In other words, I spew my ring. Everywhere.
‘I wish you’d tell me what happened,’ the old man goes.
I’m there, ‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.’
This is, like, the day after the match.
He goes, ‘Well, there must be an explanation, Ross. A great player doesn’t become a bad player overnight.’
I’m there, ‘Well, I’ve just proven that sometimes they do.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! I know what happened. I could tell from the way you were holding your forehead and blinking your eyes.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘You were poisoned!’
‘Poisoned?’
‘Happened to the great All Blacks team of 1995, of course – or so it was rumoured. Someone in Greystones obviously slipped something into your water. Although given the quality of what comes out of the taps in County Wicklow, they wouldn’t have had to touch it.’
We’re sitting in the back of the old man’s cor on the way to Coolock. Ronan and K … K … K … K … Kennet are sitting in the front.
I’m there, ‘Look, I wasn’t poisoned alright? If you must know, well, I think I’m suffering from concussion.’
‘Concussion?’ the old man goes, like it’s his first time ever hearing the word. ‘Where the hell would you have picked up something like that?’
I’m there, ‘Where do you think? Playing rugby.’
‘Concussion in rugby? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous!’
‘It actually exists.’
‘Exists, my foot! No, that was all dreamt up by personal injuries solicitors, a great many of whom are GAA supporters, I shouldn’t wonder! No, you were poisoned, Ross! Nothing surer!’
We pull into the cor pork of The Tipsy Wagon, then we climb the iron staircase on the side of the pub to the restaurant upstairs.
On the door, it says ‘Mister Wu’ and then underneath it’s like, ‘Beijing – Kowloon – Coolock’.
Ronan tries to take chorge of the situation. He’s pretending he’s not shitting himself. He’s doing a better job of it than I am.
He’s there, ‘Foorst thing we do when you walk into the restor doddent – what have I alwees toalt you, Rosser? – we look for an alternative route by which to leave.’
‘Check yisser exits,’ I go.
He’s like, ‘Check yisser exits – veddy good.’
The old man runs his hand through his hair – I’m just going to call it hair – and goes, ‘Let’s all just calm down. We are going to sit down and reason this out like business people do.’
Which is easy for him to say. He’s not the one who punched Scum in the face and broke his glasses.
With a green, Manila folder tucked under his orm, he pushes the door of the restaurant and in we stroll, the four of us.
It’s not difficult to spot Scum. The restaurant is empty, except for him, and then, sitting next to him, his three skanger lieutenants slash capos slash whatever-the-fock you want to call them.
I’m presuming everyone else split when they saw these four fockers arrive.
‘Hello there!’ the old man goes, at the top of his voice. It’s like he’s having a business meeting in the Westbury or some shit. The old man offers him his hand and Scum shakes it without standing up.
He’s there, ‘Chardles, reet?’
‘That’s right,’ the old man goes. ‘And you’re Scum – nice to put a name to the face! This is my driver, Kennet, my grandson Ronan, whom you know, and my son, Ross, whom, I gather, you’ve also met.’
Scum stares at me. For about thirty horrible seconds, I’m convinced that he’s going to pull either a gun or a knife on me. Eventually, he just goes, ‘That day downsteers. It was a looky punch. That’s why I ast for you to be hee-or. To say that to you. You caught me unaweers, you sloy bastoord.’
I didn’t catch him unawares. It was a genuine decking. I resist the temptation to point that out, though.
He goes, ‘Sit thowin – the ford of you,’ which we do, on the opposite side of the table. ‘This place does be altwees full of Choy Knees. That’s how you know it’s a good one – doatunt know if you ebber heerd that befower.’
He’s clearly a man of culture.
Some Chinese dude – possibly Mister Wu himself – comes over then and hands us all menus – focking comically lorge ones as well.
‘Now,’ the old man goes, ‘if I might suggest an order of business for this meeting …’
‘You’ve some fooken balls,’ Scum goes, ‘meerchin in hee-or and throying to dicthate what …’
The old man runs his hand through his hair and Scum stops. It’s like he’s suddenly lost his train of thought.
The old man goes, ‘Yes?’
‘Soddy,’ Scum goes, ‘I caddent … I caddent remember what I was apposed to say. Go on, Chardles – what?’
