by Paul Howard
So I storted making up all these stories, roysh, which I told Oreanna I’d read in the paper, about old dears who’d, like, died in their gaffs and their bodies had been found a week later and they’d been, like, half eaten by their cats. And Simba would sit there staring at me while I said this, roysh, and, I focking swear to God, that animal understood every word I was saying. I was, like, wasting my breath, though, because basically it did nothing to change Oreanna’s mind. So instead, roysh, now and then I’d try to persuade her to make me a cup of tea and, when she was out in the kitchen, I’d try to hit the thing with the odd sly kick. The bastard was usually too fast for me though. I said usually.
Because basically where all of this is going, roysh, is that this one particular night, the night me and Oreanna finished with each other funnily enough, I was swinging the old Golf GTI into her driveway and I felt this, like, bump under the cor. And I knew straight away, roysh, what I’d done. For once in his life, the focker just wasn’t quick enough for me. I swear to God, it was an accident, though Oreanna was never going to believe that, especially after all the threats I’d made against the thing. I got out of the cor and, like, checked the damage. At first I thought there was, like, an actual scratch on the fender, roysh, but it turned out it was only a bit of fur, stuck on with blood.
I’m not being a dickhead, roysh, but the cat didn’t suffer. Had he still been alive, I’d have had to finish him off with the cor jack, which so wouldn’t have been a pretty sight. Of course, none of that would have been any consolation to Oreanna, so I decided not to tell her, one because she’d be too upset, roysh, and two because it would lessen my chances of getting my bit that night. So what I did, roysh, was I slapped the thing into the boot of the cor and decided to drive home later through Bray and fock the thing in the Dargle. She’d be pretty heartbroken when old Simba didn’t come home, roysh, but she’d just presume it’d gone off to live with some old biddy who fed him, I don’t know, cake or chocolate. I’d be sure to suggest it.
So I went into the gaff, roysh, acted natural, the whole lot. Her old pair were in Villamoura, playing golf. And she puts on this video, roysh, and it’s, like, Cats, the focking musical. I have to say, roysh, I felt like such an asshole at that moment, but there was nothing I could do. Anyway, roysh, we ended up having a really great chat, I was telling her all about this gaff I just sold down the road from her in Delgany for, like, four hundred grand, and she was telling me about how she may have to go back to wearing a brace for six months, depends what the orthodontist says on Monday. I don’t think I need to go into detail about what happened next, roysh. Not being, like, big-headed or anything, but I basically ended up staying the night. I’ll spare you the details, roysh, but basically we’re talking, TOUCHDOWN!
The next morning, roysh, she brings me a fry in bed, the whole lot, we’re talking sausages, bacon, egg, mushrooms, toast, and I’m there going, Have I struck gold here or what? As she gets out of the shower, roysh, she asks me whether I could drop her off at work. She works in some, like, building society in Bray. I have to say I was a bit pissed off about having to get up so early, roysh, but I play it cool like Huggy Bear and half an hour later, roysh, I’m sitting in the cor, with the engine ticking over, waiting for her to lock up the house, put the alarm on, blah blah blah.
She opens the passenger door, roysh, and she goes, ‘Ross, what’s that smell?’ I’m there, ‘I don’t know. I think it’s the exhaust. I’ll have to get it looked at.’ So she had this bag with her, roysh, because she was playing tennis after work with Megan, who’s, like, her best friend, and she goes, ‘I’ll just put this in the boot.’ And that was when I remembered what the smell was. But it was too late to do anything at that stage.
Oh my God, you should have heard her screams. Half of focking Greystones did. People storted, like, coming out of their houses. She’s there going, ‘He killed Simba. He killed Simba.’ I have to say, roysh, that the cat was not a pretty sight at that stage. We’re basically talking, like, rigor mortis here. Its teeth were showing, its eyes were, like, rolled backwards into its head and there was, like, a few bluebottles buzzing around where the blood … you get the picture.
I actually thought the neighbours were going to, like, lynch me, they were all there looking at me like I was, I don’t know, focking Fred West or someone. I’m just there, ‘Spare me, will you? It was a focking accident.’ And this old dear, roysh, a real shit-stirrer, she takes off her coat and puts it over Oreanna’s shoulders and she says to come with her, she’ll make her a cup of tea. And as she’s sort of, like, walking her off, roysh, I go, ‘Oreanna, text me later, after tennis.’ And this old dear, a real bitch, roysh, she turns around and goes, ‘I don’t think you should show your face around here ever again.’
