude has changed. An hour into the evening, roysh, he finally decides to focking grace us with his company and the first thing he says is, ‘What the fock did you goys do to my cousin?’
Oisinn goes, ‘Hey, some of us went to Israel and managed not to come back as religious freaks,’ which I actually think is a bit out of order, roysh, because it’s only, like, God he’s into. Ryle goes, ‘But a priest?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘Yeah, we’re still trying to work out what the angle is. I suppose the wedge is decent enough. Free cor. Free rent,’ and of course I bring half of focking Kiely’s to a standstill by going, ‘Maybe it’s, like, genuine?’
Ryle’s like, ‘Explain,’ and I’m there, ‘I’m just saying, that’s all. Maybe the dude found God,’ and Oisinn straight away, roysh, goes, ‘Well, his kicking must have improved then because he couldn’t find the focking touchline when he played for us,’ which is horseshit, roysh, because the dude was an unbelievable fullback, but it’s a decent line, roysh, and well worth a high-five.
Ryle sort of, like, waves his empty glass at me, hinting, I suppose, that he wants another, but I’m focked if I’m asking the borman for the shit he’s drinking. I have a rep in this joint.
He looks at Oisinn and goes, ‘Well, personally, I think he’s flipped his lid. I mean take a look at this,’ and he shows us this, like, text message. Actually, it’s an unbelievable phone – he must be on some focking wedge. Anyway, roysh, apparently he texted JP earlier and asked did he fancy coming out tonight for a few scoops – scoops obviously being a focking joke in Ryle’s case – and what he got back was: Be careful that your heart is not weighed down with dissipation, drunkenness and the anxieties of life, for that day will close on you unexpectedly like a trap. Luke 21:34. I mean, what can we do when Ryle shows it to us, roysh, only shake our heads. No one can say that kind of shit is roysh.
Oisinn asks me to come up to the bor with him and, like, help him carry his round back, and I guess it’s because he wants a word on the QT. When we’re up there, roysh, he gets the round in and I notice that his orm is burned. I ask him what the Jackanory is and he says there was another explosion in his old man’s shed last week, roysh, he mixed two or three things in the wrong doses – Tonka bean, persimmon and Gaiac wood were mentioned – stuck a flame under it and ended up stripping two layers of skin off his orm.
‘But,’ he goes, ‘that’s what I wanted to tell you. The good news is, it’s finished,’ and I’m there, ‘The Eau d’Affluence?’ and he’s like, ‘They’re paying me a million sheets for it, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘Who?’ and he goes, ‘Hugo Boss. I told you a year ago they were interested in buying it from me,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, but I thought that was in the same way that Christian is writing the next three Star Wars movies and I’m going to be Ireland’s next number ten,’ in other words, total BS.
He goes, ‘No, I’ve been sending samples over to New York as I’ve gone along. Anyway, they’ve sent over one of their reps,’ and I sort of, like, raise my eyebrows, and he goes, ‘Giselle Lewisohn. We’re talking hot here, Ross. The spit of Rachel Bilson. Manhattanite. Trouser suit. Lips that could suck a focking snooker ball up twenty metres of Wavin pipe,’ and I can’t help myself, roysh, I end up going, ‘Cool.’
But Oisinn’s not a happy camper. He goes, ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You can wipe that look off your face, Ross. She’s coming here, as in tonight, as in any minute now and I want you on your best behaviour.’
I’m there, ‘Why the fock would you bring her here?’ and he goes, ‘She sort of, like, invited herself. Asked me what I was doing tonight, then said she’d come along too, have a drink, celebrate doing business. But she doesn’t take shit, this bird. She’s going back to New York to get the contracts drawn up. I don’t want you ruining it by trying to cop off with her by commenting on her top tens.’
I’m actually a bit insulted. I’m there, ‘I’m actually a bit insulted, Oisinn. How come none of the other goys are getting this lecture?’ and he goes, ‘Do you want me to remind you of your previous in this area?’ and I’m like, ‘No need. Message understood,’ and he goes, ‘Cool. I mean, I can’t promise I’m not going to make a move on her myself.’
We come back with the drinks and Ryle looks pretty pissed off that there isn’t one for him. He can ask focking George Hamilton or Wardy to get one in for him, if that’s what he’s into. He asks Oisinn what happened to his orm and Oisinn tells him about the explosion, then goes, ‘A million sheets buys a hell of a lot of plastic surgery,’ and Christian goes, ‘You could actually get a mechanical one for that,’ and as usual, roysh, it’s a real, like, conversation-stopper. Everyone just, like, looks at him and he goes, ‘Luke Skywalker got one, 2–1B fitted it,’ and we all go, ‘Oh, yeah, roysh,’ because he’s the last goy in the world whose feelings you’d want to hurt.
The next thing, roysh, who arrives over to us only JP’s old man and fair focks to him, roysh, there’s a lounge bird behind him carrying a tray of drinks with a full round on it, even one for Ryle, who I suppose is his nephew. He goes, ‘Hello there, chaps. No sign of himself tonight, no?’ and I’m there, ‘He said he was staying in to do some reading and, like, meditation,’ and he’s like, ‘Meditation? Yeah, I’d one myself before I left the house, but it’s done nothing to lessen my drive,’ and his eyes sort of, like, sweep the old battle-cruiser and fix on this bird who’s just walked in the door and I know straight away from Oisinn’s description that it’s this Giselle bird. And you can imagine Oisinn’s face, roysh, when the goy turns around and shouts at her, ‘Whoa! Sit on my face and I’ll guess your weight!’ as she’s looking around, trying to pick Oisinn out.
He ducks out of the way, roysh, because obviously he doesn’t want her knowing that came from his group, and she doesn’t actually see him and she turns left and storts looking around, but Kiely’s is focking rammers tonight and it’s pretty obvious, roysh, that it’s going to take her a few minutes to find us.
JP’s old man goes, ‘Okay, you lot are JP’s friends. I’m going to level with you. I couldn’t give a shit if JP grew a beard, changed his name to Abraham and learned how to fart the chorus from ‘How Great Thou Art’ – as long as it doesn’t cost me money,’ and he all of a sudden spins around in my direction, roysh, and goes, ‘WHAT DO I HATE LOSING?’ and it’s just, like, a natural instinct, roysh, from the days when I worked for him, but I automatically go, ‘M.O.N.E.Y.’ and he’s like, ‘AND WHAT DOES IT SPELL?’ and I’m there, ‘HAPPINESS!’ and he goes, ‘That’s right. But right now, I’m not happy. I’ve lost my number one estate agent and it’s costing me M.O.N.E.Y. – SLEEP!’
Fionn goes, ‘Have you talked to him, told him how much Hook, Lyon and Sinker needs him?’ and he’s like, ‘He said that what we do is unchristian. He said that to make false or exaggerated claims about houses was immoral. Can you believe that? The little shit who christened Tullamore, The Gateway to Dublin, is offering me lessons in morality. I said to him, “You found something you’re good at. It paid for that apartment of yours, God damn it.” Know what he said? “Better to be poor than a liar.” It’s Proverbs 19–22 apparently,’ and I’m just there, like, shaking my head, wondering how anyone could treat their old man like that.
He goes, ‘Okay, kids, the gloves are off. No rules anymore. Dirty is the name of the game. Your friend likes the broads, right?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘Understatement of the century,’ and he goes, ‘That… is his Achilles’ Heel. How’s he going to get around the celibacy thing? Got a lot of strange desires that kid. Takes after his father. Should see some of the things his mother’s found under his bed over the years. She nearly had to phone a priest for him one time.’
