In the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre, roysh, I’m on the escalator, coming down from the cor pork and this bird is on the next escalator, on her way up. She’s a focking cracker, roysh, a little bit like Uma Thurman up close, and she’s with this complete dickhead, a real focking skateboard geek, long-sleeved Nirvana T-shirt, the whole lot, and as our two escalators are passing, roysh, I catch her eye and she’s, like, looking straight at me for, like, five seconds and she sort of, like, smiles. And the goy, roysh, he cops this because when we’ve passed each other, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him looking back, totally paranoid now.
The old man, roysh, it’s like he’s on focking speed half the time. I go into the kitchen the other morning, hanging from the night before, and we’re pretty much talking TOTALLY here, and he’s like, ‘Ross, there you are. Your mother and I bought that CD, the one with the poor people telling stories from the Bible. It’s all dis, dat, dees and dose. Cheered your mother right up, it has.’ I’m just like, ‘When are you two going to focking cop yourselves on?’ and I go back up to my room, SO not in the mood for them after last night.
It storted off bad, roysh, got good around midnight, then went, like, downhill after that. It was the usual crack in the M1, the goys talking about ‘Jackass’ and the birds tearing the back off whoever was stupid enough to go to the toilet on their own. Sophie asks me how my old dear is, roysh, and I say I don’t give a shit, that the bitch deserved what she got, and Aoife asks what happened, roysh, and Sophie tells her that some lunatic threw a tin of red paint over my old dear coming out of that fur shop on Grafton Street. Aoife goes, ‘Oh my God. That is like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and Sophie goes, ‘TOTALLY. It is, like, SO not a cool thing to do. It happened to, like, my mom, too. Except it was, like, blue paint. Mom just looked at them and she was like, “That will achieve nothing. It is not going to bring the seal back and my husband will just buy me another coat”.’ Aoife goes, ‘Go Sophie’s mom! That is, like, Hello?’ and Sophie goes, ‘I know. It SO is.’
It’s my round, roysh, so I hit the bor and that’s when for one, like, brief moment the evening storts looking up. Which actually happens to be my opening line to this stunner I’m standing next to, a ringer for Tamzin Outhwaite. I’m like, ‘The evening is storting to look up.’ She goes, ‘That is such a bad chat-up line. You’re Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, aren’t you?’ I’m like, ‘The one and only.’ She goes, ‘You were with my best friend. Auveen. You were a bastard to her.’ I’m like, ‘Doesn’t sound like me. Is she the bird who gave me the Denis on my neck? Hey, I had to shell out twenty notes for a focking tetanus.’ She goes, ‘I don’t care actually that you were a shit to her. She might be my best friend but she’s an asshole.’
We’re getting on really well, roysh, so I drop the drinks over to the lads and I’m like, ‘See you goys later,’ and Aoife goes, ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually going to be with that girl?’ I’m there, ‘If she plays her cards right … maybe.’ Aoife goes, ‘Ross, she’s been going out with Brad for the last, like, five years. Brad as in Terenure Brad. Brad as in used to be on the Senior Cup team Brad?’ Fionn, roysh, the focking crawler, he goes, ‘Aoife’s right, Ross,’ and he pushes his glasses up on his nose. He’s there, ‘Brad and her are always splitting up. She probably caught him with one of her friends. She wants to get back with him and she’s using you as a chip to renegotiate terms.’ I’m just like, ‘Don’t wait up,’ which I have to say, roysh, I was pretty pleased with.
To tell you the truth I wasn’t actually that Terry Keane on this bird, roysh, but the fact that her boyfriend was Gick made it a challenge I couldn’t resist. I go back to the bor, roysh, buy her a Bacardi Breezer, fill her head with a whole load of bullshit about how I’ve been into her for ages, get a six-pack from the machine in the jacks and the next thing I know, Bob’s your auntie’s husband, we’re in a Jo Maxi on the way to her pad in Leopardstown. I have to say, roysh, I’m really in the mood at this stage, but she turns out to be one of those birds – you know the kind – who wants to watch Ghost and The Piano and every focking chick flick she owns on video before doing anything, to make the evening, like, romantic or memorable or some shit. But halfway through You’ve Got Mail, I make my move, roysh, and the next thing you know, we’re in her bedroom, blah blah blah.
But she keeps saying to me, roysh, ‘Say my name, Ross. Say my name,’ and that’s when I realise, roysh, that I don’t know it. So I jump up and I’m like, ‘I have to go to the jacks,’ and she’s like, ‘What?’ I’m there, ‘Sorry, I have to go to the toilet. Back in a second.’ She goes, ‘Hurry back.’ I go into the sitting room, roysh, and stort turning the place over looking for an ESB bill, a TV licence, a framed diploma from, I don’t know, LSB, anything with her focking name on it, but I can’t find anything. If I go back in there and tell her I don’t know it, roysh, I am so out of here it’s not funny. So I’ve, like, no other choice, roysh. I have to go to her handbag, which is on the table in the kitchen. But as I go to pick it up, roysh, I accidentally knock over this load of washing that’s hung on the back of one of the chairs. I’ve got to be quick at this stage, so I stort picking it up with one hand and going through her bag with the other, looking for a student ID, or a driving licence, or anything.
