by Paul Howard
And you can imagine the old dear, roysh, the stupid wagon coming over all faint at the thought of it, and I have to say, roysh, a video tape of her stepping through the front door of that house would be funnier than anything that’s ever been on ‘Jackass’. She goes, ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Charles. I’m not strong like you.’ The old man’s like, ‘I know it’ll take an enormous effort, but …’ She goes, ‘Oh, I can just picture it, Charles. The horror. Net curtains. Brass flower pots in the windows. Clothes drying on radiators …’ And the old man’s there going, ‘Darling, be brave. This could be our only chance to get rid of them. Once and for all.’
So basically, roysh, what happened was that at eight o’clock the next night, the dopey bitch pops in next door with a bottle of Chateâuneuf du Pape. According to the old man, when he saw the bottle of wine he went, ‘Oh, good cover. I like it. You’re thinking, Darling.’ Before she left he checked she had her panic alarm with her, and then she was off. Two hours later, roysh, she was back, basically in focking tears. She just, like, fell into the old man’s arms and he was like, ‘It’s over, Darling, it’s over. You’re home now. You’re safe.’ And she goes, ‘You don’t understand, Charles. It was a … oh, I can’t even say the word.’ He’s like, ‘Well, don’t. Just try to forget about it.’ She goes, ‘No, I can’t, Charles. I have to say it. It was a … a … a lingerie party.’
I can’t keep the laughter in when the old man tells me this. She went, ‘It was awful, Charles. Her friends, they’re … animals. That’s all you could call them. It was Howiya this and Ah Jaysus that. Frizzy hair and tight jeans …’ And he turns around to her, roysh, and he goes, ‘Try not to think about it.’ She goes, ‘And then the lingerie came out. Oh, it was horrid, Charles, horrid. And they knew. They knew how uncomfortable I was with it. Kept telling me to buy various things. Spice up your love life, they said. And they’d all laugh. Horrible laughter. I said I didn’t have my credit card with me …’ The old man tells her she might feel better after a shower and she goes, ‘No, I have to tell you this, Charles. This Cindy woman, she said it didn’t matter. She’d buy me this as a present,’ and the old dear pulls this thing out of her pocket, roysh, and throws it on the table, and from the old man’s description it basically sounds like a pair of red crotchless knickers with feathers on them. I am breaking my shite laughing when I hear this. I basically can’t hold it in.
The old man, roysh, he’s still bulling when he tells me all this on the phone. He goes, ‘Ross, I have a job for you.’ I’m like, ‘I already have a job.’ He goes, ‘Well, call it a bit of moonlighting then. It’s a special project and it’s worth five grand to you. That’s what I’ll pay you to get those animals next door out. Within two months. And I don’t care how you do it either.’ I’m like, ‘I’ll do it. But don’t think this means we’re back playing happy families again. You can get that idea out of your head. But for five thousand bills, I’ll take the job.’ He goes, ‘Two months, Ross.’ And I’m there, ‘Piece of piss.’
Fionn says he only has one rule when it comes to the opposite sex, roysh, and that’s never go out with a bird who lives on a Close. I’m like, ‘Fionn, you have some seriously focked-up ideas.’ He goes, ‘Ross, have you ever known me to have trouble with the opposite sex?’ and he actually has a point.
I’m in Mullingar, roysh, and I’m not even sure what county it’s in. All I know is that it took me two focking hours to get here and that JP’s old man told me to refer to it as ‘the gateway town of Mullingar’, presumably to give the impression to the suckers I’m showing it to this afternoon that it’s on the outskirts of Dublin. Of course, wouldn’t you know it, Mr and Mrs Nugent are already there at the gaff when I get there, roysh, both of them already bulling. The goy goes, ‘Well, we’ve already spotted the first untruth in the prospectus.’ I’m like, ‘Sorry I’m late,’ trying to subtly change the subject, but he’s there, ‘Forty-five minutes from Dublin, it says here. In what, a Lear jet?’ I’m there trying to remember some of the killer lines I learned earlier. I go, ‘The strategic radial corridor should slash commuting times …’ but the focker’s too quick for me, roysh, he’s obviously been swotting up, and he’s there, ‘By strategic radial corridor I presume you’re referring to the N4?’ I’m there, ‘Em … yeah.’ He goes, ‘We took the N4. And I can only presume the N stands for nights, as in it’ll take you the best part of four bloody nights to get home.’