Oisinn’s, like, looking around him, and it’s pretty obvious he’s kacking it that something’s going to go wrong and I don’t actually blame him.
I look at JP’s old man and I go, ‘So what are you actually saying?’ and he’s like, ‘What I’m saying is that you guys know a lot of girls. And if you were to, shall we say, put temptation his way, remind him what he’d be missing if he goes through with this crazy idea, then let’s just say that I’d be grateful.’
We all just, like, nod, roysh, but I’m the one who asks the question that’s basically on the tip of our tongues. I’m like, ‘How grateful?’ and he, like, stares me straight in the eye and goes, ‘Ten thousand euro worth of grateful,’ and we’re all like, ‘Ten focking Ks?’
He goes, ‘Tomorrow is the first of June. He starts in Maynooth the first week in October. You’ve got four months to stop this madness once and for all,’ and just as he says it, roysh, this Giselle bird arrives over to us and I can see Oisinn, like, shaking her hand and just as he’s turning around to introduce her to us, JP’s old man looks at her and goes, ‘You’ve got eyes like spanners,’ and she’s sharp this bird, she cops straight away that the goy’s leering at her, and she’s like, ‘I beg your pardon,’ because, like Oisinn said, roysh, she’s an actual septic.
There’s, like, total silence, roysh, and you could actually cut the tension with a knife and JP’s old man goes, ‘I said you’ve got eyes like spanners… every time I look at them, my nuts tighten.’
*
I’m in Café en Seine with Sorcha, roysh, having a bit of nosebag, sick to death as I am with the old room service in the Berkeley Court, when all of a sudden she jumps up, roysh, and says she’s going to ask the borman to stick the old Savalas on, what with the old man being on the ‘Six-One News’, some shite they’re doing about the independents running in the local election. I tell Sorcha we really should be hitting the road, but the next thing I know it’s on, roysh, and up comes his ugly focking mug on the screen.
She goes,‘Oh my God! I can’t believe it’s your dad. You must be, like, SO proud,’ and I’m looking at him, roysh, and he’s standing outside the Dorsh station in Dalkey, handing out leaflets, but only to people who look like they earn more than 50K a year. Then his stupid voice fills the place. He’s going, ‘Yes, I am an independent, but only because my policies are too broad and too… multifarious, quote-unquote, to cram into a short party title. If I did have to come up with a party name it would probably be something like, The Everyone Just Stop Dragging Up The Past With All These Tribunals And So Forth And Enough Of This Smoking Ban Nonsense And Fifteen Cents For A Plastic Bag Come On Get Real… Party. And that doesn’t stand for anything before you try to work it out, Mr Charlie Bird, investigative reporter at large.’
It’s, like, five minutes before the interviewer gets a question in. She’s like, ‘One of the central planks of your campaign is that we should draw a line under the various political and financial scandals of the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s…’ and the old man goes, ‘Yes and wind up these so-called tribunals. I think people are tired of answers and questions and questions and answers, who did this, who did that – who cares? Do you remember the seventies and eighties? Ireland was a miserable place to be, what with your recessions and what-not. People did what they had to do to stop from going under. Some of them salted a little bit of money away for a rainy day… in the Seychelles. Some of them forgot to tell my good friends in the Revenue Commissioners about the odd cheque. But we all survived, didn’t we?’
And that’s it. That’s his focking message. Sorcha goes, ‘Well, I can’t say I agree with everything he said and I’m disappointed that the environment didn’t figure as an issue, but he’s certainly given me a few things to think about,’ but the bloke behind me hits the nail bang on the head when he goes, ‘Wanker.’
Me and Fionn are in the bor in the Berkeley Court going through a stack of old Mount Anville, Loreto Foxrock, Holy Child Killiney, Alexandra College and Loreto on the Green yearbooks, racking our brains, trying to come up with someone who JP has been basically dying to score all his life. I’m there, ‘What about Emma Harms?’ and Fionn’s like, ‘Now there’s a name from the past,’ and I go, ‘Remember he started playing focking badminton on Tuesday and Thursday nights just to see her?’ and Fionn’s there, ‘One small problem. I’m pretty sure the family moved to Canada,’ and I’m there, ‘Shame.’
I go, ‘What about the girl two rows behind her. He had a thing for her as well,’ and Fionn’s there, ‘Maria Twigger,’ and I’m there, ‘Twigger! Played hockey. Made the Leinster team. Didn’t JP ask her to the debs?’ and Fionn goes, ‘Yeah and she’d no interest. Anyway, from what I hear she’s all loved-up these days.’ Maria was a total honey, like a young Nicola Roberts. I’m there, ‘All loved-up, huh? Lucky goy,’ and Fionn goes, ‘Girl,’ and suddenly, roysh, a lot of shit falls into place. Me and Fionn just look at each other and at the same time go, ‘Hockey!’
I throw down Loreto Foxrock and pick up a book of Mounties. Fionn says we’re like two cattle farmers looking through the herd register and I crack my hole laughing. It has to be said, roysh, me and Fionn have put the past behind us and we’re getting on like a house on fire, which is how it should be with mates. Underneath it all, roysh, I think he respects me for being an unbelievable rugby player and for pulling the birds like Enrique Iglesias and I respect him for being into, I don’t know, reading and writing and shit.
He nods at the borman and orders two more pints of Ken. I go, ‘Fionn, can I say something to you?’ and he’s like, ‘If it’s about my diary, forget it. You don’t have to apologize,’ and I’m there, ‘Of all the shitty things I’ve done in my life, I think that has to be the worst,’ and he goes, ‘It’s all worked out for the best. Sorcha’s fine about it now. And I’d never have had the confidence to put my poetry out there myself – now there’s three different publishers interested in publishing my work. And before you ask, Ross, no, that doesn’t entitle you to half my advance,’ and it’s like the goy’s a focking mind-reader.
I go, ‘But I’m glad we’re, you know… I’m trying not to sound like a steamer here,’ and he’s there, ‘Ross, we’re not so dissimilar, you and I. For storters, we both love the same girl. We both see the same qualities in her. I think that makes us alroysh, don’t you?’ and I go, ‘Yeah… okay, what about Medb Allen-Clark?’ and he’s like, ‘As in the Mountie? Hmmm. JP was mad about her, but as I remember it, she was in love with you,’ and I hold up my hand and go, ‘Guilty as charged,’ hoping that didn’t make me sound like a total Allied Irish Banker.
He goes, ‘I’ve got Sarah Glenny. Holy Child,’ and I’m there, ‘Clarinet Sarah?’ and he goes, ‘Oboe. He was with her the night of the Junior Cert results.’ I look at the picture. Doesn’t ring any bells, but that night’s a blur. I’m there, ‘She looks a bit like Sienna Miller,’ and Fionn goes, ‘He was with her again a couple of years ago in Annabel’s, but she had a boyfriend at the time. A Michael’s boy,’ and I’m there, ‘Wanker,’ and he goes, ‘Agreed. I think our JP still carries a torch for her, though. I think Sarah’s our girl.’
But there’s, like, something not quite roysh about this. Getting involved in this kind of shit isn’t Fionn’s style, roysh, he’s usually, like, the sensible one. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I go, ‘but why are you doing this?’ He stops flicking through the Alex yearbook for 1999 and goes, ‘Because I’ve a cousin who thought she’d been called. Eighteen years of age and she decided she wanted to be a nun. A year later she walked out of the convent. Went out with her old friends one night and realized the life she’d been missing.’