And suddenly, roysh, I can, like, sense that I’m being watched and I sort of, like, stop and I hear her going, ‘What the fock are you doing?’ I turn around and I’m like, ‘This isn’t … em …’ She goes, ‘Are you stealing money from me?’ I’m like, ‘No, I was–’ She goes, ‘What were you looking for in my bag?’ And I don’t know why, roysh, I just said, like, the first thing that came into my head. I was like, ‘Lipstick.’
She looks at me, roysh, as though she’s, like, weighing this up in her mind, and then she looks down at my hand and, like, her expression suddenly changes. And then I look down and I realise that I’m holding a pair of her tights, and she’s staring at me like I’m some kind of weirdo and she goes, ‘Lipstick? OH! MY! GOD! You are one sick boy,’ I’m like, ‘I swear, I’m not one of those trans-whatever you call them.’ She opens the door and goes, ‘Get out of my apartment! NOW!’ I’m like, ‘Please don’t tell any of the Nure goys about this.’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, I am SO going to tell everyone what a weirdo you are.’
I walk back to my gaff, knowing that by next weekend this’ll be all over town. And they’ll come up with a focking nickname for me. It’ll be Cross O’Carroll-Kelly, how much do you bet?
Michelle from Ulster Bank has left another message. She says it’s urgent.
Asked the old man for two hundred lids. Wanted to get, like, a pair of trousers and a shirt, roysh, and he goes, ‘Don’t have that kind of money on me, Ross. But your mother and I are going into the city this afternoon. You can get whatever you want on my card.’ I’m like, ‘Which means I’m going to have to go into town with you two?’ He goes, ‘Yes, what’s the problem, Kicker? Lovely summer’s day …’ And I go, ‘Do you honestly think I want to spend my day hanging out with you knobs.’
Basically I’d no other choice, though. I was going to Annabel’s that night, pretty much guaranteed my bit off Ali, this bird who’s, like, first year morkeshing in Mountjoy Square, and I needed new threads. So I lash on the old fleece, collar up, and my baseball cap – pulled down over my eyes obviously – and get into the back of the old man’s cor, bricking it in case anyone, like, recognises me. We pork the cor in the Arnott’s cor pork, focking northside, and head towards Grafton Street. The old man looks a total dickhead as per usual in his camel-hair coat and that stupid focking hat he wears. The old dear has the usual fifty baby seals on her back and I’m just there, ‘Oh my God, I SO have to get away from these two.’ The old man’s like, ‘Slow down, Kicker,’ but I’m walking, like, fifty metres ahead of them and the one time I do look back, roysh, is when I’m halfway up Grafton Street and the two of them are looking in the window of Weirs, her hanging off his arm, obviously trying to get another piece of Lladro out of the focker.
So I head on into BT2, roysh – they know where to find me – and I hit the old Hugo Boss section first and stort thinking about getting a new pair of loafers. My old ones are, like, a bit scuffed. The next thing, roysh, who do I bump into only Jill, this mate of Ali’s, roysh, who does a bit of modelling and she goes, ‘Oh my God, hi,’ and sort of, like, air-kisses me. I’m like, ‘Hey, babes, how goes it?’ flirting my orse off with her. She’s there, ‘Oh my God, Ali’s just, like, texted me this second. Are you going to, like, Annabel’s tonight?’ I’m like, ‘I could find myself in that vicinity,’ playing it totally Kool and the Gang.
Anyway, roysh, all of this is sort of, like, by the by, because what happened next was I suddenly heard all this, like, shouting and shit over by the escalators, and I recognise the old man’s voice and I turn around, roysh, and there he is, arguing with these two coppers who, like, have a hold of him. He’s there going, ‘You are not arresting us. We have rights.’ And the old dear’s going, ‘Do you even know who we are?’ I presumed it had something to do with the tribunal. Of course, they stort trying to drag me into it then. The old man spots me and he’s straight over, going, ‘Ross, phone Hennessy. Tell him what’s happened,’ making a total show of me in front of Jill and half of focking Grafton Street. I just look at him, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Sorry, have we met before?’ He goes, ‘Ross, phone Hennessy. Tell him–’ and the next thing the cops drag him and the old dear off and Jill’s there going, ‘OH! MY! GOD! that is, like, SO embarrassing. Who were those people?’ I’m like, ‘I don’t know.’ Jill goes, ‘They seemed to know you. The man called you Ross.’ I’m like, ‘Probably recognised me from the papers. I get that all the time.’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, yeah, you play rugby,’ and then she’s like, ‘My dad went to that game against England when we lost? They must have been SO down afterwards. I said it to Ali. I was like, “Oh my God, I would SO love to give them all a hug”,’ which is when I realised, roysh, what a total sap Jill was and I decided to push on.