I’m there, ‘Hey, I’m getting majorly negative vibes here. If you don’t want the house …’ His wife, roysh – not bad looking, a little bit like Emma Forbes, D&G coat, Burberry scarf, cracking on she’s really posh, but if she was she wouldn’t be looking to buy a house in the middle of Bogsville – she goes, ‘Calm down, Pat. Let’s at least look the place over … we’ve come this far,’ obviously knowing their options in the housing market are limited, which makes them, like, easy prey for me. Of course, I’m there leading them through the gaff – a total dump if I’m honest, which I’m not – going, ‘You will have seen on your approach that this is a desirable residence in an exclusive enclave of sumptuously designed houses by an award-winning architect …’ Actually, the award-winning part is a bit cheeky. As JP’s old man says, the only thing the goy was ever awarded was temporary release from a four-year sentence for trying to bribe council officials, roysh, though as my desk diary said this morning, You’ve got to speculate to accumulate …
I’m going, ‘These innovative homes with their well-proportioned living areas, blah blah blah, generous specifications, bullshit bullshit bullshit, possible Section 23 relief, piece of focking cake.’ The goy mutters something about the TSB/ESRI house price index, whatever the fock that is, and the impending national spatial strategy – again, he’s on his own there – and I just go, ‘With the market in a state of flux, any theory I might postulate is as good as the next man’s,’ which is the emergency line to bluff your way out of any difficult corner in this job, and he just nods his head, roysh, and seems to accept what I’ve said.
I know what’s coming next. Of course it’s Emma Forbes who asks. She’s like, ‘Are you prepared to be flexible on the price?’ I’m like, ‘I am. Unfortunately, though, the market isn’t as generous as me. I have to remind you that I have two other clients to show around this afternoon.’ The two of them stand there humming and hawing, roysh, while I’m hitting them with things like, ‘optional full furniture fit-out package’, ‘rear-facing garden with sunny aspect’, and other bullshit, knowing damn well the saps aren’t going to get anything better than this. The goy’s like, ‘Okay, we’ll offer the asking price. What is it, W210,000?’ I’m there, ‘Excellent,’ showing them out. I go, ‘Now, unfortunately, there are two other clients coming this afternoon. It’s the highest offer I’m obliged to take, you understand that.’ They both nod, looking all mopey, roysh, like someone pissed on their cornflakes.
I actually don’t have anyone else coming to see the house, but I thought I’d let the fockers sweat. I wait around in my cor for about twenty minutes, let them get a good head stort on me, roysh, then I hit the strategic radial corridor back to Dublin.
During the summer, roysh, I was stringing along these two birds, we’re talking Becky and Iseult, and in the heat of the moment, roysh, I told both of them that I’d fallen in love with them, basically just trying to get my bit out of them. This is not actually unusual for me, roysh. I’ve been known to play five or six girls together at the same time, hence the Little Richard nickname that’s mentioned on the back of one of the cubicle doors in the men’s in Annabel’s.
What made this one different, roysh, was the fact that Iseult and Becky were actually in the same class at school, we’re talking sixth-year Whores on the Shore here, and keeping them apart was basically a tightrope act, which I have to say I managed to perform pretty well, until the day they both asked me to the same debs.
The goys were giving me total slaggings, roysh, telling me I’m getting far too old for that whole lark, and I did say tha
t last year’s Mount Anything debs would be my last – the chicken à la crème was the best-looking bird there – but I love, like, defying the odds, roysh, and the challenge of bringing two birds to the one debs, without them actually knowing about each other, was enough to persuade me out of retirement for one night only. Fionn turns around to me in the gaff one night and he goes, ‘Never been done before, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘Odds?’ He goes, ‘We’re talking 25 to 1.’ I’m like, ‘I’m up for the challenge.’
Day arrives, roysh, and I grab a hundred bills from the Drinklink, hit Blackrock, grab two orchids and two boxes of Leonidas chocolates, the medium-sized box, no point in going mental as I’ve been there and back with both of them. I get back to the gaff, roysh, and I phone up Iseult first and she’s like, ‘Of all the people I could be going with tonight, I’m SO glad it’s you, Ross. You have been SO good for me, especially when I didn’t get the points to do international commerce with German,’ and eventually, roysh, after I’ve finished borfing, she asks me to call up to her gaff – this huge pad in Glenageary – at, like, six o’clock because her parents are having, like, a cocktail porty beforehand, which is music to my ears because Becky doesn’t want me to pick her up until eight, so I’ve got time to play with.