I actually know the cousin he’s talking about – her name’s Alison – and though I’ve never told him this, roysh, and not wanting to sound bigheaded or anything, I was the one who actually turned her around. She was one of those edge-of-the-bed plastic surgeons, roysh, who sat there for half-an-hour, roysh, agonizing, if that’s the word, over what she was about to do, kept blabbering on about ‘sins of the flesh’ and I was like, ‘Make your mind up, Babes. It’s me, or God,’ and, well, it was basically a walkover after that.
Fionn’s there, ‘I just want to know that JP’s sure about what he’s about to do. Alison thought she was sure. Then she gave it all up, apparently after one night with some idiot who didn’t want to know her afterwards,’ and I’m there thinking, No comment. He goes, ‘JP’s always been a bit spiritual, certainly more spiritual than the rest of us, which I suppose wouldn’t be hard. Like all those gospel songs he knows. I’ve no doubt he thinks that something happened to him in Israel. I think it would be remiss of us, as his friends, not to make sure he knows what he’s doing.’
Then he goes, ‘So why are you doing it?’ and I’m like, ‘The money.’
I really don’t know why I’m so nice to my old pair sometimes, what with them being orseholes and everything, but you have to make the effort, because they are my parents, which means they’re basically, like, family. And it was in that basic spirit, roysh, that I pointed the old Golf GTI in the direction of Foxrock to check if the fockers were still alive, or was I going to have my inheritance – ker-ching! – coming to me sooner than I thought.
They were still alive, worst luck, although they might as well not have been for all the attention they gave me. The two of them were in the study – we’re talking major borfarama here – sitting together, working on their stupid focking campaigns.
The old man goes, ‘You’ll have to forgive me if we seem a bit distracted tonight, Kicker. The local elections are only ten days away and I’ve decided to make these new bin charges a central plank of my campaign. I expect you’ve heard they’re now proposing to charge for refuse collection by the weight rather than the bag. Now you can wipe that worried look off your face right now, Ross, because I’m going to get myself elected and then I’m going to make sure it never happens.’
I go, ‘Sorry, this affects me how?’ but he just goes, ‘Sleep easy in your bed and tell young Sorcha the same. I’m going to make a speech at this protest meeting tonight that’ll send shivers through the body politic. Remember that book of Churchill’s greatest speeches that Hennessy bought me when I decided to run for public office?’ and I just look at him, roysh, as if to say, you are some knob. He goes, ‘Well, it’s been an inspiration. Hitler charged for refuse collection by the weight as well, did you know that?’ The old dear looks at him over the top of her glasses and then he goes, ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure if that’s true, but it’s the kind of thing he would have done.’
The old dear – the stupid wagon – goes, ‘Charles, will you pass me a sheet of your good writing paper, darling?’ and I go, ‘Oh, it speaks,’ which she ignores, roysh, and goes, ‘How’s Sorcha?’ and I’m like, ‘How’s Sorcha? Not, how am I? I could have been dead in that hotel for the last week for all you two would have known,’ and without looking up, roysh, she goes, ‘I’m sure Sorcha would have mentioned it to us if you were dead, Ross…’ and her voice sort of, like, trails off.
There’s no mention of that calendar, roysh, so I presume they took one look at her with her kit off, saw what a hound she was and went, ‘We can’t put that out – people will think we’re ripping the piss.’
I go, ‘What are you working on anyway, you stupid cow?’ and she goes, ‘Something for Angela,’ who’s her friend from, like, Sandymount. I’m there, ‘Funderland? I hope they bring ten focking big wheels with them this year. Bring even more scum to the area.’
The old man goes, ‘It’s not Funderland that’s occupying your mother’s astute political mind right now, Ross. It’s this new campaign of hers to have Ringsend designated Dublin 4E,’ and she’s like, ‘Not that your father’s been any help,’ and he’s there, ‘Afraid it’s outside my remit, darling. I’m as anti-Ringsend as the next man, but it comes under the auspices of the City Council. I’m running for Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council, remember?’
She goes, ‘But you can’t agree with what’s happening, Charles. These are some of the most desperately poor people in our society. The fallen. Many of them won’t work. They claim multiple social welfare benefits under various… aliases, I believe they’re called by the criminal classes. And yet they’re entitled to say that these little Lego houses they bought for nothing are in Dublin 4. Is it any wonder Angela’s upset?’ and the old man goes, ‘It’s an injustice, there’s no doubt about that. Dublin 4 – the very idea of it! Of course, when the floods come, it’s béal bocht time: “Help us out, Bertie. We didn’t have any home insurance because we spent all our money on stone-cladding and these fearful Lucky Streak lottery tickets,” quote-unquote.’
The old dear’s like, ‘And yet when they sell these little… hovels, they call them D4. Charles, they have to be stopped,’ and the old man’s there, ‘I’m all for redesignation, darling. Dublin 4E sounds good to me. I’m no friend of Ringsend. You mentioned the floods, I think you’ll recall that I went on the record at the time describing them as not an act of God but rather the wrath of God. A couple of thousand years ago, Our Friend would have sent locusts and what-not to deal with these people. The exact words I used in the letter which, if you’ll remember correctly, The Irish Times declined to publish.’
She’s there, ‘I still think there’s something you could be doing, as part of your campaign,’ and the old man turns to me and he goes, ‘Wonderful tension, eh Ross? Like all the great political marriages. Teddy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Bill and Hillary Clinton… not that you’d compare me to that… moral eunuch. Oral sex and what-not. I said it to Hennessy this morning, it might happen in the Oval Office, I said, but I’m happy to report that the hallowed halls of Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council shall be free from such moral depravity if I’m elected. And I don’t think I’d be far wrong in saying that Clinton charged for refuse collection by the weight, too.’
The old dear goes, ‘Oh, Ross, I forgot to say, Anita Roddick has agreed to write the foreword. I phoned Sorcha this morning and she’s thrilled,’ and I’m there, ‘What foreword? What are you bullshitting on about?’ and she’s like, ‘For the calendar, of course. I doubt she knows much about these Ringsend people.’
I’m there, ‘Get this through your thick skull – you will NOT be appearing in any focking calendar. Unless it’s one for the dogs’ and cats’ home,’ and she goes, ‘Oh, I’m so excited about seeing the pictures. Sally rubbed this oil into my body so it made it look–’ and I’m like, ‘That’s it, I am SO focking out of here.’
I’ve loved a lot of birds in my time, roysh, but I’ve never met one I understood. Get this, roysh, there I am in Sorcha’s gaff the other night and we’re, like, watching a flick, we’re talking Cool Hand Luke, when all of a sudden Sorcha storts going on about what an OH! MY! GOD! total babe Paul Newman is. She’s giving it, ‘He’s the kind of goy who, if I ever got a chance to be with him, I’d expect you to understand if I couldn’t resist,’ and not being the jealous type, roysh, I’m there, you know, ‘Whatever!’
But she doesn’t leave it at that, roysh. She thinks it would be SUCH a cool idea to each write out a list of the people we’d be allowed to basically score if we found ourselves in that position. I mean, she actually gives me a pen and a piece of paper and she’s going, ‘Come on, Ross. We’ll both write out our wishlists,’ and like a fool, I go along with it, in the spirit of things, of course.