The only downside of the old pair being arrested, roysh, was that I couldn’t get my new threads and also that I had to get, like, the bus home. I thought my public transport days were well and truly behind me, but there I am, roysh, upstairs on the 46a, texting JP and Christian to find out what the Jackanory is about tonight, when all of a sudden my mobile rings and it’s, like, the old man. He’s like, ‘Ross, do not panic. We’re being held in Harcourt Terrace. Now, have you phoned Hennessy?’ I’m like, ‘Phone him yourself.’ He goes, ‘Okay, let’s stay calm. We’ve got to think carefully. That’s mandatory. Now, I’m only allowed one phone call and I’ve called you.’ I’m like, ‘Bad call then.’ He’s there, ‘Hennessy’s in Jersey, Ross. He’s staying at that new golf resort I told him about. The number’s in my Filofax. In the study. Hurry, Ross. Before your mother’s coat gets infested.’
I’m like, ‘I’m not phoning him. I’m too busy for this shit.’ He goes, ‘Ross, please. You should see some of the things that are written on the walls in here.’ I’m like, ‘Why the fock are you ringing Hennessy? He’s the goy who said you wouldn’t spend a single afternoon in jail.’ He goes, ‘What? Oh, this has nothing to do with that tribunal nonsense, Ross. We were arrested for jaywalking.’ And I just, like, broke my shite laughing, roysh, for about, like, five minutes. Everyone on the bus was looking at me, going, ‘Oh my God, what is the story?’ The old man’s like, ‘You know those lights at the bottom of Grafton Street, they take a bloody age to change. So we just crossed, and some bloody garda comes chasing after us and catches up with us at Weir’s. Now phone Hennessy. I’m planning to take an action against the State for this.’
I’m like, ‘Do you remember that time when I got arrested during the summer? In Martha’s Vineyard? What did you say?’ He goes, ‘Ross, I can hear your mother sobbing in the cell next door.’ I’m like, ‘You told me you’d decided to let me stew. To teach me a lesson.’ I can hear him, like, banging on the door of his cell, going, ‘LET US OUT OF HERE. ARE WE LIVING IN CHILE ALL OF A SUDDEN?’ I’m there, ‘So now it’s payback time. I hope you like prison food,’ and then I just, like, hang up on the dickhead.
Of course, half-eight, roysh, I’m getting ready to go out when the old pair arrive back at the gaff looking pretty wrecked. The old dear takes to the bed straight away. I turn to the old man and I’m like, ‘Well, Nelson, how does it feel to finally be free?’ He gives me this filthy, roysh, and he goes, ‘You think this is a joking matter?’ I’m like, ‘You’re lucky I can see the funny side of it. You made a total show of me in BT2.’ He goes, ‘I have only one thing I want to say to you, Ross. I want you to find somewhere else to live. Your mother and I are tired of your unpleasantness, frankly. We think it’s time you stood on your own two feet in life. And we want you out of the house by the end of next week.’
I’m like, ‘Fock.’
I’m in Reynards, roysh, and I’m with this bird, Helena I think her name is. I sort of, like, know her to see from the rugby club, not bad looking, a little bit like Thora Birch but with less eye make-up. Anyway, there we are, roysh, basically wearing the face off one another and I come up for air, roysh, and she looks at me and goes, ‘Oh my God, I have fancied you for SO long.’ I’m like, ‘I’ve fancied you for ages too.’ I couldn’t swear blind that her name is Helena. She goes, ‘OH MY! GOD! you are going to think this is SO sad, but a couple of years ago, you got off the Dart in, like, Killiney, and I was walking just behind you, and you left your ticket on, like, the turnstile thing. And I picked it up. It’s been in my wallet for, like, two years. Will I show you?’ I stort, like, edging away from her. She goes, ‘Oh my God, you probably think I am such a weirdo, do you?’ Nope, I think you’re a focking psycho. I’m like, ‘No, no, I’m just going to get us another bottle of wine.’ She picks up the bottle on the table and goes, ‘But we’re not even halfway through this one.’ I’m like, ‘I just want to see if they’ve got anything dearer.’ I head for the cloakroom, grab my jacket, get the Fightlink home.
It turns out the old pair were serious about focking me out of the gaff, roysh, unless I apologised for what happened. As if. Packed my rucksack and opened the front door and the old man comes out of the sitting room, roysh, big sad face on the focker, and he goes, ‘We could put this behind us, Ross. All you have to do is say you’re sorry.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh. Get real.’ Of course the old dear comes out then, playing the whole concerned parent bit, going, ‘Ross, where are you going to stay?’ I’m like, ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business anymore, do you? Take a good, long look at me, both of you. It’s the last time you’ll ever see me.’
