‘Oh! My God!’ the birds are all going. ‘She looks so amazing,’ which she doesn’t by the way?
And they know it. Whatever bunch of beauty-school dropouts ended up doing Claire’s make-up, she’s obviously had some kind of reaction to it, which has left her boat all plump and shiny, while the dress has ended up looking a real mess after that day in Kilcroney, despite Sorcha’s old dear’s best efforts with the Singer. In all honesty, she looks like a focking Pixar character wrapped in a net curtain. Which, by the way, are the exact words I text to JP. Then I lean forward in the pew, just to get his reaction. Except he just mouths the word, ‘What?’ to me and I shake my head as if to say it doesn’t matter. His phone will be on silent, you mork my words – some shit about being in the house of God. ‘Erika and Sorcha look great too,’ Fionn, who’s sitting between us, goes. Which is true and they’re the only ones here who do. Claire’s old pair, her two brothers, her Bray mates – they’re all rough as guts, while his side aren’t exactly easy on the eye either. ‘I’ve been at some ugly weddings,’ I go, out of the side of my mouth, ‘but this is a real focking slaughterhouse, isn’t it?’ Fionn’s there, ‘Hey, be nice,’ except he is laughing? ‘Brothers and sisters,’ the priest goes, ‘we are gathered here today to celebrate the union in marriage of Garret and Claire …’ Well, I’m thinking, at least I got the names right. Oh yeah, I had to come clean about the Mass leaflets when Garret copped that they weren’t on whatever focking paper it was they ordered. He actually pulled me, roysh, outside the church, while I was dishing them out, asking me what happened to the originals. I told him I was pretty sure I left them in Ron Blacks, which is why I printed out new ones – er, what’s the major deal? ‘Okay,’ I go, turning to Fionn, ‘this is where the laughter ends. Tell JP to sit forward in his seat there,’ which he automatically does. ‘Now, we’ve all had, like, a week to, I don’t know, digest, dissect – whatever the actual word is – the news about our medals …’ ‘Ross,’ JP goes, ‘do you really think this is the time and place?’ I decide not to dignify that question with a response. ‘We know this thing is happening,’ I go, giving him a hord stare. ‘What I want to know now is what are we going to do about it?’ JP pulls a face. He’s there, ‘What can we do?’ I shake my head. ‘That doesn’t sound like the JP who, for two years, was possibly one of the best three fullbacks for his age in the country – definitely top five …’ See, I’m suddenly full of, I don’t know, resolve to fight this thing – that’s what makes me a winner. Fionn pushes his glasses up on his nose. ‘Well, the question still stands, Ross. We’ve been retroactively disqualified.’ ‘So, what,’ I go in, like, a real angry whisper, ‘you’re just going to hand your medal over to some focking farmhand?’ That rocks them both back in their pews. ‘I’m really sorry, goys, but you’re not listening to me. Which means I’m going to have to give it to you in a language you understand. You give that medal back to the school and this time next week it’ll be hanging around the neck of Mocky or some other dangle-eyed chewbacon.’ They both look at each other. They know that, whatever way you slice it, that can’t be right. I’m there, ‘I certainly didn’t captain us to victory for that to one day happen.’ ‘Ssshhh!’ some woman behind us goes and I half turn around and go, ‘Hey, shush your focking self!’ JP’s there, ‘Do you really think there’s a chance we could get to keep our medals?’ Of course, I’m suddenly loving the moment, suddenly playing it cooler than the other side of the pillow. ‘What is it that dude always says? From my cold, dead hands?’ Fionn, for one, is definitely impressed. He’s always seen me as a leader. ‘Ross, are you saying you have a plan?’ I actually laugh – I have to. ‘Oh, I’ve one or two little things bubbling away up there in the old head, don’t you worry about that. We worked too hord for these medals to just give them up without a fight. I’m already going to talk to my old man – do you think he’s going to stand by and just let this happen? Er, I don’t think so? He’s been dining out on my glory for ten years. Focker wouldn’t have a social life if it wasn’t for me. What I need you to do, Fionn, is get all the goys back together.’ ‘I don’t know, Ross – most of them we haven’t seen since the Debs.’ I’m there, ‘Doesn’t matter – you can get their contact details from the school. You haven’t quit your job yet, have you?’ ‘What do you mean yet?’ ‘Well, I’m presuming you’re going to.’ He doesn’t answer. I’m there, ‘I focking hope you are. Anyway, you do the ringaround. All the goys will all have got their letters by now. Obviously, they’re going to be devastated. It’ll be, How can I go on? and blahdy blahdy blah. Then you ring, going, “Er, what are you worried for? The Rossmeister General has a plan of focking action.” Say some shit like, we’ve got one more game to play – and this time it’s personal. Actually, don’t use that, I’ll keep that for when I see them …’ Then it’s, like, eyes front again. Something else occurs to me. ‘By the way,’ I go, ‘don’t tell Christian?’ Fionn’s there, ‘Why not?’ The thing is, roysh, I don’t know why? I just don’t want him finding out – maybe because, deep down, I know that it’s all my fault. ‘He’s in the States,’ I go. ‘It’ll be ages before he finds out – and by then, it’ll be sorted. Just don’t tell him.’ He’s there, ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ Honor looks amazing in that little dress that Sorcha bought her – even with the moustache? She’s looking back, going, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ and I’m waving away at her until she goes, ‘My daddy drew on my face!’ and people stort throwing me these horrified looks. Then Sorcha tells her she has to be quiet because Claire and Garret are about to exchange their vows. Claire from Brayruit getting married. Who’d have honestly thunk it? I can be a bit, I don’t know, sentimental at times, which is why I’m suddenly sat there thinking, Jesus, there’s focking hope for everyone. She’s stood at the altar, giving it, ‘I, Claire Theresa Sammon, take you, Garret John Hassett, to be my husband …’ That’s when, out of the blue, I suddenly go, ‘Fock! Nooo!’ Because I’ve realized, roysh, with a fright that almost stops my focking hort, that the text about Claire looking like a Pixar character in a net curtain – I sent it to her phone instead of JP’s. Literally everyone is turned around and suddenly staring at me again. Sorcha’s up there, mouthing the words ‘Oh! My! God!’ in my general direction, not a happy rabbit about it either. He – in other words Garret? – looks like he wants to come down and finally deck me. ‘Do you have something to say about this union?’ the priest storts going. ‘Apart from that vulgarism you just uttered.’ I’m there, ‘Errr, no, you’re cool.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yeah, you can, er, proceed.’ ‘That’s most gracious of you.’ Anyway, they continue with their vows. Out of the corner of his mouth, Fionn goes, ‘I take it you saw the Eucharistic Prayer,’ and of course at that point I haven’t a focking clue what he’s even talking about. I’m too busy thinking that I’ve got to stop her reading that focking text. But where’s her Wolfe? She wouldn’t have it with her, would she? No, of course she wouldn’t. Could it be possibly back in the gaff? And if so, how am I going to get to it and delete that message before she sees it? It’s these kind of thoughts that occupy my, I suppose, brain for most of the next ten or fifteen minutes? Even when Garret is kissing the bride and the audience is clapping away, roysh, I’m sat there in an actual daze, trying to come up with a strategy to get my hands on that phone first. JP’s suddenly sat forward in his seat then. He’s like, ‘Has anyone looked at the Eucharistic Prayer?’ I turn to Fionn and I’m like, ‘What is it about this focking prayer?’ ‘We offer you our sacrifices of praise,’ the priest is going, ‘for our own good and the good of those who are dear to us …’ ‘When you changed the names on the version you downloaded,’ Fionn goes, ‘did you do it line by line?’ I’m there, ‘I did in my Swiss. I just did a search and replace.’ ‘That’d explain it.’ ‘We pray to you, our living and true God, for our well-being and redemption …’ ‘Explain what?’ ‘Wait for it …’ �
�In union with the whole Church, we honour Claire, the ever-virgin mother of Jesus Christ our Lord …’ There’s, like, a collective intake of breath. Claire and Garret are suddenly looking over their shoulders, directly at me, giving me serious daggers. Of course everyone else in the audience suddenly senses that, whatever happened, it’s basically down to me, so they stort staring me out of it as well. There’s one thing that’s certain. Even without them knowing about that text message, I’ve already managed to make myself the most hated person at this wedding. That much is obvious from the looks I get from the supposedly happy couple as they make their way down the aisle, orm in orm, followed by my wife and daughter, my sister and the focking cast of Shameless. The most embarrassing bit is having to face the line-up. ‘Well done, Ross,’ JP goes, while we’re waiting for our turn to say congratulations, ‘you’ve made it another day to remember.’ I’m like, ‘Dude, you honestly have no idea. I’ve just done that shit where you accidentally send a text to the person you’re actually ripping the back out of.’ ‘Claire?’ he goes. He’s laughing, roysh, even though he knows it’s not funny. He doesn’t even ask me what it said. He just goes, ‘Oh, shit!’ presuming – knowing me – that it’s got to be bad. ‘Major congrats,’ I suddenly go, sticking my hand out, ‘you’ve got yourself a good girl there.’ Garret doesn’t even shake it. He just goes, ‘You couldn’t even be happy for us, you’re that eaten up with jealousy.’ What a prize prick. ‘Well, if you’re talking about me shouting out in the middle of the Mass,’ I try to go, ‘I actually thought the priest made a bit of a meal out of it? What is it, the first time he’s ever heard the F word? How long has he lived in this town?’ I turn to Claire, then. I’m there, ‘Congrats,’ and I go to, like, hug her, except she pulls away, roysh, looks over my shoulder and tells JP that she’s so sorry she couldn’t invite Danuta, it’s just the numbers and blah blah blah. Sorcha and Erika are already standing outside in their Yo Thai waitress outfits, next to Chloe, Sophie, Amie with an ie and Fionn. I decide to, like, tip over and just brazen it out. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,’ I go, ‘special occasions or not, Mass is focking boring, isn’t it?’ Sorcha’s holding Honor and just shaking her head, like she’s basically given up on me. ‘So what is it, Ross,’ Sophie has to go, ‘are you in love with Claire or something?’ ‘Please!’ I go. ‘I’ve been in there a load of times, don’t forget – and I’ve always thought the girl was horrendous. A real focking mess.’ Of course her old dear happens to be standing right behind me at the time and I can immediately tell it’s going to be one of those days when I literally can’t do or say anything right? Luckily, roysh, Erika changes the subject. ‘Fionn,’ she goes, ‘you were talking about the Edvard Munch exhibition …’ Fionn pushes his glasses up on his nose. He goes, ‘Yeah, no, I was talking about The Scream, which is obviously his best-known work. I was just saying, he was on the record somewhere as saying that he got the inspiration to paint it after stepping out for a walk one evening and witnessing this brilliantly orange sunset, which art historians always believed was simply a reflection of his famous melancholy. But I was reading this book recently – it said geologists have discovered that when Krakatoa erupted in 1883, it caused the sky over northern Europe to turn an unnaturally fiery colour, which is almost certainly what inspired him to paint his masterpiece nearly ten years later.’ There’s lots of wows from the birds, humouring him basically. Then Sorcha says we’d better stort making our way up to the gaff. ‘Where is it?’ I go. ‘Just beyond the second burned-out Nightlink on the left?’ and then I hear Claire’s old man asking one of her brothers, ‘Who is he anyway?’ I end up giving Sorcha, Honor and Erika a lift. On the walk to the cor, Erika links me – there’s a real, yeah, you’re a total penis but you’re still my brother vibe to it – and she goes, ‘Isn’t Fionn just so interesting?’ and I laugh and go, ‘Er, yeah, whatever blows your skirt up.’ We arrive at the gaff, roysh, and in we go. I sidle straight over to Claire, then whip out my phone and subtly go, ‘God, I must turn this thing back on,’ even though it is on? Of course she ponies up the info I’m looking for. ‘Yeah, I left mine up in my bedroom,’ she goes. ‘I didn’t want any distractions today,’ and then she remembers what happened in the church and goes, ‘You better put that thing on silent during the Rod Nam Sang ceremony, Ross,’ to which there’s no real answer? The meal, believe it or not, ends up being surprisingly all right, even if it is just the house special yellow curry from The King and Thai on the Quinsboro Road. And it’s actually really nice to be just, I don’t know, sitting around like this, the old crew back together again – me talking about how there’s no focking way in the world I’m giving up this medal, JP saying he’s not either, and Amie with an ie saying she’s tried to get into Breaking Bad but it’s, oh my God, nowhere near as good as Californication. At the same time, I’m watching Claire like a focking hawk, of course, to make sure she doesn’t just nip upstairs to check her texts – to the point where Sophie actually turns around, roysh, being a total bitch, and goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, you can’t take your eyes off her!’ About, like, an hour or so after the meal, roysh, Claire and him get up from the table and suddenly sit, I don’t know, cross-legged in the middle of the kitchen floor. Some half-Thai, half-Irish dude called Johnny, who apparently runs a kick-boxing club in Fassaroe, is going to be the supposed monk for the ceremony. They tell everyone to, like, crowd around, roysh, and I decide to use the sudden confusion to try to, like, slip upstairs. I’m thinking, happy focking days. Except Sorcha cops me, roysh, just as I’m disappearing around the door of the kitchen. She’s like, ‘Where are you going?’ Of course I’m suddenly the centre of attention again, with everyone just, like, staring at me. ‘Er, to be brutally honest,’ I go, ‘this kind of shit really isn’t my bag? I was going to use it as a chance to go for a hit and miss. My back teeth are actually floating.’ ‘Sit down!’ Claire’s old man just goes and you can tell from the way he says it that he’s not expecting a debate. So I end up having to sit through the whole focking show then – the chain of flowers, the conch shell, the full bag of chips – sober as fock and slowly losing the will to live. When it’s finally over, we each have to give a personal message of goodwill to the happy couple. I get totally caught on the hop and mine ends up being, ‘Er, I think it’s actually pretty cool, blah blah blah,’ and I hear JP behind me go, ‘Thank you, the Dalai Lama,’ which one or two others seem to think is hilarious. I don’t actually rise to the bait. There’s loads of shit I could throw back at him but all I can think about is that phone. Over the next couple of hours, I make two or three further attempts to get