So anyway, roysh, fifteen minutes later, she hands me her piece of paper and it’s, like, the usual, we’re talking Aidan Quinn, we’re talking Brad Pitt (underlined), we’re talking Matt Damon, we’re talking Gabriel Byrne, we’re talking George Clooney. Of course, I’m like, ‘Kool and the Gang,’ and I stort looking around for the remote, roysh, thinking of lashing on ‘Big Brother’, see if that bird’s getting her top tens out again tonight. That’s when I suddenly become aware of the fact that Sorcha’s, like, staring at me, or glaring is more like it, giving me daggers basically.
She’s looking down at my list, roysh, then she looks up at me and goes, ‘These are all people we know, Ross,’ and of course I see the signs, roysh, we’re talking red alert here. I’m there, ‘You said it was a bit of fun,’ but she’s going, ‘Sophie. Emma. Antoinette. Leanne. Zoey. Ali,’ basically reading them out, roysh, trying to make me feel, I don’t know, ashamed I suppose. She’s like, ‘Erika? How could you write her down after all that happened? Aoife? Ross, she’s one of my best friends. I’ve just given her a job in the shop… Who’s Clíona?’ and I’m like, ‘Er, Aoife’s old dear?’ and she looks at me, roysh, like I’m vom on her new Jimmy Choos.
She goes, ‘I meant, like, famous people we’d no chance of ever being with. Not… hang on. You’ve got about thirty names down here,’ and of course I’m kacking myself in case she whips the page over and sees I’ve storted on the other side as well. Erika’s old dear is actually on the other side.
Either I’ve obviously misunderstood the rules of the game, roysh, or she’s got a starring role in a period costume drama at the moment, or maybe it’s a bit of both. What I do know is that there’s no talking to her when she’s like this, so I’m pretty much moonwalking out the door at that stage, telling her that I’ll give her a bell when she’s not in a position to actually legally kill me.
I’m on the Stillorgan dualler, roysh, stuck behind some tool who’s doing, like, thirty in the inside lane in this, like, Ford Primera, which has, like, a loudspeaker on top, roysh, and it’s only after driving behind him for, like, five minutes that I cop that it’s actually Knob Features and Hennessy and they’re, like, canvassing. It’s actually Hennessy who has the wheel and the old man’s, like, talking into the mouthpiece, going, Tor too long the wealth-generating classes, of which I am a proud member, have been made to feel guilt for what happened in the past. A vote for Charles O’Carroll-Kelly is a vote for an end to all that.’
He’s going, ‘Ireland in the seventies and eighties was, inverted commas, the Albania of Western Europe. No one had any money. The sun never shone. Young people emigrated by the planeload. Despite the Depression, despite crippling taxes and an infrastructure that made us the laughing-stock of the world, some of us refused to give up on this country. I’m talking about captains of industry, such as myself and my good friend Hennessy here, whose willingness to tough out the recession, to take a punt on good old Ireland, brought about the economic miracle that is the Celtic Tiger, quote-unquote.’
He’s there, ‘I make no bones about it. I played a part in the birth of this beautiful animal. I’m not saying I’m its father, but I was certainly one of those who provided the… sperm. I think that’s an analogy best not teased out, Hennessy. Suffice it to say, I played my part, as did many of you, enjoying your beautiful homes along this wonderful stretch of dual carriageway. Did we ask for anything in return? No. We asked for nothing. Although I wouldn’t turn down a doctorate if anyone from Trinity College is listening. I know Sir Anthony has one. Michael, too.’
Then he goes, ‘When economists were writing-off this country, some of us stuck it out. And our reward? To be hauled before these wretched tribunals. Where did that forty thousand come from? Where did that fifty thousand go? How many times did you visit the Caymans in 1984? That’s what people like Hennessy and I have had to listen to. Our reward for believing in this wonderful country, for being clever and resourceful, for sticking around to pay exorbitant taxes, or at least some of them, for pulling this nation of ours up from its knees, is to be treated like common criminals. Senator Joe McCarthy, how are you!’
He’s giving it, ‘I’ve a message here today for you, Bertie. And I know you know me, Bertie. I’ve been bunging Fianna Fáil money for years. And my message is this – NO MORE! No more sacrificial lambs. No more Ray Burkes! No more Liam Lawlors! No more Michael Lowrys! Good men. Honest men. Hounded. Let’s stop the hounding! A vote for Charles O’Carroll-Kelly is a vote to stop the hounding!’
I go roysh up behind him and just, like, rear-end the focker with my bumper. He goes, ‘Refuse collection is a topic I’m sure is dear to many of your–’ and then he’s like, ‘Oh, good Lord… good Lord, Hennessy, we’re under attack. They’re trying to silence us. They want us dead…’
Sorcha doesn’t even ring, roysh, just shows up at the hotel, I suppose you’d have to say unannounced, and, like, knocks on my door. And of course my face drops, not because I’m not pleased to see her but because, roysh, I’m just hoping she’s not here for a bit of the other. I’d a Hand Solo this afternoon and another one, like, fifteen minutes ago and now I’m totally wankrupt.
I’m there, ‘Hey, Babes,’ and she goes, ‘Greystones,’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry, have I missed a few lines of this conversation?’ She’s like, ‘There’s new houses being built in Greystones,’ and she hands me this, like, prospectus, which is a word before you look it up and I know, roysh, because I worked in the property game.
I go, ‘I’m not living in Greystones,’ and she’s like, ‘What’s wrong with Greystones?’ and I’m there, ‘It’s in Wicklow,’ and she goes, ‘Only just,’ and I’m like, ‘Which makes it Bogsville in my eyes.’
She’s like, ‘It’s hordly Bogsville, Ross. It’s, like, one of the most beautiful villages in Ireland. The beach and the horbour are amazing. And it’s, like, still in the 01 area. And Chloë and Steve have bought one of these places,’ we’re talking Chloë as in her friend Chloë. She goes, ‘They only got, like, one of the townhouses, but we could afford one of the four-beds. Oh my God, Ross, are you even listening to me?’
I’m there, ‘No, because Greystones is, I don’t know, too far away,’ and she’s like, ‘Too far away from where exactly? You don’t work,’ which may or may not be a subtle dig. I’m there, ‘I’m thinking of you, believe it or not. How are you going to get from there to Grafton Street every morning?’ and she’s like, ‘HELLO? If I get up at five o’clock, I can beat the traffic,’ and I’m there, ‘I don’t know, Sorcha. I was thinking more towards the Blackrock end of things. See, I’ve always been regarded as a Southside goy,’ but then she just, like, puts her hand on my knee, roysh, and storts sort of, like, massaging the inside of my leg, going, ‘Please, Ross. For me. Let’s just have a look.’
I’m there, ‘Er, I don’t know, Sorcha,’ and she carries on, going, ‘Please. I’ll be very nice to you,’ but of course I’m sitting here with an empty Luger, roysh, and you never walk into a gunfight with nothing in the clip. So I jump up, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Yeah, okay, let’s do it,’ and she’s like, ‘Whoa! Why the sudden change of hort?’ and I go, ‘Just that stuff you said about the 01 numbers. Sounds great. And if Chloë and Steve are living there… come on, let’s have a look.’
She’s like, ‘I’ll make an appointment tomorrow,’ and I can tell from the way she’s looking at me, roysh, that she’s gagging for it. I’m there, ‘No, let’s go now,’ and she goes, ‘HELLO? It’s eleven o’clock at night?’ and I’m like, ‘Well, we can see how they look in the dork.’