I could hear the old dear bawling her eyes out, roysh, and I kind of regretted saying that last bit because I was still hoping the old man would give me the money for my cor insurance, which is up, like, next month. Of course he probably won’t even pay it now, that’s the kind of dickhead he is. Anyway, roysh, the reason I was able to be so, like, Jack the Lad about being focked out was that I already had somewhere else to stay. Fionn’s old pair had bought him an apartment in Dalkey for his twenty-first and basically I was going to be, like, kipping on his sofa for the foreseeable future. But I needed funds, so I had to, like, get a job, which meant dropping out of college, though I didn’t mind that so much because I’m pretty sure I failed all my summer exams again and the idea of having to do first year a third time was SO wrecking my head, and we’re talking TOTALLY here.
Basically I had a job lined up pretty much straight away. I’d had a few scoops the night before with JP, who’s doing an MDB, we’re talking Managing Daddy’s Business, namely Hook, Lyon and Sinker Estate Agents. When he floated the idea of working with him, I was like, ‘JP, I’d literally do anything. Well, within reason. I’m not photocopying, or answering phones, or shit. I don’t want anyone taking focking liberties. But I need lids, man. I’m desperate.’ He goes, ‘Ten-four, Ross. I’m hearing you. Let’s fast-track this idea.’ JP speaks fluent morkeshing. I’m like, ‘What I want is to stort on Monday morning.’ He goes, ‘I’ll talk to the old man tomorrow. See if he’ll take the idea off-line. I’ll touch base with you in the afternoon.’ So JP texts me the next day, roysh, tells me his old man thought it was a win-win situation, which basically means I got the job.
Monday morning I’m out of the scratcher really early, we’re talking half-eight here, and I head into the office in Donnybrook, big focking plush gaff, really handy for Kiely’s. JP high-fives me and gives me a list of, like, definitions that I have to basically learn off by heart. It’s, like, a whole new language and shit. It’s all, ‘Innovative use of space – pokey as fock. High specification fit-out kitchen – cooker and fridge. Tranquil waterfront setting – overlooking the Dargle. Parkland setting – grass verge nearby (for now). Dublin 24 – Tallafornia.’
I’ve just finished reading it when JP’s old man arrives, big dog-turd of a cigar clamped between his teeth, a complete focking sleazebag, and he goes, ‘Have you told him about the T-word, JP?’ I’m like, ‘You mean Tallaght?’ and he slams his briefcase down on my desk and goes, ‘That’s the first and last time you ever say that word in this office. Capisce?’ I’m like, ‘Eh, yeah. Kool and the Gang.’ He goes, ‘Don’t ever use that word. It’s Dublin 24. Blessington if you’re really feeling cocky. But never what you just said. Office rules numbers one, two and three.’ He storts, like, examining the end of his cigar, which has gone out, and he’s there, ‘There’s worse places, of course. Some of the areas we sell houses in, Christ, you should see them. The queues outside the post office on family allowance day. Like Poland twenty years ago.’ He turns around all of a sudden, roysh, points at JP and goes, ‘What do we love?’ and JP, roysh, quick as a flash, goes, ‘The free market,’ and his old man goes, ‘Yes, we do. Yes, we do. Sorry, Ross. Little game we play.’
He lights his cigar again, takes a few short drags on it and goes, ‘I’m going to level with you, kid. We sell a lot of houses here and most of them – honestly? – I wouldn’t expect our dog to stay in them. AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE OUR DOG. It was the wife who wanted it. Had a cute face, you see. Two more words we don’t use, Ross – at least not in this exact juxtaposition – are NEGATIVE and EQUITY. It’s the time to buy. Tell them that. TIME TO BUY! Every house you’re selling, you say, “Strong capital appreciation predicted,” and say it in great, big capital letters. STRONG CAPITAL APPRECIATION PREDICTED!’ JP hands me a cup of coffee and goes, ‘Welcome to the firm, Ross,’ and his old man goes, ‘Your father, does he still own those two apartments in Seapoint? Might give him a call. Really is the time to sell, you know.’
I don’t know why they call it Boomerangs. I said that to the bouncer who focked me out on Wednesday night. I was like, ‘I don’t know why they call it Boomerangs. I won’t be coming back.’