And I watch them disappear into this old dear’s gaff, roysh, and that’s when I realise that they’re all still there, all the neighbours, staring at me in, like, total disgust, and I mean TOTAL. And this one goy, roysh, a real Ned Flanders dickhead, he goes, ‘Pamela’s right. We don’t want to see you around here again.’ And I go totally apeshit at that, roysh. I grab the cat – or what’s left of it – out of the boot and basically slap it down on the ground in front of him and all this, like, blood and shit splashes all over his shoes and his Farah slacks and I’m there – and I’m actually pretty proud of this, roysh – I’m there, ‘You focking bury it then, Flanders, if you’re so smart.’
Modern décor. FTB. Owner occupier. Section focking 23. Double-fronted. Architecturally acclaimed. Villa-style. Ease of access. Work-from-home spacious. I come home from the office with my head wrecked from all this shit. Been flogging these gaffs all week, roysh, out in Gorey of all places – ‘superb quality investments in village setting, only 4,275 remain’ – and they’re going like hot cakes, but it’s, like, work, work, work at the moment and the last thing I need when I get home is someone else wrecking my head.
Switch on my mobile and I’ve got, like, three voice messages. Michelle from Ulster Bank – surprise, sur-focking-prise – really does feel it’s a shame that I’ve got all that money just sitting in a deposit account when it could be working for me. She blabs on for a bit about single premium investment schemes offering unlimited growth potential, managed funds with one hundred per cent capital protection, international shares and fixed-interest securities and loads of other shite that gives me a headache. The second is from this bird, Treasa, who’s, like, second year actuarial studies in UCD, who I ended up being with at Ultan’s twenty-first, and who basically, roysh, can’t get over the fact that it was a one-night stand, although she doesn’t seem to have noticed that her Celine Dion Greatest Hits album went walkies the night I was in her gaff. So I was actually in a bit of a fouler after that, roysh, until I heard the third message and that, like, really cheered me up. It was the old man, roysh, and at first I thought it was, like, more of his bullshit, please come home, we miss you, your mother’s HRT isn’t going well, blah blah blah. But it’s not, roysh, it’s like, ‘Ross, disaster. Disaster with a capital D. The new neighbours. They’re, well, they’re not like us.’
He goes, ‘Your mother and I went in to see them last night. Thought we’d give them a day or two to get properly settled in and whatnot. Didn’t suspect a thing, of course. Not even when we saw them bringing in the big china collie dog and the bunk beds. They’re working class, Ross! Oh, how could we have been so blind? We just jumped in there with two feet, of course. Called in with a card and one of your mother’s almond and apricot roulades, welcome to the neighbourhood thank you very much indeed.
‘Well, what a sight it was that greeted us. The man, oh I can hardly bring myself to say his name, Christy, he was in the front garden, working on the motor. His words, Ross, not mine. Working on the motor, if you don’t mind. Oh, I put my foot in it, of course. Told him about Jim, the man who fixes my car. “Why would ye shell out a couple a hundred ’n’ odd notes if you know how to fix it yisserself?” Sorry, your mother does the voice much better
than I do. She’s able to see the funny side of it. Sometimes. Although most of the time she just cries.
‘Of course the woman, Cindy is her name, she comes out then. It’s “Ah, Jaysus, Howiya,” from her. Howiya indeed. I thought your mother was going to collapse on the spot. On the spot. With a capital, I don’t know, S I suppose. And what did she say then? “Oh, you’re after makin’ us a lovely cake.” Or cayik. Can’t pronounce it the way she did. Your mother said, “It’s not a cake. It’s roulade.” And this frightful Cindy person said, “It’s a fookin cake where we come from, love.”
‘Which is God knows where. Lottery winners, no doubt. Not a job between them, I’d bet. In the pub from noon till night. Kids up to God knows what. Oh, the lottery. A curse, Ross, a bloody curse. I phoned Hennessy, but of course they’ve got the law on their side. Haven’t actually done anything illegal, he said. “But they don’t belong here,” I told him. “It’s wrong, damn it.” Had to apologise to Hennessy for that. Out of order. God knows this hasn’t been easy for any of us.