*
The night of the election count, me and the goys had it all planned, roysh, to meet for a few scoops in the Horse Show House, then all bail over to the RDS to see Dick Features – the CO’CK of Foxrock – get totally humiliated. But we ended up having one or two more than we originally planned, roysh, and by the time we got there the count had actually finished and I couldn’t focking believe what I was seeing – we’re talking the old man, roysh, being carried around shoulder-high, actually carried around by Hennessy and a bunch of tools he plays golf with, and at the top of his voice, roysh, he’s going, ‘THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN! THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN!’
I’m there, ‘What’s going down?’ and Fionn’s like, ‘It appears your father has topped the poll,’ and, slow as ever on the uptake, I end up going, ‘Is that a good thing?’ and Fionn’s there, ‘I expect it’s going to be very interesting finding out. For better or for worse, though, your father has just been elected to Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council.’
The dickhead climbs up onto the stage, roysh, where – I don’t believe it – he’s actually going to make a speech. The whole place falls silent. Someone – could be Hennessy – shouts, ‘Keep it short, Charles,’ and there’s all this, like, laughter, then the old man goes, ‘Keep it short, Councillor,’ and the whole place goes ballistic, everyone, like, clapping and cheering and shit?
He goes, ‘And just to forewarn you – I won’t be keeping it short. For today I’ve been given a mandate to speak. I’ve been given a mandate to speak on behalf of a section of our society who have, until this moment, remained mute. Those who – like my old friend Raphael P. – believe it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I want to send a message out – and I want to send it out loud and clear – to Mister Bertie Ahern, who was once proud to sit in Cabinet with our old friend. That message is simple: we’ve had enough of your inquiries!’ and there’s all this, like, applause and shouting.
He goes, ‘Where did you get this cheque? Where did you get that cheque? Let’s just remember one thing. We created the wealth in this country. We are the brains behind the Celtic Tiger. And yet for nigh-on years now, we’ve been subjected to this… McCarthyite, quote-unquote, witch-hunt.’
He’s there, ‘My own campaign manager has suffered. Hennessy, my loyal friend despite losing quite a lot of money to me on the golf course over the years, had his name dragged through the mud. An innocent man, forced to flee to Rio de Janeiro to escape the Star Chamber down at Dublin Castle. If you can’t hold bank accounts under twenty-eight different names in seventeen different countries, then somebody go and wake up Mr A. Hitler Esquire and tell him they’ve reversed the result of 1945 after consultation with the video referee.’
I look at the goys, roysh, but they’re all like me, just standing there with their mouths open. He’s there, ‘Our preoccupation with these tribunals, quote-unquote, is distracting us from the real issues. For the poor, the unemployed, the disenfranchised, I have a message for you today and that message is: GET LOST! You’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame, oh you were good, we all enjoyed you, but you’re last year’s thing.’
He goes, ‘I have a great many plans, some of which I’ve already discussed at length with the people who matter – the voters on the doorsteps. In office, I intend to put forward proposals to demolish two thousand local authority dwellings in the Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown area and move the people out to new townships in Dublin 24. The land – prime with a capital P – will be sold to private developers and the money used to fund a much-needed marina in Dun Laoghaire harbour.’
My phone beeps and it’s, like, a text message from Ronan. It’s like, Ur old mans a tool and I send him one back and it’s like, Hau sum rspct, tht wankers ur grndfther and he’s like, I no, dont tel nel and I’m cracking my hole laughing at that.
The old man’s using his moment in the spotlight to bring up every little thing that’s ever pissed him off in his entire life. He mentions the time that someone porked across the driveway of the gaff, blocking him in, and how he ended up arriving late to Portmornock on the day he could have won the Captain’s Prize. He mentions the time the old dear was dumped as chairperson of the Foxrock Combined Residents Association and the time a sub-editor spelt my name wrong in a photo caption in The Irish Times. He even has a word for the way the IRFU treated Gatty.
Then he goes, Tor the management of the RDS, thank you for affording me this platform today. But there the niceties end. You know me well and you know the way my wife and I feel about your wretched funfair – this so-called Funderland – an abomination, bringing trainloads of, pardon my French, riff-raff into this area. Outside the jurisdiction of Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council you might be, but MARK MY WORDS, I will continue to be a thorn in your side.’
Then he’s there, ‘And lastly, to you, Bertie. I know you’re watching. You will find me a formidable adversary. And you can cap up every one of those letters. The F, the O, the R and so forth. We’ve already crossed swords once, when you tried to lead Irish rugby out to some working-class wasteland. I beat you then. Keep It South Side. That was my simple message. Well? Where’s your stadium now, Mister Dis, Dat, Dees and Dohs?’
Everyone claps, roysh, but the old man silences them with, like, a sweep of his hand. He goes, ‘Bertie and I still have outstanding business. He has taken away my right to carry my shopping to my car in a plastic bag provided free of charge by the supermarket. And he has taken away my right to enjoy a cigar with a well-earned brandy in Fitz-william at the end of a hard week. Bertie, this is one councillor telling you that you’ve got one hell of a fight on your hands. Quote-unquote.’
The whole place just erupts. The goys are in total awe. Oisínn’s the only one who can get a word out. He goes, ‘God help us all!’
Must be pretty much a year since I’ve seen Aoife and I don’t know what she was doing in the hospital, roysh, but she actually doesn’t look much better. She’s supposed to be eating again, but I don’t see it, roysh, though she is in cracking form, going way OTT with the air-kisses and the hugs and the Oh My God!s when I call into the shop.
I’m there, ‘Is Sorcha around?’ and she goes, ‘Lunch. Anyway, do NOT mention her name to me. I’m saying SO don’t mention it,’ and I’m like, ‘What’s the Jackanory?’ and she goes, ‘I know she’s, like, your wife and everything, but she has SUCH an attitude problem. She is being, like, SUCH a bitch to me today. It’s like, OH MY GOD!’
I’m like, ‘Where’s she gone for lunch?’ and she’s there, ‘She won’t even let me give out staff discounts, Ross. That’s like, HELLO? No, actually, it’s more like, Duuuhhh!’ and I’m there, ‘Should I come back in, like, half-an-hour?’ and she goes, ‘No, she should be back any… here she is now,’ and I spin around and there she is, roysh, looking – I have to say, even though I know she’s basically my wife and everything – but looking amazing. I forget sometimes what a total babe she is.
Sorcha air-kisses me and goes, ‘Heard about your dad. He must be SO pleased,’ and I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t talk to the stupid penis,’ and then she turns around to Aoife and she’s like, ‘Anything happen?’ and Aoife goes, ‘Oh my God, yeah, remember that Coco tube top?’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘What, the polyamide panelled one? I sold it yesterday,’ and Aoife’s there, ‘No, the girl brought it back. Said it didn’t fit. She got a bit snotty when I told her we only did credit notes.’
Sorcha goes, ‘Do you want to go for your lunch now?’ and Aoife’s like, ‘I think I’m going to go to that place that you went to. The chowder is supposed to be OH! MY! GOD! amazing,’ and Sorcha goes, ‘It is. It’s like, Oh my God!’ and Aoife goes, ‘I won’t be long, Sweetie,’ and Sorcha gives her a big smile as she’s going out the door and goes, ‘Take as long as you like, Babes,’ and when she’s gone she’s like, ‘OH! MY! GOD! That girl is being SUCH a bitch today.’