JP’s old man says he wants to interface with me Friday a.m., which basically means he wants to talk to me on Friday morning, roysh, to find out how I’m getting on with the two or three pages of estate agent vocab he gave me to, like, learn off and shit. He goes, ‘No wall, no fence?’ and I’m like, ‘Open-plan front garden.’ He’s like, ‘Two plug sockets in every room?’ and I go, ‘Generous electrical specification.’ He goes, ‘Ballymun?’ and I’m like, ‘Glasnevin.’ Then he sort of, like, squints his eyes, roysh, and he goes, ‘I don’t usually rush these things, Ross, but I think you’re ready to start selling.’ I’m like, ‘Well, I know I’m not even here a week yet, but I feel I’m ready too.’ He goes, ‘Tell you what, let’s get a couple of grande frappuccinos to celebrate. Better make them skinny milk, decaf, cinnamon, no chocolate. This bloody heart of mine. Better start listening to the doctor. I pay him enough.’
He calls in his secretary, roysh, quite a good-looking bird I have to say, but CHV – we’re talking TOTAL Council House Vermin here – and he sends her out to the shop, his eyes sort of, like, looking her up and down as she goes out the door. He goes, ‘Was that a ladder in her tights or a stairway to heaven?’ and I break my shite laughing, roysh, even though hearing him say it makes me feel sort of, like, sick.
He sits back in his chair then, lights his cigar and goes, ‘Ross, what do you know about the M50?’ I’m like, ‘Is it, like, a road?’ He goes, ‘Of a kind, yes. It’s a motorway.’ I’m there, ‘Where does it go?’ He’s like, ‘Who knows, Ross? Who knows?’ and he goes into a trance for a few seconds. I’m like, ‘Are you okay, Mr Conroy?’ He goes, ‘Oh sorry, Ross. The M50, yes. I don’t even think the focking thing’s finished yet. Doesn’t matter. Not from our POV anyway. The point is this: people think this motorway is the solution to all life’s problems, a superhighway to eternal happiness, if you like. No matter where you’re selling a house, kid, you tell ’em it’s close to the M50, offering convenient access to, I don’t know, the Pampas, Lake Victoria and the focking Hanging Gardens of Babylon … hey, I might put that into some of our prospectuses.’
I’m just, like, nodding, pretending I agree with the goy. I need the shekels. He’s like, ‘The other matter I need to discuss with you is this,’ and he hands me this photograph, roysh, and I’m there, ‘What the fock …’ He goes, ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ I’m like, ‘Y-y-yeah.’ He goes, ‘It’s called the Luas.’ I’m like, ‘It … looks like a spaceship.’ He’s there, ‘Well, we’ll probably all have spaceships by the time that thing sees the light of day. But mention it, Ross. “Convenient to Luas line.” No matter where the house is.
‘Amenities, too. People love amenities. Ham them up. Within walking distance of shops. And theatres. Bung that in. Restaurants. Of course they won’t be able to afford to eat in the restaurants when they’re mortgaged up to their town halls, but we deal in dreams here, Ross. People’s dreams. WHAT DO WE DEAL IN?’ and I automatically go, ‘People’s dreams,’ feeling like a total knob-end, and we’re talking big-time total here.
He’s like, ‘Within walking distance. A key phrase, Ross. Within walking distance. Pretty soon you’ll find those words tripping off your tongue. I describe every house we sell as being within walking distance of the city centre. Donnybrook. Clontarf. Dun Laoghaire. Sold one in Balbriggan a couple of weeks ago. Within walking distance of O’Connell Street, I said. Have you ever heard of the Jarrow Marchers, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘Em … are they in the Super-12?’ He goes, ‘No, they were a group of workers who … did you do history at school?’ I’m like, ‘Well, yeah, but I was on the S.’ He goes, ‘Of course you were.’
He storts, like, rooting around in his drawer then, roysh, and he pulls out another picture and hands it to me and it’s of this gaff, roysh, a really shitty-looking place which he says is down some really dark alleyway off, like, Sheriff Street. And he goes, ‘A focking mugger’s paradise. Two bedrooms. No garden. Every piece of wood in the house crawling with worms. You’re looking for three hundred thou for this baby. Well?’ I’m like, ‘Em …’ He goes, ‘What do you say to me?’ I’m like, ‘It’s, em … it’s, em …’ He’s there, ‘Sell it to me, Ross. SELL IT TO ME!’ And I sort of, like, blurt out, ‘It’s an oasis in the heart of one of the city’s more mature areas.’ And he just, like, stares at me for ages, roysh, like he’s in total shock, then he gets up from his desk and storts, like, staring out the window. I’m like, Hello? What the fock is going down here? And it’s only then, roysh, that I cop the fact that he’s actually crying. He’s, like, bawling his focking eyes out. I’m there, ‘Hey, man, what’s wrong?’ and he turns around, roysh, and he’s got tears, like, streaming down his face and he goes, ‘I wish you were my son.’