‘But em … Ross … Eduard, you know, Eduard from the golf club, he says that Hook, Lyon and Sinker were the agents for that house. Em … you didn’t have anything to do with selling it, did you? Of course you didn’t. I mean I told your mother that. “This is Ross we’re talking about,” I said. He wouldn’t … em … anyway, I’d better go. Who knows when it’s all going to go off next door. Your mother’s bought a pair of binoculars. Keep an eye on things. Damage is already done, I told her. Knocked about eighty thousand euros off the value of this place. And what’s next? Heroin? Call-girls coming and going at all hours of the night? Drive-through shootings?’
Drive-through shootings. Is he a wanker or what?
Alicia is this bird I know, roysh, we’re talking the image of Lisa Faulkner here, but at the same time, roysh, as the goys always say, she’s a bit like a shirt you’d buy from one of those skanger shops in the Ilac Centre: you only really get one good wear out of her. Anyway, roysh, that’s neither here nor there. The point is that Oisinn has basically been on a promise with her for, like, six weeks – Pleasures by Estée Lauder, he calls her – and he was waiting for his old pair to go away to Bologna, so he could, like, have a porty in his gaff. Then his old dear goes and chokes on an organic strawberry, or gets food poisoning or some shit, and the trip is off and suddenly Oisinn is, like, putting pressure on me to throw a porty instead, we’re talking in one of JP’s old man’s gaffs, one of the houses I’m supposed to be trying to sell. This all comes up in Conway’s on the Thursday night. He goes, ‘Come on, half of those houses are vacant. We’ll go in, we’ll porty and we’ll be gone the next day after tidying up. JP’s old man will never know.’
JP hasn’t, like, heard any of this, roysh, because him and Fionn are in the middle of texting this joke to Ryle, and it’s like, WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RTE AND THE TITANIC? RTE HAS TWO ORCHESTRAS. I didn’t get it either, but when I stopped laughing, roysh, I asked JP what he thought about the idea of a porty, maybe in the gaff on Killiney Hill Road that’s been on the books for focking ages, and he goes, ‘Sounds like a plan, Ross. Sounds like a plan. Furnish me with updates,’ which is basically Estate Agent for Yes.
So the night of the porty, roysh, we’re talking the following Saturday night here, we’re all in the gaff, all the goys, getting totally trolleyed. And when I say totally, roysh, I am not exaggerating. And all the birds, roysh, they’re all in the next room, sitting around, trying to act all mature, going, ‘Oh my God, how old are they supposed to be again?’ They’re pretty much feeling left out of things, roysh, because it’s all the old goys off the S, knocking back the Ken, singing the old songs: ‘The Mayor of Bayswater’, ‘On Top of Old Sophie’, and ‘Give me a Clone’.
Oh give me a clone, Of my own flesh and bone,
With the Y chromosome changed to an X.
Then when it is grown, My own little clone,
Will be of the opposite sex.
I head out to the kitchen to grab a beer and who’s out there only Claire, as in the Dalkey wannabe from Bray, and Erika. Well, you know Erika, she’s a total bitch at the best of times and she’s giving Claire a hard time as per usual, telling her that there should be mandatory sentences for people who go around begging in pubs, knowing full well that Claire’s doing, like, promotional stuff in pubs for Heineken at the moment. Claire goes, ‘Obviously what I’m doing is–’ and Erika just cuts her off, roysh, and goes, ‘Claire, what you’re doing makes you no better than a Romanian.’
And off Claire runs, roysh, bawling her eyes out, and Erika shouts after her, ‘Your roots are showing, Dear.’ I actually feel a bit sorry for her because Erika really knows how to get under her skin, but I’m just there, ‘I like the way you handled that. About time someone told her.’ Erika ignores this and looks around the kitchen. She goes, ‘When I heard you were having a porty, Ross, I thought it was going to be in that little bedsit of an apartment that you and Fionn are sharing. I’m impressed. You’re beginning to grow on me.’ I’m like, Oh my God, I am SO in here. Anyway, roysh, I’m just about to make my move when all of a sudden the front door swings open and it’s, like, JP and his old man. Hadn’t actually noticed that JP was missing, roysh, and I know straight away what his game is. He’s done a Judas on me, stitched me up big-style. For ages, roysh, he’s been jealous of the fact that I’m basically better at the job than him and he’s been trying to, like, shaft me, which he’s obviously just done, and done it TOTALLY.