I’m there, ‘She still doesn’t look the Mae West,’ and she goes, ‘She wore that Diane von Furstenburg dress I bought in, as in the red, wine and light blue, rayon-blend one with the ruched cowl-neck?’ and of course I’m like, ‘No way!’ cracking on that I actually give a shit. She goes, ‘She says she didn’t, but I know she did. She wore it to her cousin’s engagement porty and, like, put it back thinking I wouldn’t actually notice. There’s, like, fake tan on the neck. HELLO? I think I know her colour.’
I go, ‘I think I’m going to hit the road,’ and she’s like, ‘Okay, Ross. I booked La Mer Zou for half-eight,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s a big bottle of Kool-Aid from my point of view,’ and as I get to the door of the shop she goes, ‘Chowder! She’ll have what she always has – popcorn and a bottle of water while speed-walking up and down Grafton Street for an hour.’
Sorcha wants to head down to the bor for a quiet one, roysh, though to be honest I’d rather hit the scratcher early with Carol Vorderman’s Ten Steps to a Size Eight, which I borrowed from JP ages ago and which he’s not going to be needing where he’s going. She’s like, ‘Ross, you can’t not celebrate your birthday,’ and she won’t let it go, so I throw on the old Leinster jersey and we head downstairs in the lift.
Of course, I’m slower than a focking ninety-year-old in a Subaru Signet. The reason she was so John B. to get me downstairs was because she’d organized a surprise Russell for my birthday. I should have known when she turned up tonight dressed to the hilt and the hum of Issey Miyake strong enough to drop the Budweiser Clydesdales from fifty yords away.
We walk into the bor and it’s just like, ‘SURPRISE!’ and everyone’s there, roysh – we’re talking Christian and Lauren, we’re talking Oisinn, we’re talking Fionn, we’re talking… actually the rest of them are, like, Sorcha’s friends, as in Erika, Aoife, Claire from Bray, of all places, Sophie, Chloë, Amie with an ie, but fair focks to her for, like, organizing it.
I turn around to her and I go, ‘This is incredible. I don’t know how to thank–’ and then all of a sudden I’m just, like, staring across the other side of the bor and I’m like, ‘Who the FOCK invited them? I can’t focking stand those two,’ and Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, they’re your parents,’ and I’m there, ‘So-called… just make sure they stay out of my way,’ and I turn around and Oisinn hands me a pint of Ken.
There’s no sign of JP and I’m thinking he’s probably copped it’s me who’s been sending him copies of Juggs, Penthouse and Gentleman’s Companion through the post, unanimously of course, if that’s the actual word. I just wanted to remind him what he was missing, soften him up for the old sucker-punch. And then I’m thinking he actually does know it was me, roysh, because two days ago I got, like, a text message from him and it was like, Everything in the world – the crauings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does – comes not from the Father but from the world. John 2:16, which I suppose is his way of saying he’s on my case.
The pints are going down like a bagful of Ag. Science birds. Christian and Oisinn both ask me, roysh, whether I actually guessed what was going on tonight and I said of course I did, roysh, but I just, like, played along with it so as not to hurt Sorcha’s feelings, because obviously I don’t want the goys thinking I’m as thick as a can of tuna, although I suppose they do know me.
‘Storreee?’ I hear it from the other side of the bor. Sorcha goes, ‘Ronan!’ and she runs over to him and pretty much squeezes the life out of him, all four-foot-nothing of him. He’s going, ‘Ah, howiya, Doll, give us a look at ya,’ and he sort of, like, gives her the once-over, roysh, and goes, ‘I swear to God, Sorcha, if I was ten years older, you’d be fighting me off…’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘If you were ten years older, maybe I wouldn’t,’ and then she laughs and goes, ‘Ronan, these are my friends,’ and she sort of, like, waves her hand in the direction of the birds, who all go, ‘Hey, Ronan,’ all except Erika, who’s got this, like, sneering look on her face, roysh, and I know she’s about to say something totally focking awful, roysh, and I’m actually getting ready to jump in between them when Ronan turns around and goes, ‘Erika, yeah?’
All of a sudden, roysh, there’s, like, total silence. She’s like, ‘Er, yeah?’ sort of, like, taken aback a bit. He goes, ‘A face as beautiful as yours, I can understand you being scared to wrinkle it. But, see, if you smiled, you’d probably bring the roof of this hotel down,’ and I swear to God, roysh, it’s true, in the ten years I’ve known Erika, I’ve never actually seen her smile, not properly, not an actual happy smile, none of us has, until that very moment. It takes, like, twenty or thirty seconds, roysh, for the corners of her mouth to go all the way up, but they do, roysh, and it’s un-focking-believable. I swear to God, roysh, there isn’t a person in the battle-cruiser who can’t say she’s the most beautiful-looking bird they’ve ever seen. Ronan goes, ‘There you are, boys, the sun’s up,’ and he turns back to Sorcha, who brings him over to us.
Fionn’s going, ‘I don’t know what I’ve just witnessed. It’s like the Aesop’s fable – about the sun and the wind trying to get the man to take his coat off. Ross, he’s… unbelievable,’ and Christian’s like, ‘I think he could be the one referred to in the prophesy, the one to restore balance to the Force,’ and when he arrives over he goes, ‘What’s the story, Rosser? Happy birthday, man,’ and then he turns around to Fionn and goes, ‘The brains, right?’ and Fionn laughs and goes, ‘That’s me,’ and then he turns to Oisinn and goes, ‘The man who makes all that what-do-you-call-them?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘That’s roysh. I notice you’re a Blue Stratos man,’ and Ronan goes, ‘Ah, man and boy, Oisinn, man and boy,’ and then he turns around to Christian and goes, ‘And you’re the wingman – Christian, right?’ and Christian goes, ‘You got it,’ and Ronan’s there, ‘He takes some looking after, I’m sure. And the lovely Lauren…’
While this is going on, roysh, I notice the old pair have, like, retreated into the far corner, with their backs to us, bullshitting away to Hennessy, who’s just arrived, and I’m thinking, If they don’t want to know him, it’s their loss, and then I look back at Erika and she’s still smiling, roysh, like a dog who’s just discovered a new trick, and all the other birds are just, like, staring at her, going, ‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,’ with the occasional, ‘OH! MY! GOD!’ thrown in for good measure.
Ronan hands me a present. It’s not wrapped, roysh, except in a Champion Sports bag. I open it and – I am not yanking your chain, roysh – it’s an actual focking Celtic jersey, the old skobie tunic, and I turn around to him and I go, ‘I don’t know what to say,’ and he’s there, ‘Get that faggoty rugby one off you. Have a butcher’s at the back,’ and I turn it around, roysh, and he’s actually got the word ROSSER printed above the number six. I’m like, ‘Ronan, it’s… it’s perfect.’
The next thing, roysh, one of the bormen comes over to me and he goes, ‘I’m very sorry, Sir, but we’re not supposed to have children on the premises after…’ and I’m there, ‘He’s not drinking – can he not just…’ and Ronan goes, ‘Can’t stay in anyhow, Rosser. Buckets of Blood’s out in the car. Told him to keep the engine ticking over, I’d only be a minute. I’ll give you a bell,’ and he gives me a wink and gives Sorcha a peck on the cheek and then he’s out the door.
The old pair take this as their cue to, like, rejoin the porty. All of a sudden Knob Features and Hennessy are up at the bor beside me, bullshitting away to each other how these Chinese will work for nothing and Hennessy’s going, ‘Though not literally,’ and the old man’s like, ‘Well, more’s the pity.’