People have basically been surprised at the state of the gaff me and Fionn are living in. There’s, like, no beer cans lying around the place, no, like, Chinese takeaway cartons, no funny smells and even the toilet is, like, flushable. The place is pretty much like a museum, roysh, not because of anything me and Fionn have done – who will ever forget the state of our gaff in Ocean City? – but because of Nicola, this Bulgarian bird who Fionn’s old dear pays to come and, like, clean up after us three days a week. She’s not the Mae West lookswise – a little bit David Duchovny except with a moustache – but you have to give it to her, roysh, she’s a dab hand with a duster and a cloth, and if I were an ordinary goy with simpler needs, I could see me and Nicola getting it on.
The only thing she won’t do, roysh, apart from electrolysis, is iron. We’ve tried to slip her a few extra shekels but it’s, like, no go, she will not do it. After three weeks in the gaff, roysh, every single piece of clothing that me and Fionn owned was basically dirty and we were in BT2 every second or third day, splashing out on new threads because we didn’t want to face washing and ironing the other ones. But one night, roysh, there we are watching some shite on the Discovery Channel about the Kodiak bear, with Fionn just, like, absorbing all of the information like a sponge, when all of a sudden, during an ad break, he turns around to me and goes, ‘We’re going to have to do something about that pile of clothes on the landing.’ I’m there, ‘What about it?’ He’s like, ‘Ross, there are EU food mountains that are worth less than our stockpile of designer threads. Must be ten grand’s worth of dirty clothes up there. And I can’t afford to buy any more.’ I’m like, ‘I am SO not asking my old dear to do it, if that’s what you’re getting at. Wouldn’t give that bitch the pleasure.’ He goes, ‘No, but this solution does require courage nonetheless. I think you should go to see Daisy.’
Daisy, roysh, she’s this bird we both know from Lillies, a bit of a bowler if the truth be told, but she has the total hots for yours truly. She’s only human, I suppose. Anyway, roysh, Daisy’s a bit, like, mumsy, if you know what I mean, she’s basically looking for a goy to mother, and one night, roysh, there we were, sat in the corner of Lillies – her getting all, like, touchy-feely, me basically keeping her at bay with a ten-foot bargepole – and she mentioned that she knew how utterly useless goys were around the house, and if we ever needed anyone to come out and, like, cook or iron or anything like that, then we could give her a shout, not knowing of course that she was, like, talking herself into a little weekend job.
So I give her a bell, roysh, and she says she’d be SO happy to come around and do it for us. I’m like, ‘There’s quite a lot of it, Daisy. Don’t make any plans for Saturday or Sunday.’ She goes, ‘Well, in future I’ll come around every Saturday morning to do it. It won’t take any longer than a couple of hours a week, once you don’t let it pile up.’ There’ll be a payback for this, you can be sure of that. I’ll be expected to be with her now and I have to say, roysh, without being too dramatic here, I actually feel a bit dirty after I hang up the phone. I head outside to Fionn, roysh, who’s in the forecourt, looking under the bonnet of his cor – a black Peugeot 206, 1.1 litre, no alloys. He’s had trouble storting it lately. I tell him that Daisy’s coming out on Saturday morning and I told her to, like, get here early as well. Fionn goes, ‘Do you think she knows anything about carburettors?’
I actually thought that Erika was just being a bitch to Claire when she mentioned that she’d spent the weekend in Clonakilty at, like, the hunt ball, which was amazing and – OH MY! GOD! – SO much better than last year. Everyone knows that she hates her, roysh, what with Claire getting caught one night telling some goy in Lillies that she was ‘originally from Dalkey’ even though she’s actually from Bray, and Erika hates people getting above their station. And then there was the time she, like, picketed the fur shop on Grafton Street with, like, Sorcha, during that whole Save The Animals phase they went through in, like, first year in college.
And Claire, roysh, she is SO going to go for the bait. I’m basically watching her, sipping her vodka and Smirnoff Ice and, like, pretending to be interested in some shite Christian’s spouting about George Lucas and his willingness to take even more risks with the second trilogy than he did with the first. But Erika’s blabbing on and on about all these, like, really rich goys she met down there, roysh, and Claire basically can’t control herself anymore.
She goes, ‘Don’t tell me you, like, killed an animal?’ and Erika sort of, like, looks her up and down, roysh, and goes, ‘The dogs actually do the killing, Dear,’ knowing full well that Claire hates it when she calls her that. I can see her face going red. It’s like she’s going to focking burst. And Erika goes, ‘It was a fox, if you must know. Or it was before the dogs tore it to pieces.’ Of course, Christian’s there still banging on about ‘the boundless creativity of not just Lucas but everyone who works at Skywalker Ranch,’ totally oblivious to what’s going down here, and we are talking TOTALLY here.
Claire’s not saying anything, roysh, just basically bulling quietly to herself. But Erika’s not going to let go. She’s like one of those dogs she was going on about, ripping the poor fox apart. She’s there going, ‘Are you about to stort crying?’ and Claire goes, ‘No,’ but she’s lying, roysh, and Erika’s like, ‘Oh my God, you are. The tears are welling up in your eyes. That’s so sweet. Crying for dead Mister Fox.’