Iseult’s old pair are just like Iseult, saps basically, giving it the whole, ‘So, this is the young man Iseult has spent the entire summer talking about,’ bit, roysh, and Iseult’s like, ‘OH MY! GOD! Daddy, you are SO embarrassing me,’ and I’m there going, you can focking cut that out right now, because they’ve basically got me down as, like, future son-in-law material here. It’s all, like, bullshit talk for about half an hour, roysh, me knocking back Diet Cokes and losing the will to live.
Eventually, we head off and I drop Iseult off at the Shelbourne, roysh, then tell her I’ve forgotten to bring this amazing present I bought her (she’s like, ‘Oh, you are SO sweet’) and I hop back in the cor and peg it out to Becky’s gaff in Stillorgan. Oh my God, roysh, Becky’s old pair have invited half the focking world around for drinks, we’re talking aunts, uncles, neighbours, you name it. Her old man is a total dickhead, leading me around the sitting room, roysh, with his arm around my shoulder, introducing me to all his, I don’t know, business associates I suppose, going, ‘This is Ross, Rebecca’s boyfriend,’ which is news to me, though I say nothing. He goes, ‘Captained Castlerock the year they won the Cup, 1999 I think I’m right in saying.’
Her old dear, who was actually a bit of a yummy-mummy, spent the next, like, half an hour practically force-feeding me focking vol-au-vents before we finally escaped with a few words of treat-my-daughter-like-a-princess advice from the penis in the Pringle sweater. I’m like, ‘Your parents are really cool,’ as we get in the cor. She goes, ‘I’m SO glad you got on well with them.’
The trickiest part of the evening, roysh, was the meal, the big dilemma being who do I sit with. Basically what I did, roysh, was I asked Iseult would she mind if I sat at another table, just for, like, the meal and shit. She goes, ‘Oh my God, you don’t want to be seen with me? Is it, like, the dress?’ I’m like, ‘No, no, I just want to have a chat with Hayser’ – this goy who was at school with me – ‘he’s pretty upset about not making the UCD team this season.’ She looks at me and then at Hayser, roysh, then she goes, ‘Oh my God, you are SO a good friend,’ and she gives me this, like, peck on the cheek, roysh, and I just fock off.
So there I am, roysh, sat at a table across the far side of the room, with Hayser on one side of me and Becky on the other, and I nearly choke on a garlic and cheese potato when Becky turns around to me at one stage and goes, ‘OH MY! GOD! Iseult Mooney must have come on her own. What a sad bitch.’ I’m basically there coughing and spluttering my guts up. I’m like, ‘Who’s Iseult Mooney?’ still trying to play it cool as a fish’s fart. She goes, ‘Oh, believe me, she is not someone you’d want to know.’ I’m like, ‘Well, I’m glad I’m here with you and not her,’ and she looks at me and goes, ‘Oh my God, this is turning out to be SO one of the best nights of my life.’
It was the perfect crime, roysh. After the meal, it was, like, twenty minutes with one, then the other, back and forth all night, the two birds thinking I was their date for the night, and I was sitting there, roysh, storting to let my guard down, pretty confident at that stage that I was even going to end up scoring the two of them at the end of the night, but then it just, like, totally came apart, and we’re talking TOTALLY here.
I completely forgot, roysh, but this bird, Aoibheann, let’s just say a very recent conquest who I might also have said the dreaded L-word to, she was there as well, roysh, and she ends up getting completely off her face, having a row with me over what a bastard I am to women and then focking a vodka and Red Bull over me. Of course, Iseult and Becky arrive over at exactly the same time and they both want to know – ‘OH MY! GOD! OH MY! GOD! OH MY! GOD!’ – what’s going on. And that’s when they find out about, well, each other. Becky goes to Aoibheann, ‘That’s, like, my boyfriend,’ and Iseult turns around to Becky and she’s like, ‘Hello? You’re, like, delusional, girl.’