The old dear’s talking – I cannot actually believe this – she’s talking to Oisinn, who’s going, ‘There she is – heard you’re going to be one of those Page Three stunners,’ and sort of, like, laughs, pretending to be embarrassed basically, and goes, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have anything worth looking at,’ and I don’t believe it, roysh, she’s actually trying to flirt with one of my mates and I swear to God, roysh, I think I’m actually going to spew my ring. Of course, Oisinn’s loving it and he’s, like, ripping the piss on a major scale. He’s got, like, his orm around her shoulder and he’s going, ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Mrs O’Carroll-Kelly,’ and she’s sort of, like, giggling away like a schoolgirl and I can’t actually take it anymore and I end up turning around and going, ‘HAVE SOME FOCKING RESPECT FOR YOURSELF, YOU HOUND!’ and then I turn around to the old man and I go, ‘Is there a reason why you’re hanging around like a bad focking smell?’
He’s like, ‘Well, there is actually. Okay, can we have a bit of hush, everyone,’ and he storts, like, tapping his Mont Blanc pen off his brandy glass, making a total tit out of himself and, far more importantly, me. He goes, ‘I shall be brief. Since my election to political office, I have to use my voice a bit more sparingly,’ and Hennessy’s going, ‘Shame! Shame!’ and then Oisinn and Fionn join in, because they know I’m bulling.
He’s like, ‘Well, we all know why we’re here – to celebrate the latest birthday of young Ross there. Fionnuala and I are very grateful that we have such a wonderful relationship with him. Non-stop talking and occasional joshing and so forth. We probably don’t tell him enough that we’re very proud of him. He’s made a wonderful success of his marriage – eventually,’ and there’s a big, like, cheer. He goes, ‘He’s been successful at rugby and… well, lots of other things too, I’m sure. Now, Ross, we do have a little surprise for you, if you’d just like to follow me…’
He actually loves the attention. I follow him out of the bor, through the lobby and out into the cor pork, as does everyone else and… OH MY GOD! I cannot focking believe it, roysh, it’s actually a cor. Not just a cor. We’re talking the BMW Z4 here, as in the one that Pierce Brosnan tore the shit out of in Goldeneye, we’re talking six-speed gearbox, we’re talking speed-sensitive power-steering, we’re talking cornering enhancement, we’re talking sports seats, we’re talking leather steering wheel, we’re talking automatic soft-top.
The old man’s going, ‘Precision-engineering, Kicker…’
I don’t know what to say. We’re all, like, standing around outside the Berkeley Court, roysh, and I’m having basic palpitations looking at it, roysh, going, ‘Th… Th… Th…’ and the old dear turns to Sorcha and goes, ‘What’s happening to him?’ and Sorcha’s there, ‘Oh! My! God! I think he’s actually trying to say thank you.’
I’m like, ‘Tha… Tha… Tha…’ and everyone’s out on the road, roysh, giving it loads, going, ‘Go on, Ross! Go on!’ and I’m looking at the old man and I can feel my throat closing over and I’m like, ‘Than… Than… Than… YOU’RE THE WORLD’S BIGGEST FOCKING TOOL,’ and everyone sort of, like, groans, roysh, like when I missed that last-minute penalty in the Leinster Schools Cup final in 1998, and I sort of, like, collapse into Sorcha’s orms and she’s going, ‘Don’t worry, Babes. You did SO well.’
I look at my old man and I go, ‘You’re a focking dick-head,’ and he’s like, ‘Quite right, Ross.’
Sarah Glenny still looks like Sienna Miller. The bird she’s with looks like Eric Miller, but for ten grand, roysh, I’d be prepared to take a bullet, or at least give the impression that I’d take one. Daphne is its name – a complete and utter ditch-pig, if ever there was one – but I’m there giving it, ‘I definitely know you. I never forget a face. Especially one as pretty as yours,’ and I really don’t know how I live with myself sometimes.
She goes, ‘Have you met my friend, Sarah?’ and she does the introductions, roysh, and Sarah’s there, ‘I already know you,’ and I’m like, ‘How?’ and she goes, ‘OH MY GOD, everybody knows Ross O’Carroll-Kelly,’ and I look at Daphne and she seems to, like, consider this a good thing.
The music in Ron Black’s is blasting. I go, ‘I hope you don’t mind me chatting-up your friend,’ and Sarah goes, ‘Oh my God, no! Hey, you know JP Conroy, don’t you?’ and I’m there, ‘Just so happens he’s one of my best friends,’ and she’s like, ‘OH MY GOD! I kissed him the night of the Junior Cert results. Oh my God, SO embarrassing. And then I did the dirt on my boyfriend with him. How is he?’ I’m there, ‘He’s Kool and the Gang. Single at the moment, as it happens,’ and Sarah goes, ‘Oh MY God! This is, like, SO embarrassing – I don’t even know why I’m telling you – but I used to always say to my mum, “He’s the goy I’m going to marry,” and it’s like, Aaaggghhh!’ and Daphne goes, ‘You actually did always says that. I was always like, Oh my God!’
I stand there listening to this shit for, like, twenty minutes, roysh, tanning the Ken of course because you need a seriously good anaesthetic for these two. Then it gets to the stage where I basically can’t take it anymore so I basically make my pitch. I’m there, ‘I’m actually staying in JP’s tonight,’ which is total bullshit, roysh. I go, ‘Do you two fancy coming back with me for a few drinks. Might be a way for you to get reacquainted, if that’s the roysh word, with the goy you’re going to marry,’ and Sarah sort of, like, flicks her hair, roysh, which she does a lot, and goes, ‘OH MY GOD!’ which she also does a lot, and before they have a chance to finish their vodka and cranberries, the three of us are in a Jo Maxi, pegging it out to JP’s gaff, Sarah in the front constantly going, ‘OH MY GOD! I cannot BELIEVE I’m actually doing this,’ and me in the back with Daphne, who keeps whispering to me that she can’t believe I find her attractive because most goys fancy Sarah and she, like, never gets a look-in. I’m just there, ‘I find that very hord to believe,’ trying to keep a straight face.
JP does NOT look a happy camper when he answers the door. He’s like, ‘Ross, it’s half-one in the morning,’ and I’m there, ‘You need to get a life. Look, I’ve brought you a focking carry-out,’ and I just, like, flick my thumb in Sarah’s direction, just so he knows he’s not getting the dud. Daphne, it turns out, is even worse in the full light.
JP goes, ‘Sarah! Wow! I haven’t seen you since…’ and she’s like, ‘I know,’ and he’s there, ‘Wow!’ and I wonder when he storted saying Wow! instead of Holy Fock! He goes, ‘You look great,’ which is the first sign since we came back from Israel that there is actually still life in his trousers. He goes, ‘And how’s, em…’ and she goes, ‘Tadgh? Oh my God, we finished, like, ages ago. You know what Michael’s goys are like,’ and everyone just, like, nods.
I’m, like, scanning the gaff for evidence of how far this thing has gone. There’s a book opened face-down on the coffee table and it’s, like, The Passion by Geza Vermes and there’s a focking humungous whack gone out of the Baileys, which now has a bottle of focking Crème de Menthe beside it for company. It’s worse than I thought.
He goes, ‘Girls, would you mind if I had a quiet word with Ross, in private?’ and he sort of, like, grabs me by the orm, roysh, and pulls me into the kitchen and goes, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Ross?’ and I go, ‘When did you stort drinking Crème de Menthe?’ and he goes, ‘I asked you first.’ I’m like, ‘Are you focking slow on the uptake all of a sudden? That bird’s gagging for you out there. And not the ugly one either.’
