by Paul Howard
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.’