‘I was just going to suggest a running order. First item of business, we agree a unilateral truce, then we discuss any grievances that either party may have in a calm and reasoned fashion, then we agree on a way forward that benefits both parties. How does that sound to you chaps?’
He touches his hair again. I swear to God, it’s like Scum is hypnotized by it.
‘Er, yeah,’ he goes. ‘That sounts, er, feert enough, Chardles.’
Mister Wu is suddenly back, standing over the table, waiting to take our order. Ronan closes his menu. ‘Chicken balls and cuddy sauce,’ he goes. Kennet says he’ll have the same – so do Scum and the three grunts sitting beside him.
The old man goes, ‘I have no idea what that is, but when in Rome, etcetera, etcetera,’ and he hands Mister Wu the menu back.
‘Okay,’ I go, ‘just to be different, I’m going to go for the roast duck Cantonese style with egg fried rice, the butterfly king prawns with sweet and sour sauce – and do you have any crabmeat and sweetcorn soup? It’s just I don’t see it here on the list.’
Mister Wu just stares at me. Everyone at the table stares at me, in fact.
‘You’ll have chicken balls and cuddy sauce,’ Scum goes. ‘Thinking you’re bettor than ebbyone else.’
I shrug and I go, ‘Fine. Fock it, I’ll have chicken balls and cuddy sauce as well.’
It’s probably the only thing that’s actually on the menu – the rest is just for show.
Ronan goes, ‘So are we agreeing to anutter throose?’
Scum just stares at him for a few seconds, then he offers him his hand across the table. ‘Throose, ceasefoyer,’ he goes, ‘whatebber you wanna call it.’
Ronan shakes it.
‘That has to mean that all hostilities are at an end,’ the old man goes. ‘It means the war is over.’
Scum nods. ‘It’s ober – feerd as Ine concerdened in addyhow.’
‘Next item on the agenda,’ the old man goes. ‘I think there may be some healing to be done and the best way to start that process is for all parties around the table to talk about the ways in which they’ve suffered – without recrimination, I might add.’
Scum goes, ‘Cad I intedupt you theer, Chardles. I joost wanthed to say at the veddy steert, Ine soddy for shooting Buckets of Blood. Ine veddy fonth of Buckets. Ine an admoyrer. Throyed to recruith him for me own crew a few yee-or ago. That’s why I says to the feddas, doatunt hoort him too bad – a flesh woowunt is alls.’
Ro’s there, ‘Well, if you’re apodogizing for that, Ine apodogizing for slashing yisser toyers and breaking yisser windthows. And burdening yisser bus out.’
‘And Ine soddy for doing the sayum to you. And for throying to moorder you with machettes.’
The old man goes, ‘You see, this is wonderful progress!’
There ends up being silence then for a good, I don’t know, sixty seconds or something. I’m actually staring at the blackboard with the dessert specials on it, wondering is there anything that people on this side of the city won’t deep-fry? Then I realize that
they’re waiting for me to talk.
‘Are you gonna say sumtin,’ Scum goes, ‘Or are you just gonna sit theer steerdin at the spesh hiddles?’
I’m like, ‘What?’
‘Seeing as we’re all apodogizing to each utter, you can say soddy to me for catching me unaweers wit that punch.’
I end up having to give in to the pressure, of course.
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I’m sorry for decking you.’
The food arrives and the atmosphere definitely lightens.
The old man is staring at his dinner like me looking at Sudoku – no idea what the fock is going on.
‘When they say chicken balls,’ he goes, jabbing at it with his fork, ‘surely, they don’t mean …’
Everyone at the table cracks up laughing. The funniest thing of all is that the old man isn’t even joking.
Scum points at him. ‘I like you,’ he goes – and he says it like it’s a threat. ‘Ine fooken saying that now, Chardles. I like your stoyle – do you get me?’
One crook always appreciates another – that’s what I’m tempted to say.
Soon, the compliments are flying back and forth across the table.
‘Ronan, that was a lubbly touch of yooers,’ Scum goes, ‘adding the thrug mixing factoddy to your itiner doddy, where Tommy and the boys got lifted in Seerdies Two.’