He just looks at me, roysh, and shakes his head, like he’s all disappointed in me and shit, then he goes, ‘Jesus was led by the Spirit into the desert to be tempted by the devil. After fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry. The tempter came to him and said, “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread?”,’ and I’m like, ‘Meaning?’ and he goes, ‘Ross, I thought you understood what I was doing. And why.’
He’s actually good at focking guilt-tripping you, this goy, which will make him a huge hit in the priesthood. I’m there, ‘JP, I thought you needed a bit of fun. You don’t stort in Maynooth for another couple of months. There’s nothing in the Bible to say you can’t get your rock and roll between now and then,’ and he shakes his head and goes, ‘I’ve no interest, Ross. And I’ve no interest in that… filth you’ve been sending me either,’ and I’m there, ‘Oh, so you won’t be wanting your Carol Vorderman DVD back then?’ and he doesn’t even flinch. He goes, ‘I’ve promised myself to the Lord, that’s the way it is.’
Fair focks to him, roysh, he goes back into the sitting-room and actually explains the situation – in other words God, etc. – to Sarah, who takes it pretty well, it has to be said. She’s a bit embarrassed, roysh, and she storts, like, moonwalking her way towards the door, throwing out the odd, ‘OH! MY! GOD!’ on the way.
I’m looking at Daphne, roysh, she doesn’t know what to do – does she leave with her friend, or does she stick around for the loving of a lifetime? – so straight away I just, like, relieve her of that little dilemma. I’m there, ‘I hate long goodbyes,’ and, being a nice goy, I slip her ten bills and I go, ‘Get yourselves a Jo,’ and it’s all happened so fast, roysh, she doesn’t know how to respond. She’s standing there with her mouth open so I just go, ‘Take the hint. Beat it,’ and her eyes just, like, fill up with tears.
JP shows them both to the door, apologizing all the way, the sap that he is, while I pour myself a glass of Crème de Menthe, just to see what all the fuss is about. He comes back in and he goes, ‘That was nasty, Ross, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ but I’m reading the label on the bottle, roysh, and I go, ‘Focking hell, this shit is 5 o per cent proof!’
We’re sitting in my new cor, BMW Z4, outside this gaff on Newtownpork Avenue, roysh – we knocked back the one in Greystones – waiting to give it the old once-over. JP’s old man finally arrives and he’s, like, all apologies for being late, then he storts the tour. He goes, ‘Although I know you’d do a better job than me,’ and he’s sort of, like, reminiscing I suppose you’d have to call it, about the time I worked for him as well and I’m wondering is he, like, dropping the hint that he wants me to come back now that he’s, like, lost JP to God.
I ignore it and we stort following him around. He’s going, ‘It’s a solid three-bed semi-d with adjoining garage extension situated on a highly regarded road in upmarket Blackrock, close to a range of top schools – including your own alma mater – shops, public transport and just five miles – a two-hour drive to you and I – from St Stephen’s Green…’ He’s giving us the whole spiel, roysh, but I have to say his hort doesn’t really seem to be in it. It’s like he’s going through the motions. Not only has his son and heir gone bonkers, but the word is that he’s going to have to shell out some serious wedge to some secretary bird who’s doing him for sexual harassment – supposedly he grabbed her orse and went, ‘Is this seat taken?’ and I’d say he actually definitely did do it, roysh, knowing him like I do and seeing the way he’s copping an eyeful of Sorcha’s rack every time he thinks I’m not looking.
Sorcha goes, ‘I’m not being rude, Mr Conroy, but would you mind if I had a look around… without the commentary?’ and JP’s old man just, like, shrugs his shoulders and goes, ‘Hey, you guys can see through my bullshit anyway. Feel free…’nd he sort of, like, looks at me and nods in the direction of the kitchen and I follow him in there, roysh, leaving Sorcha to go exploring by herself.
He leans against the island and he goes, ‘It’s my birthday today, Ross. Know what he bought me?’ and I’m like, ‘Happy birthday… what?’ and he’s there, ‘A gift voucher… for Veritas,’ and I go, ‘What kind of a sick…’ and he’s there, ‘I’ve given up hope.’
I can hear Sorcha upstairs, admiring the back bedroom, which looks out onto a south-facing, landscaped rear garden offering total seclusion – it’s amazing how that shit never leaves you. She’s going, ‘OH! MY! GOD! This can be Ronan’s room when he sleeps over,’ and I know she’s already made her mind up on the gaff.
I’m there, ‘I’ve tried everything. I’ve even sent him a few, shall we say, exercise magazines through the post,’ and he goes, ‘Hey, great minds… I thought of that too. It’s just… well, you hear things. There’s rumours doing the rounds,’ and I’m there, ‘Rumours?’ and he’s like, ‘Ross, you’re JP’s friend. Remember, by telling the truth, you’re helping him… is it true he’s started drinking Baileys?’ and I sort of, like, turn away. I can’t look the dude in the eye. He goes, ‘I thought so,’ and even though it’s probably in JP’s best interests, roysh, I can’t bring myself to tell him about the Crème de Menthe – no father needs to hear that about his son.
He goes, ‘Can’t you just, I don’t know, stick a couple of Viagra in the bottle?’ and I’m wondering why the fock I didn’t think of something like that. I’m like, ‘Where would I actually get Viagra?’ and he goes, ‘Here,’ and pushes these two pills into my hand. He’s like, ‘That’s the last of them,’ and then he sort of, like, leans in close to me and goes, ‘Seeing this broad tonight. Air-hostess. Tits like udders. Now I’m in serious danger of disappointing her,’ and I’m thinking, He really is a perv.
I slip the pills into the Davy Crocket of my chinos and we go back out into the generously apportioned, skylight-lit hallway. Sorcha’s coming down the stairs. She goes, ‘oh my God! We love the house,’ and I’m there thinking, What’s this we, Paleface? when she turns around and goes, ‘We’ll take it,’ and I’m there, ‘Er, okay,’ and that’s how I end up agreeing to pay eight-hundred-and-twenty Ks for a house that I haven’t even looked around.
Well, my old man’s paying.
Ronan’s out somewhere. Walking, by the sounds of it. He goes, ‘Got me at a bad time, Rosser. I’m on me way up Henry Street. Get the cheap tobacco,’ and though I used to think he said those things to, like, scare me, roysh, now I’m not so sure. I’m there, ‘When are you off?’ because Tina and this Anto she’s going out with – he’s actually called Decker – are taking him to Ibiza for two weeks and Tina’s old pair are going as well. He goes, ‘Seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Probably won’t get to see you before you go, will I?’ and it’s nice, roysh, because he actually sounds disappointed.
I’m there, ‘Not to worry, we’ll do something together when you get back,’ and he goes, ‘Game ball. And no messin’ around behind Sorcha’s back while I’m away. I heard you left Reynard’s with two a couple of weeks back. One was bet-down, I hear,’ and I’m there, ‘Nothing happened,’ and he goes, ‘I hope not. You know I’m not bluffin’ when I tell you I’ll find out, don’t you?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah, I know that. Hey, we bought a gaff. In Blackrock,’ and he goes, ‘That’s good. Stability’s what you need in your life, Rosser,’ and in the background I hear him ask for six pouches of tobacco. Then he goes, ‘I’ve got to go,’ and I tell him to have a good time, roysh, and I’ll see him in two weeks.