upstairs, but I keep getting constantly cornered, firstly by Chloe, who mentions that Kelly Rutherford has named her son Hermès, which she thinks is so an amazing name for a baby, then by one of Claire’s brothers, who tells me that if this wasn’t such a happy day for his family, he would beat me to a bloody pulp, then dump my sorry carcass into the Dargle. I’m thinking, dude, you don’t even know the worst of it yet. Another hour passes with me still trying to get out of the room and upstairs. But then Sorcha dumps Honor into my orms to take a photo of the bride and groom cutting the tiramisu. Then it’s suddenly the first dance, which ends up being ‘World of Our Own’, in the middle of the sun room. Claire’s always claimed she was with Kian Egan – as in with with? – before he ended up being with Jodi Albert, though, conveniently for her, no one was there to actually witness it? I look over at Erika, roysh, and I notice that she’s, like, standing on her own, watching Claire and fock-head dance, literally just staring at them, totally lost in the moment. I tip over to her, still holding Honor, and I go, ‘If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to prove that story about her meeting Westlife in Jurys is total horseshit.’ Usually, roysh, you’d expect Erika to at least try to top that? She’s always hated Claire. But this time she doesn’t. She actually goes, ‘They’re so in love, Ross,’ and it’s immediately obvious that she’s a
little bit jorred. ‘To think, I used to pity her. And now here I am, weirdly jealous …’ ‘Of him?’ I go. ‘No, not of Garret. I’m jealous of their happiness. Of their certainty …’ ‘Hey, it’ll happen for you,’ I try to go. ‘Just don’t go hitting the panic button like a lot of birds do when they stort pushing thirty.’ Half an hour maybe passes. Everyone’s pretty mullered even though it’s only, like, five o’clock in the day? I’m still Hank, so I tip into the kitchen to see if there’s any nosebag left. There’s, like, a shitload of silver trays from the chinky on the draining board next to the sink, some of them with the odd springroll or wonton in them – focking cold, though I stort milling into them like a freed hostage, feeding the odd one to Honor, while other guests shoot me disgusted looks, although it’s impossible to say which of my many crimes today they’re pissed off about. ‘Ignore the haters,’ I make sure to tell Honor, as I pick a bit of beansprout out of her moustache. I wander over to JP, who’s telling Sophie he can’t wait for the third season of Dexter, while Sophie’s telling him that in the meantime he so should try In Treatment. She’s just finished the first season and Gabriel Byrne is, like, oh my God in it. I suddenly decide, okay, now’s my moment – cometh the hour and blahdy blahdy blah. I dump Honor into Sophie’s orms and go, ‘Mind her for a minute or two, will you? Something I’ve got to do …’ Before I get out of the kitchen, though, I just happen, for some reason, to turn my head and catch a glimpse of something outside, through the kitchen window, that turns my – honestly – stomach. At the same time, roysh, I have to see it up close, just so no one can deny it happened at a later date. I feel like I’m about to hurl. Erika is being with Fionn. She’s more than just being with him as well. He has her sitting up on the coal bunker, her Yo Thai dress hitched up above her knees and he’s, like, feeling her bare thighs. At the same time, roysh, she’s running her hands through his hair and practically eating his face. I stand there at the door for ages, just staring at them – a little bit mesmerized – until she eventually opens her eyes and notices me. There’s not a word of explanation, by the way. She just goes, ‘What do you want?’ and he’s there, ‘Oh, hey, Ross.’ It’s him I end up taking it out on. ‘I’d say you can’t believe you got this lucky,’ I go. She’s like, ‘Grow up, Ross.’ ‘You must think all your focking Christmases have come at once.’ Erika’s there, ‘Fock off, Ross!’ ‘All that bullshit about that focking painting. This must be the first time that’s worked on a bird, I’d say …’ ‘Can you leave us alone?’ he tries to go. He actually leaves his glasses on when he’s being with a bird, which is sad and hilarious at the same time? I just shake my head at him. ‘She’s going to be majorly embarrassed in the morning – you needn’t expect a repeat performance.’ ‘See you later,’ he has the actual cheek to go, when all I’m reallly trying to do is, like, save him from hurt down the line? I walk back into the gaff. The music is for some reason off. The kitchen is full but no one seems to be talking. ‘No one go out there,’ I tell the room, ‘just to warn you – unless you want to see something that’ll turn your stomach …’ I realize, roysh, with a sudden shiver, that everyone is just, like, staring at me – and you can take it I don’t mean admiringly? I’m straight away thinking, fock! I only took my eyes off Claire for, like, five minutes … Where is she? I manage to pick her out of the sea of angry faces in front of me and – shit – she’s crying like a focking refugee, with Sorcha attempting to, I suppose, comfort her? Claire’s old dear, I notice, is holding her phone, reading – presumably – the message I sent. People are asking her what it says but obviously no one wants to say the words ‘Pixar character in a net curtain’, so they just hand the phone around, their faces just dropping as they read it. I get the sudden feeling that this is yet another porty that’s coming to an early end for me. ‘Don’t ever set foot in Bray again,’ Claire’s old man just goes, like I’d ever make a focking habit of it. I turn around and look at Garret, who’s actually lost for words. He literally throws my jacket at me. ‘I suppose the silver lining for you,’ I try to go, ‘is that you know now that I’m definitely not in love with her?’ Of course it’s no consolation to him. I wouldn’t expect it to be? I had, like, seventeen missed calls after I was focked out of the wedding last night. Didn’t answer, presuming it was basically other guests, threatening to kick the shit out of me and whatever else. I listen to my messages and there’s quite a few of that colour all right. People from Bray have unbelievable imaginations, it has to be said, when it comes to shit like torture. It’s all break this and snap that and douse the other in petrol before setting it on fire. Then, roysh, in the middle of all these threats to my personal safety is a message from one of the all-time greats. ‘Hey, Ross, it’s Gerry Thornley.’ I laugh. G to the T to the Irish Times. It’s good to hear the focker’s voice. Until, that is, he goes, ‘This is one of the most difficult phone calls I’ve ever had to make …’ My blood runs actually cold. I immediately know that unless Michael Cheika has seen the light in relation to what I could bring to the Leinster team, this is going to be bad news. ‘Look,’ he goes, ‘I’ve had a tip-off from – let’s just say a contact – that you goys are being stripped of your Leinster Schools Senior Cup medals. Anyway, I’ve had it confirmed by the school. They’re saying it was because of the …’ He suddenly stops. ‘Methamphetamine,’ he goes, obviously reading it. ‘Ross, you and I go back a long, long way, which is why I had to let you know. Dude, we’re running with the story tomorrow morning. If you want to give me your side of things … Look, you have my number.’ Tomorrow morning is basically now. I check the time on my phone and it’s, like, ten o’clock. I’m not even out of bed and the news is probably all over the world at this stage. I just presumed we’d get a chance to fight this thing before the actual news broke. I take the medal in the palm of my hand and just stare at it, sitting there, all bright and shiny. Crede quod habes, et habes. God, I never got around to even Googling that. I thought I’d all the time in the world. I get out of bed and make my way over to the window and I stand there for, like, ten minutes, staring down at the traffic on the M50. It’s, like, Saturday morning and I’m suddenly thinking, how many of those cors are, like, full of parents bringing their kids to rugby training this morning? And how many of those kids are crying, going, ‘Mom, say it’s not true! Dad, surely the drugs had very little to do with it and it was mostly down to, like, basic talent and the dude kicking like a focking Ninja Turtle?’ Then – oh shit – Ronan suddenly pops into my head. I’m thinking, what kind of a role model am I to him all of a sudden? I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. All I know is that I have to tell him before he finds out from someone else, even though I know, deep down, that it’s going to crush him. I dial his number, my hand actually shaking. He answers on the third ring and I just take, like, a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ I go. ‘I just wanted to tip you off that there’s, like, a story in the Irish Times this morning – and it’s about me.’ There’s, like, silence on the other end of the phone. ‘What’s it say?’ he eventually goes. I have to tell him, roysh, and there’s no nice way of putting it. ‘Well, it’s a story about me and basically drugs.’ ‘Thrugs?’ ‘Exactly. Now, I stand by everything I said about them,’ I make sure to go. ‘I want you to know that. But what I should have told you – except I was going to wait until you were, like, fourteen or fifteen – is that there’s, like, good drugs and there’s, like, bad drugs.’ ‘What kind are you on?’ ‘Well, I’m not on any? What I’m saying is, I was on drugs – we’re talking ten years ago? And now – even though a lot of people would be of the view that I did nothing wrong – they’re trying to take away the most precious thing in the world to me …’ I can hear the actual worry in his silence. ‘No, not you,’ I end up having to go. ‘To be honest, that care home is only something your mother threatens you with to stop you drinking her Scrumpy. No, what I’m talking about, Ro, is my Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal.’