Fionn comes home from college, roysh, and he tells me about this coffee place in town, roysh, and when you gave your order they used to say, ‘Is that to take away?’ Now they say, ‘Is that to go?’ I’m like, ‘And your point is?’
I’m, like, texting JP the other day, roysh, trying to find out what the fock OFCH stands for before I try to sell this couple a gaff in Leixlip, and I end up missing a call, and it’s actually news to me, roysh, that you can’t, like, get through to me on the phone while I’m texting someone. Then again, roysh, it was the old pair who bought me this heap of shit so it shouldn’t be, like, a surprise or anything. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I check my messages and, speak of the devil, it’s Dickhead himself. I wondered how long it’d be before they came crawling back to me, begging me to come back home. Losers.
The message is like, ‘Hey, Ross, how ya doing, Kicker? Em … it’s your old dad here. Don’t like talking to these machines. Silly that, I know, in this age of … technology and so forth. Em … I was just ringing to see how you were doing, you know, whether you needed, em, any money or anything. I know your car insurance is due. Don’t worry about that. I’ll look after it. And any other money you need for clothes and so forth … well, em, I guess what I really wanted to say, Ross, is that we’re, em, that is your mother and I, we’re worried about you. That’s both of us, we’re both worried. Basically thought you might have been in touch by now.
‘All families have their rows, Ross. I guess the lesson that I myself personally have learned, or rather we’ve learned, we’ve all learned, from this is that you shouldn’t let these things fester. If you let things fester, then, well, pus starts to be produced and then a sort of, em, well a scab forms, and once you’ve a scab there, then the only thing that can … sorry, Ross, me wittering on as usual. Stretching the metaphor to breaking point as per usual. With a capital S.
‘Look, Ross, we’re worried. You haven’t been in touch and, em, I hear you’ve dropped out of college. I don’t want to get on your case, start lecturing you, but are you sure that’s wise? I mean, it’s a diploma in sports management. Could come in very handy if you want a career in, em … well, in sports management, I suppose. Don’t hang up, Ross. Okay, I’m nagging again. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Probably wittering again as well. It’s these machines. I’ve never liked … anyway, em, I hear you’re working with JP’s dad now. In Hook, Lyon and Sinker. Young Christian told us. Your mother and I met him in the Frascati Centre last week. A strange young man, Christian. A bit, I don’t know, away with the fairies.
‘Hey, I know it was a few months ago now, but me and a couple of the guys got chatting about the Munster versus Castres match in the golf club the other night. A good old-fashioned debate we had on the relative merits and demerits of David Humphries and a certain R O’Gara, Esquire, of Cork, who I know you’re a fan of. He did do well in that game, I’ll grant you that. But you know where I stand in the great debate, Ross. I’m a Humphries man, always have been. Make no apologies for it, either. David Humphries, record Irish points kicker. But, well, I had to admit it, young O’Gara did give me something to think about in that game. Anyway, there is a point to this. What I was going to tell you was that Hennessy was there and at one point in the conversation I popped the sixty-four-million-dollar question to him. ‘Hennessy,’ I said, ‘you’re Eddie O’Sullivan tonight. The choice is Humphries or O’Gara. Shoot!’ He looked at me, Ross, wiped his cigar ash onto the side of the ashtray, you know the way he does that, and he said, ‘Charles, that lad of yours is a better kicker than the pair of them.’ Wasn’t that a great thing to hear? He didn’t have to say it, Ross, but he did.
‘So … it’s a career in estate agency then? Em … no, it’s a good job. Satisfying, I’d imagine. I hope you’re not doing anything too dangerous … selling houses in Tallaght and whatnot. Your mother said that the other night. She said, “He could be anywhere, Charles. He could be in Tallaght.” You know those nightmares she’s been having, Ross. She worries, you see. Maybe give her a call. Both of us. Maybe give us both a call. When you get this message.
‘Em … well, I suppose I’ve gone on long enough. What I guess I’m trying to say is that we’re sorry, Ross. We’re sorry for telling you to leave the house. You can come home anytime. But, em, really, Ross, please call. Oh, by the way, Michelle from Ulster Bank called. Wants to know can you ring her back. It sounded urgent.’
I meet Emer on Grafton Street, coming out of Nine West. I’m like, ‘Hey, how’s it going, Emer?’ She goes, ‘Great, I weigh nothing.’
Had this, like, dilemma the other day, roysh. JP’s old man asked me to show this couple around this gaff in Foxrock. TOTALLY amazing pad, we’re talking eight bedrooms, swimming pool, electric gates, big fock-off driveway, we’re talking one-and-a-half-million bills and basically a nice little commission for me, roysh, if I can, like, offload the thing. The problem was that it was the gaff next door to my old pair’s, and I was SO not in the mood for bumping into those two saps.