And Ronan goes, ‘Well, I coult say the sayum ting about you getting that Tom Vodden-Lawdor lookalike to gerron to the bus at the end of yooer toower and tell ebbyone to say theer prayers. I have to say, feer fooks to you for that.’
It goes on like this for a good, I don’t know, fifteen minutes while they all tuck into their so-called food and me and the old man chase ours around the plate with our forks.
When the plates are eventually clear, the old man goes, ‘Now, shall we get down to business?’ and he pushes his plate aside, lays his Manila folder down on the table and opens it up. He pulls out eight little, I don’t know, booklets, six or seven pages long, which are stapled together. He hands one to everyone at the table.
‘The fook is this?’ Scum goes.
He’s obviously not a reader. My reaction is pretty much the same.
The old man’s there, ‘It’s a business plan. I thought it might form the basis of a discussion as to how we can move forward in a way that suits everybody.’
Scum looks through it. ‘Veddy detailed,’ he goes, looking at the old man over the top of his glasses. ‘Veddy fooken detailed.’
He’s Sellotaped the earpiece of his glasses back on, I notice, instead of shelling out for a new pair.
The old man smiles. He’s there, ‘You see, Scum, I’m a firm believer in the market. Ross here will tell you that, as a child, I used to take him to Musgrave’s, the cash-and-carry in Sallynoggin, just to listen to the tills ringing. The sound would quite literally bring tears to my eyes.’
Scum and his goons all laugh. They think he’s focking joking.
Ronan suddenly goes. ‘What are these figures, Grandda? On the back payuch?’
The old man’s there, ‘Those are the projected earnings for the two businesses over the next five years. That’s how much I estimate these tours could be pulling in – provided you don’t keep putting each other out of business. As you can see from the map on page 6, Scum, I’m suggesting that Ronan, Nudger and Buckets of Blood’s tour operates from College Green and that yours operates from O’Connell Street. And you divide up the territory between you. Ronan, your tour will focus on Series One, Two and Three of the show. Scum, yours will focus on Series Four and Five and any future Six. I’m thinking that, far from being in competition with each other, The Love/Hate Tour of Dublin and Love/Hate: The Tour could complement each other. You could encourage your customers to do both!’
Scum sneaks a quick look at Ronan to try to get his reaction.
‘Are these numbers reet?’ Ro goes.
The old man’s there, ‘They’re actually conservative, Ronan. I took the liberty of asking a chap I play golf with – he’s in market research – to look at the figures for me. He’s convinced that you’re only scratching the bloody well surface.’
Ronan and Scum are both just nodding.
The old man goes, ‘And that’s where I come in. Like I said, I see this as a business with enormous potential. As an entrepreneur, I wish to invest in both The Love/Hate Tour of Dublin and Love/Hate: The Tour. I want to capitalize both businesses to help you advertise and market yourselves properly – national newspapers, etcetera, etcetera – and also provide you with vehicles.’
‘We boat alretty hab a bus,’ Scum goes.
‘I’m not talking about one bus each, Scum. I’m talking about six buses each – and that’s only the beginning. Can any of your chaps here drive a bus, Scum?’
Scum looks at them. Two of them shrug. They’ll give it a go.
The old man’s there, ‘I want to invest €250,000 in the two tours, which, under my proposal, would become franchise operations of the same business. In return, I’m asking for 50% equity in the company.’
Scum and Ronan’s eyes meet across the table and they smile at each other.
‘What do you think?’ Scum goes.
Ronan’s like, ‘What’s there to loowuz? That’s a lot of bread.’
He’s un-focking-believable, my old man. You’d have to give it to him. We walk into a situation where I think there’s a decent chance that we’re going to be murdered, chopped up and dumped in the sea. And he comes away with a 50% share of two soon-to-be-thriving businesses.
An hour later, as we’re getting up from the table, Scum shakes my old man’s hand and goes, ‘Can I say sumtin to you, Chardles?’
The old man goes, ‘Yes, of course, do.’
‘You’ve got a way about you – addyone ever telt you that?’
‘Well,’ the old man goes, ‘modesty precludes and so forth!’