His old man walks up to me and he goes, ‘Ross, did I or did I not tell you that I was trusting you with a set of keys and there was to be no parties?’ I’m like, ‘Basically, yeah.’ He goes, ‘Lies. Deceit. Going behind people’s backs …’ Then he just, like, smiles at me, roysh, and he goes, ‘… every test I set you, you pass it with flying colours. You have absolutely no sense of right and wrong. I struck oil when I found you, boy. Struck oil.’ You should have seen JP’s face. He just storms out, roysh, and I hand his old man a can of Ken and he cracks it open and turns around to Erika, looks her up and down – the goy is a total sleazebag – and he goes, ‘Nice dress. Can I talk you out of it?’
I come home from work, roysh, long hard day at the office, and I’m trying to watch ‘Temptation Island’, but Fionn’s telling me about this coffee shop, roysh, it used to be called Kennedy’s and now it’s called Bon Espresso and Patisserie and I’m like, ‘And your point is?’
The knackers are going to have to go, lottery winners or not. The pigeon loft went up on Tuesday night, roysh, and that’s what the old pair said when they saw it. They have got to go. Not that I give a fock one way or another what they say. I hadn’t actually spoken to either of them since they focked me out of the gaff, but let’s just say that suddenly what’s in their interests is also in mine.
I was actually trying to watch ‘Jackass’ when the old man rang and I made the mistake of answering it before I checked who it was, so I ended up having to listen to him bullshitting on about this loft for, like, twenty minutes. He’s there going, ‘They’re vermin, dirty bloody things that spread disease.’ I’m like, ‘It’s only a few focking birds. Get over it.’ He goes, ‘I wasn’t referring to the pigeons, Ross.’
And I can hear the old dear in the background, roysh, going, ‘Tell him, Charles. Tell him. They will not be satisfied until they have turned this road into one of those fearful council estates. Why did they ever leave Coolock or wherever it is they came from?’ I can hear the old man pouring himself a brandy, a double by the sounds of it. He goes, ‘Your mother’s right, Ross. The pigeon loft, the Nissan Bluebird, they’re the thin end of the wedge. What’s next? Horses wandering around the streets here?’
In the background, the old dear’s going, ‘Tell him about the Rottweiler, Charles. And the ice cream van.’ The old man goes, ‘Come on, we’ve no proof that it was an ice cream van.’ And the old dear storts going apeshit, she’s there, ‘Charles, I’ve been to the northside. I know what an ice cream van sounds like.’
He goes, ‘All I’m saying, Darling, is that you were upset.’ And she loses it then, roysh, she’s like, ‘I HEARD AN ICE CREAM VAN, CHARLES. WHY WON’T YOU BELIEVE ME?’ I can hear him, like, hugging her, roysh, trying to calm her down, and listening to this bullshit, roysh, I end up missing this entire scene where Johnny Knoxville gets set on fire, which pisses me off, so I end up hanging up on him and switching the phone off for a couple of hours.
I found out later, roysh, that the second I hung up, their phone rang. And of course they thought it was me ringing back. The old dear answers it and the old man’s there going, ‘Ask him did we lose the signal this end or was it that end. This chap next door’s probably got one of those blasted CB radios. You mark my words.’ But it wasn’t me, of course. It was the skangballs themselves. And going by the old man’s account, roysh, the old dear was, like, basically in shock.
This wan, roysh, Cindy I think he said her name was, she’s asking her something, and you can just picture the old dear there going, ‘Yes … yes … tomorrow night? Em … I don’t know …’ And the old man, who’s copped who it is, roysh, he’s there telling her to, like, play it cool, go along with whatever she’s saying. And the old dear’s there going, ‘Em…I’ll see…I’m not sure if I can make it, but … okay … bye …’ She hangs up, roysh, and the old man’s going, ‘What was all that about?’ And she’s like, ‘She wouldn’t take no for an answer, Charles. She’s invited me to a party. Tomorrow night. In her house.’ The old man’s there, ‘You? On your own?’ And the stupid bitch goes, ‘Yes, she said she’s having “a few of the girls” around. Bit of a party. I tried to make some excuse, but …’ And the old man goes – now this is according to him – he goes, ‘Darling, you have to go. You really do. Otherwise they’ll think something’s up. Just go and do your best to act naturally and then, when I speak to Hennessy and we hit them with the solicitor’s letter – BANG! – they won’t know what day of the week it is. In the meantime, we’ve just got to act as though everything’s normal.’