I think I’ve already mentioned, roysh, that my old man is basically a dickhead and my old dear, roysh, is a complete knob, and the last thing I needed in my life at that stage was the two of them telling me how, like, proud they are of me now that I’m working as an estate agent and her going on about how much she misses me and wants me to come home, the sad bitch that she is. I couldn’t actually handle the two of them, but like I said, roysh, the commission on this was big, we’re basically talking serious sponds here, and not only that, roysh, I SO didn’t want to let JP’s old man down. Not being, like, big-headed or anything, roysh, but he thinks I’m pretty amazing at the job, which has put JP’s nose roysh out of joint, and we’re talking big-style.
Last week, roysh, there I was, on the phone, basically trying to bleed an extra five grand out of this bloke for this complete focking dump in East Wall and it was all, ‘Well, we might be able to raise the money if we think about sending Joshua to a less upmarket school,’ so I got him to pay, like, five grand over the asking price in the end, roysh, and when I put the phone down, JP’s old man just looks at me and goes, ‘Your heart, Ross, it’s just for pumping blood around your body, isn’t it?’ I just, like, shrug and go, ‘Hey, it’s business,’ and he’s, like, SO impressed by that.
Anyway, I drive up outside the gaff next door to the old pair, roysh, and there’s this, like, shitty old Nissan Bluebird outside, we’re talking a 90D bucket of focking rust here, and it’s, like, blocking the entrance to the driveway. Of course, I’m straight on the mobile, roysh, calling the cops, the last thing I need is for the prospective buyers to see that pile of shit and think there’s a halting site up the road. But all of a sudden, roysh, I notice there’s a bloke sitting in the passenger seat, so I, like, get out and walk up to his window, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Would you mind moving that thing?’ He’s there, ‘Sorry, bud?’ He’s a complete focking howiya, this goy, slip-on shoes, side-parting, newsprint moustache. I’m like, ‘I’m supposed to be showing someone around this house in a minute. No offence, roysh, but the last thing I want them to see when they turn up is the likes of you and this little crock of shit.’ It shocks me how like my old man I can sound sometimes. He goes, ‘Sorry, bud, I think you’ve got yisser facts wrong. I’m here to luke over the house, so I am. Me and de wife.’
I’m like, ‘Roysh, but I think you’re the one with your facts wrong. The guide price is one and a half million, not fifteen thousand. You’ve miscounted the noughts.’ ‘No, no, no, bud,’ he goes, ‘we know what the price is. See, we’re after winnin’ the Lorro.’ I was, like, OH MY! GOD! Erika is right, there should be laws to limit the amount of money that jackpot winners can spend on new houses, to prevent areas like Dalkey and Donnybrook from losing their character. I mean, Foxrock is going to love this focker. I actually remember now seeing him in the paper. Four million he basically won.
His wife gets out of the cor then, roysh, and she is total CHV, and we’re talking TOTAL here. She goes, ‘Are you the fella what’s going to show us around?’ and I’m thinking about saying something smart, roysh, like asking her husband to translate what she’s saying into English, but I don’t, roysh, because as we’re walking up towards the gate, roysh, I’m thinking of my old man, living on the other side of that fence over there. Oisinn said he saw him in town last Saturday with the old dear, on Grafton Street, with his focking sheepskin coat on, and he was talking to this, like, beggar who asked him if he’d any change to spare for a cup of tea. And the old man was going, ‘You asked me the same thing this morning. Seems to me that you drink far too much tea, young chap. Bad for you, all that caffeine. Makes you sluggish. Probably why you’ve no home and no job.’
So I think about what a sap he is, roysh, and then I think about the shit that this pair, and however many kids they have, are going to make of the area, putting tyres around the lampposts, and whatever. And then I think about JP’s old man’s last words as I, like, left the office. He goes, ‘Remember, you’re not only selling a house here, Ross. You’re choosing your parents’ neighbours,’ and he said it with, like, a twinkle in his eyes because he knows I hate my old pair. So as I’m opening the electric gates into the gaff, roysh, I turn around to them and I go, ‘You are SO going to love this house. And the good news is, I’m prepared to be flexible on the price.’
There’s, like, three messages on my phone this morning. One is from Aoife, who was ringing just to wish me good luck with the holiday and to tell all the goys the same. The second is from this bird, Sally, who’s heard a rumour that I like to take a trophy when I’ve been with a girl and all she wants to know – ‘I’m SO not pissed off, I just want to know’ – if that’s what happened to her *NSync No Strings Attached album, and if it is she’d be really upset because it was, like, a birthday present from her mum. The other is from Michelle from Ulster Bank, who’s obviously just noticed that my account is in the black again, basically for the first time since my Confirmation, and she wants to talk to me about an SSIA, whatever the fock that is.