Scum’s there, ‘Well, Ine fooken saying it to you – you do. I doatunt know if it’s the heer or what, but you have a way with people. You shoult be in poditics or something,’ and I watch this register on my old man’s face.
He’s just like, ‘That’s interesting.’
I’m the first one out the door – as you can imagine. I tip down the metal staircase and that’s when my phone all of a sudden rings. I check the screen. It’s Byrom. For ten seconds, I consider not actually answering it?
I don’t even know why I do in the end.
I’m like, ‘Hey.’
He goes, ‘Dud yoy not git moy mussages?’
‘Yeah, no, I haven’t been listening to them. I just wanted to drop off the radar for a while.’
Of course what I actually mean is drop off the side of the Earth.
‘Yoy dudn’t hear the result?’ he goes.
I’m there, ‘No, I presume we lost.’
‘Woy droy.’
‘Drew?’
‘Droy.’
‘How?’
‘Sinnoy had a bloynder of a second haahf. He was determined to stop Groystoynes wunning the loyg – Sunday’s Will pupped thum at the poyst.’
‘So what does a draw do for us? Are we not still relegated?’
‘We funushed sicond bottom. Moyns we’ve got a ploy-off – nixt woykind. Against Bruff. Yoy remimber woy talked abaaht Bruff?’
‘The B is silent.’
‘The boy is soylunt – ixictloy. Rossoy, ut’s gonna be one hill of a mitch.’
‘Good luck with it. I genuinely mean that.’
‘We caahn’t wun ut withaaht yoy, Moyte.’
‘Byrom, I’m not coming back. I’ve lost the respect of the goys. I’ve lost the dressing room.’
‘Just come to troyning on Tuesdoy. You moyt hear something thut’ll choynge your moynd.’
So into the clubhouse I go – why, I don’t know.
But the dressing room ends up being empty? There’s, like, no one around.
Bucky suddenly sticks his head around the door and goes, ‘Rossi, we’re in the bor – tea
m meeting.’
I’m thinking, team meeting? Then I’m wondering have they copped it – that I’m suffering from, like, possibly concussion?
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, do we know what this meeting is about?’ as I follow him along the corridor towards the bor.
He goes, ‘Senny wants to say something to the team.’
So into the bor we go. All the goys are sitting around on the benches and Senny is standing up in front of them.
I’m like, ‘What’s the deal here?’
Senny goes, ‘Rossi, sit down,’ which I do, next to Dordo, our scrum-half.
Senny clears his throat.
‘Okay,’ he goes, ‘last week, when we were here for Strength and Conditioning, I made certain allegations against Rossi, namely that he tried to get off with my girlfriend in Club 92. Torah was the one who actually told me that he made a move on her. Well, on Saturday night – after the Greystones match, in fact – she told me that it was bullshit. She basically made it up because I didn’t seem upset enough when she told me she was thinking of going to Montauk on a J1 in the summer.’
Everyone’s like, ‘What?’
Women. I’ve loved thousands of them – never understood one.
‘So,’ Senny goes, ‘I just wanted to say this in front of all the goys – because I actually accused you in front of all the goys – I was out of order, we’re talking bang out of order. You’ve been an unbelievable mentor to me and a lot of others in this dressing room since you came in. I hope you can, I don’t know, forgive me.’
I’m like, ‘Dude, it’s gone – like a fort in the wind.’
‘Well,’ he goes, ‘I also owe you an apology for something else. Look, I told my cousin on the Greystones team that you killed that dolphin. And, yeah, I knew they’d probably use it against you. I’m sorry for that as well.’
I’m there, ‘I genuinely don’t know why killing a dolphin is such a big focking issue. You kill, I don’t know, a salmon or a cod and no one says shit. You kill a dolphin and suddenly it’s all this. It’s only a fish.’
Dordo goes, ‘I think a dolphin is actually a mammal, Rossi.’
I laugh at that.
I’m there, ‘Yeah, I’ve had that argument with so many people over the years. Think of the focking shape, Dordo. And if you all remember, I killed it in self-defence. And now Gerry Thornley’s getting involved. Jesus Christ, Ireland just won the Six Nations and there’s a World Cup just around the corner. You’d think he’d have more important things to write about.’
Game of Throw-ins Page 35