Aoibheann sort of, like, disappears, roysh, and the two birds are left there, like, screaming at each other. I’m not sure if they’ve, like, copped on what’s been going on here tonight, but it’s obvious they’ve been dying to get stuck into each other for a while. Becky tells Iseult that Iseult has SO had it in for her ever since she took her place on the hockey team, and Iseult tells Becky she’s a knob, always was and always will be. She goes, ‘You were always SO up Miss Pendleton’s orse.’ Becky tells Iseult she has an attitude problem – a TOTAL attitude problem, she goes – and, flattering as it is, roysh, to have two birds fighting over me, I decide then to get the fock out of there when no one is looking. I was just like, ‘Goodnight, Vienna.’
CHAPTER SIX
The One Where Ross Has A Cunning Plan
I’m in the newsagents, roysh, the one around the corner from the old pair’s gaff, and the queue’s, like, out the focking door, and I’m just there flicking through the magazines, waiting for them all to clear out, but the owner, roysh, he’s blabbing away to some old dear about the euro and whether we’ll ever, like, get used to it, and I’m there thinking what a mutt Patsy Kensit is without make-up and that Patsy Palmer isn’t much better, with or without, when all of a sudden, roysh, I hear the goy go, ‘You know that magazine’s for women,’ which is when I realise, roysh, that the shop’s empty, at long focking last.
I head up to the counter, roysh, and the goy goes, ‘Oh it’s you, Ross. Didn’t recognise you there. It’s the baseball cap. You’re not wearing one today.’ Then he goes, ‘And Charles, how the hell is he?’ It never ceases to amaze me how easily taken in people are by that dickhead. I’m like, ‘My dad’s the same as ever,’ and I wonder whether he heard what I actually said because he storts breaking his shite laughing – we’re talking, like, really over the top laughing – and slapping the counter, and when he’s finished, roysh, he goes, ‘That’s him alright. That’s our Charles.’
I’m just staring at the goy, roysh, and eventually, when he calms down, I’m like, ‘Do you sell The Star? It’s a newspaper.’ He goes, ‘I do, for my sins. It’s over there, bottom shelf, next to the manila envelopes and the shiny wrapping paper.’ I’m like, ‘How many copies do you get in?’ He’s like, ‘Em … ten, I think.’ I’m like, ‘You get in ten copies every day.’ He goes, ‘Well, it was very popular there during the summer. When the World Cup was on … what’s all this about, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘I want them. I mean I want to buy them. All of them. All ten.’ He looks at me, roysh, squinting his eyes, and he goes, ‘You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you? There’s not something in there you don’t want your mum and dad to read, is there?’
Before I can say no, roysh, he grabs a copy and lashes it out on the counter and he storts, like, opening pages at random and reading the headlines, going, ‘JORDAN TO GIVE BIRTH ON THE INTERNET! It wasn’t you, Ross, was it? You didn’t
impregnate the buxom, attention-seeking glamour model, did you? Did you?’ Holy fock, I knew the goy was, like, weird, but I didn’t know how weird. I’m like, ‘What are you bullshitting on about?’ He goes, ‘WEE WILLY WIMPY! POP IDOL OPENS HIS HEART ON SCHOOL BULLIES WHO MADE HIS LIFE HELL! You didn’t, Ross? You didn’t steal lunch money from television’s monkey-faced warbler, maybe stick his head down the toilet? Oh, for the love of humanity. “MAN WHO SAID S**T IN FRONT OF MY KIDS MADE ME MAD! I COULD HAVE PUNCHED HIM ON THE NOSE,” SAYS RONAN! This is the one, isn’t it, Ross? You made nice guy Ronan lose his legendary cool by using the S-word in front of baby Jack. It’s no wonder you don’t want your parents reading this. Can you live with it, Ross? Can you live with yourself?’
I’m like, ‘Sorry, will you shut the fock up for a minute. It’s got nothing to do with any of that shit. I want to buy all your copies of The Star. Not just today. Every day. And I don’t want you ordering more. That’s the deal. You put the ten copies aside for me and anyone else asks you for it you tell them it’s sold out.’ I pull out a wad of notes and slap five euros down on the counter. I’m like, ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’ He goes, ‘Well there’d want to be. Sure, that wouldn’t even cover the cost of the papers.’ Focking Monopoly money. I slap a twenty down on top of it. I’m like, ‘There’s twenty-five euros in it for you, then. We’re talking every day here.’ He goes, ‘Fine.’