‘Oh,’ he goes. ‘Are thee gonna send you to jail?’ I laugh. ‘I focking hope not! See, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, Ro – it’s not, like, a criminal thing?’ ‘Why idn’t it?’ ‘What?’ ‘Why idn’t it? How come the thrugs that Tetty and Laddy do be dealin are illegal and the thrugs that you’re on ardent?’ Kids and their questions – you’d have to laugh at the innocence. ‘Again,’ I go, ‘I’m not on anything …’ ‘Dudn’t that make you a hypocrite but?’ ‘A hypocrite? That’s a pretty big word to be just bandying around.’ ‘But you telt me, Just Say No. Idn’t that what you said?’ Of course he has me twisted in knots at this stage. ‘Well, yeah, up to a point. But, like I said earlier, there are different kinds of drugs. Being honest, Just Say No is really only port of the story. What they actually mean is, Just Say No … to Basically Hord Drugs.’ He tells me I’m full of shit. And even though it’s possibly true, I can’t tell you how much it hurts. But it makes me even more determined – for my son’s sake as much as mine – not to take this thing lying down. ‘Terrible,’ the old man goes, taking a sudden interest in the John Shanahan’s split pea and ham soup stain he’s somehow managed to get down the front of his Shred Focking Everything! boilersuit. That’s how I know he’s trying to, like, avoid the issue. ‘Terrible, terrible business.’ I just keep staring at him until he has to look at me? ‘You’ve been pretty focking quiet,’ I go. ‘Two or three years ago, you’d have been on it like a bonnet – threatening legal action, letters from Hennessy, all sorts of shit. Kind of like you did when Erika got mixed up with Toddy Rathfriland. I mean, do you remember how proud you supposedly were when I lifted the actual trophy?’ ‘Of course,’ he goes, still avoiding my eye. ‘Whither Warren Gatland now? Er, do you remember even shouting that at Mary McAleese?’ ‘Yes,’ he goes, ‘during her presentation speech. And I stand by every word of it.’ ‘Well, you could have fooled me,’ I go, ‘because it’s, like, ten days since I left you that message – no phone call, nothing …’ ‘I did ring,’ he tries to go. ‘Went straight to your message recorder. I expect you couldn’t hear the thing. I thought, he’s listening to some of his world-famous music, I shouldn’t wonder. Niggers With Attitude Problems and whatnot.’ Helen suddenly pokes her head around the door of his study. She’s like, ‘Hello, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘Hey, Mrs Joseph.’ ‘Oh, stop with the Mrs Joseph,’ she goes. ‘You’ll have me feeling my age. Are you staying for dinner?’ ‘Er, I’d love to,’ I go, ‘except I’ve got a lot of work to do. Trying to hang on to this …’ I show her the medal. ‘Yes,’ she goes, ‘I was just saying to Fionn, it must be awful to have your name splashed across the newspapers like that.’ I’m there, ‘Fionn?’ ‘Yes, you’ve just missed him,’ it’s the old man who goes. ‘He’s taken Erika out for the night. There was talk of a drink, wasn’t there, Dorling?’ Helen’s there, ‘What a lovely young man. I’ve always liked him. He’s so dependable. So sensible.’ I could mention that it’s so long since he’s had his hole he’ll probably need runway lights to guide him. But I don’t. They’re just happy that this one’s not sixty-something and married. So I just go, ‘Yeah, he’s certainly those things. If that’s what grinds Erika’s gears, which I suspect, deep down, it’s not.’ Helen’s there, ‘I’m going to put a wash on, Charlie. Are you going to give me that suit?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he goes. ‘I shall change right away.’ She turns to me then. ‘Can you believe him? Second day in the new job and he’s already got soup on his new suit …’ She laughs then. ‘I don’t know how they even let you into Shanahan’s dressed like that …’ She’s actually right. It’s, like, a yellow one-piece, with red piping and the name of the company plastered across the back. I hadn’t thought what a complete and utter penis he looks. She wanders off back to the kitchen. I’m thinking, where was I? ‘Anyway,’ I go, ‘if you were ringing – and it’s still a big if – to tell me that we’re going to supposedly fight this thing together, all the way, my answer is that I don’t need your help. I’m actually handling things this time?’ ‘Well, good for you,’ he just goes, not even seeming that bothered. ‘But try to see it in its proper perspective, eh? Nobody’s died here.’ I’m wondering did I mishear what he just said. I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Look, I know you’re upset. It was a wonderful thing in your life …’ ‘Er, don’t you mean all of our lives?’ ‘Yes, of course. But it doesn’t define you, Ross. I’d venture there’s a lot more to you than just that medal …’ I’m waiting, like a focking idiot, for him to stort rhyming off shit. In the end, I have to ask him what exactly? He’s there, ‘Well, brains for a start …’ I laugh, even though I’m technically ripping the piss out of myself. I’m like, ‘Brains? Er, what brains?’ ‘Well, maybe you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel for too long,’ he goes. ‘But I’ve seen it in you, Ross. You’re a smart one. And what I’m trying to say in regard to the schools cup thing is, yes, we had our fun – wonderful experiences that your mother and I will never forget. But now it’s time for you to move on …’ ‘Move on?’ ‘To new challenges, new triumphs …’ I laugh. ‘You’re talking about me joining your focking ridiculous shredding company, aren’t you?’ ‘Well, why not?’ ‘Because I don’t want to look like you do now – in other words, a prize tit.’ He looks suddenly hurt – at long last. ‘I’ve just come through an anguish something similar to yours,’ he tries to go. ‘What, that hotel bullshit? Don’t even try to say that’s the same thing.’ ‘Well, we’ve both had to say goodbye to something we worked very hard for …’ ‘Except I’m not saying goodbye to my medal – are you focking deaf or just hord of hearing?’ ‘The important thing is not to see it as an ending but rather as the start of something else. That’s what I’ve been trying to get across to people in some of my more recent correspondence in the pages of the paper of record. Did you know, the word for crisis, when written in Chinese, is composed of two letters – one represents danger, the other opportunity.’ My eyes automatically wander to his desk. There’s one of those how-to-bullshit-your-way-in-business books face down on it. I just shake my head and tell him he’s sad. ‘Please,’ he goes, ‘stay for dinner.’ I’m there, ‘Er, no thanks. I’m actually choosy about the company I keep?’ I’m walking through the corpork of Rosa Parks, looking forward to a Friday night – believe it or not – in. After the week I’ve had – focking up Claire’s wedding, seeing my supposed sister scoring one of my best friends, being called a drug cheat in pretty much every newspaper in the country, then getting a letter from the Leinster Branch of the IRFU this morning, telling me, formally, to return my medal without delay – I’m looking forward to just vegging out in front of Xposé in my Cantos with the focked elastic. I call the, I suppose, elevator. The doors open. I step in and hit the button for the top floor, thinking I’m definitely going to order take-out tonight. I’ve earned it. That’s when I suddenly hear the dreaded words. ‘Hold de lift!’ Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but those words are usually the cue for me to stort hitting the Close Doors button with the rapid thumb action of a teenage bitch with gossip worth texting. Which is exactly what I do. The doors close, nearly the whole way, but then they suddenly stop, no more than a couple of inches aport, and I look down to see a white Lacoste runner jammed in between them. Of course my hort is suddenly going like a focking express train. I could stamp on his foot, then sort of, like, kick it out, but the chances are that he already knows that it’s me in here, so I end up having to hit the Open Doors button instead? It’s, like, Terry – and then, running behind him, Larry, the brutter. Terry goes, ‘Ah, howiya, Rosser,’ just letting me know that he knows Ronan’s, I suppose, pet name for me. ‘Look, it’s fooken Rosser, Laddy.’ I’m just there, ‘Yeah, hi, goys,’ being civil, roysh, but at the same time trying to keep, like, my distance? The doors close again and the lift, elevator, whatever you want to call it, slowly groans into life. ‘I tink he was hittin de Close Doh-ers buthon,’ Terry g
oes. My face gets suddenly hot – it’s obviously red. ‘Were you hittin Close Doh-ers, Rosser, were you?’ I’m there, ‘No!’ the terror obvious in my voice. ‘I swear!’ ‘Feerd nuff,’ he goes, like it’s suddenly not a major deal? ‘Ine only aston, so I am.’ There’s, like, silence again. I’m looking up at the numbers above the door, thinking how can we only be between the first and second floors? This lift’s so slow, they could have a focking Duty Free trolley service on it. ‘So how’s it goin, Rosser?’ is the next thing I hear. ‘How’s effery little ting?’ It’s one of Terry’s, like, catchphrases? ‘Er, cool,’ I just go, making sure to keep staring straight ahead. At the same time, roysh, I can pretty much feel the weight of them staring at me. This is going to sound racist, but I always imagine working-class people are checking out my orse to see what kind of a drug mule I’d make. ‘Any plans for ta weekend?’ Larry goes. ‘Er, no,’ I go. ‘Nothing major.’ The two of them stort, like, impersonating me then. ‘Nothing meejer.’ There’s, like, silence again. I look up. We’re only at, like, the third floor. I’m standing there, listening to the gears grinding away, wondering when will this ever end. It’s amazing, roysh, but back in the day I used to have two or three thousand people in Donnybrook booing me and baying for my blood – and still I never let it faze me. But thirty seconds in a lift with these two yahoos and I’m like an actual jelly. ‘Wheat your young fedda in again tutter night, didn’t we, Tetty?’ ‘Young Ronan – we did, Laddy, yeah.’ ‘He’s a fooken smeert one, Rosser. Doatent know where he gets it from. Are ya shewer he’s yooers?’ ‘Er, yeah.’ ‘I’d two diffordent boords toalt me deed childorden for me – boat a dem lyin. Der hungry bitches for de money, see.’ ‘Well, you can take it from me – he’s definitely mine.’ ‘Guth for you, Rosser. Ine made up for ya. Smeert kid but. Big future for um in eer line of woork, if he wants it …’ I don’t answer one way or the other – I know they’re only trying to, like, rile me? – and it just hangs there in the air between us. Fooouuurrr … Fiiivvve … ‘Hee-er, does that lift sounth funny to you?’ Terry goes. Larry’s like, ‘Imachin it broke dowin. Rosser there’d be stuck wirrus for the night, wha?’ They seem to find the prospect of this focking hilarious. ‘Hee-er, don’t woody, Rosser,’ Terry goes, holding up two shopping bags, ‘we’ve plenthee of foo-it to see us troo,’ and they both burst into hysterics, probably because they know – as well as I know – that they’d kill and eat me long before they’d even think of using whatever’s in those Lidl bags. Siiixxx … Seeeevvven … ‘Ronan was tellin us about your thrubbles,’ Terry suddenly goes. ‘Soddy to hee-er.’ ‘What did he say exactly?’ ‘Said you’re arthur gettin yourself mixed up in thrugs …’ ‘Er, hello? It was, like, years ago? And anyway, it wasn’t, like, drugs drugs?’ Eeeiiight … I’m thinking, why did I have to buy a penthouse suite? ‘Ronan was sayin it was the sayum stuff yer man Hitler was on …’ He’s some focking mouth on him, that kid. I’m there, ‘Er, supposedly, yeah.’ Ping. The doors finally open and I’m out of there like – pardon the pun – but a bullet from a gun. I’ve just got the key in the door when I hear Larry go, ‘Well, just so’s ya know, Rosser, your neighbours are all a hunrit percent behoyunt ya,’ except he means it in, like, a sarcastic way? ‘We know whorrits like to be giffen a bad nayum.’ I ask Fionn how he’s getting on with the ringaround and you know him – you never get a straight answer. He says it’s been a real eye-opener for him. A real eye-opener. ‘For instance, do you remember Davin Kennedy?’ I tell him, of course I remember Davin Kennedy. He played on the wing for us. He was faster than a skobie with a money-off coupon. Ran the 100 metres in Santry once in ten-point-something seconds, although – famously – he could never reproduce that form in Belfield. The joke was that he just didn’t feel the same fear. I’m wondering, I have to admit, what happened between Fionn and Erika the night they went for that drink, although there’s no way I’m going to give him the pleasure of asking. Instead, roysh, I go, ‘What about Davin Kennedy?’ ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘he’s working for Anglo-Irish. I’m telling you, Ross, he’s got some stories about that place …’ Of course it’s at that point that I should ask him what the fock that’s got to do with us trying to hang on to our medals. But it’s the usual Jack with me – I can’t help being a nice goy, even if people do tend to abuse it? ‘He says no one in there wants to sit next to the windows – they’re all scared a brick is going to come flying through. Or worse. There is a lot of anger out there and Anglo-Irish is the focus of it, although I think a lot of people are avoiding asking themselves the difficult questions …’ I literally can’t listen to any more of this. I’m there, ‘Er, where exactly is this going, Fionn?’ He goes, if you can believe this, ‘Well, what I hadn’t realized until I started to ring our old friends is what a socially inclusive recession this is, in terms of the types of people being affected …’ You can imagine me at this stage. ‘I don’t focking need this, Fionn. How is any of this even relevant?’ ‘It could well be relevant,’ he tries to go. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you – a lot of these guys are struggling, Ross. And not just Davin.’ ‘So?’ ‘So, I’m not sure how interested they are in this whole thing.’ ‘This whole thing? Dude, I’m presuming they got the same letter as us …’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘And you’re saying they’re happy to just give back their medals?’ ‘All I’m saying is, the impression I’m getting talking to them is that, well, most of them have other things on their minds. I’m just warning you, don’t presume that everyone cares about their Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal as much as you do.’ He doesn’t realize at first what he’s actually said. It’s one of those, like, Freudican slips? I’m there, ‘As much as I do?’ He doesn’t say anything. Busted and disgusted. I’m like, ‘What about you, Fionn?’ ‘Yeah, obviously,’ he tries to go. ‘I meant to say, as much as we do?’ ‘Are you sure about that?’ ‘Yeah.’ I don’t say anything for ages, roysh, just leave him dangling there in the wind, the focking speckledork. ‘Put me out of my misery,’ I suddenly hear myself go. ‘Did you and Erika have sex?’ ‘What?’ he goes, acting all offended. ‘Hey, I’m worried about you more than anyone in all of this. You’re basically a mate. Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to see you get hurt?’ ‘What happens between me and Erika, Ross, is our business.’ ‘Whoa, what do you mean by happens? Does that mean you’re, like, seeing each other?’ ‘Ross …’ ‘Okay. She’s using you – that’s my last word on the subject. Nothing else going on for her, so she thinks …’ ‘Thanks very much for that, Ross.’ ‘Hey, just don’t come crying to me when it all goes tits up. And whatever is or isn’t going on – sex or whatever – don’t forget you’ve got shit to do. Get the word out there. It’s, like, eight o’clock on Saturday night. My gaff in Rosa Parks. I’m going to get a shitload of beer in.’ ‘Fine,’ he goes, like he’s still not convinced? ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to say to them yet?’ I’m there, ‘I’m going to give them the speech of a focking lifetime, don’t you worry about that.’ ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘there’s six coming so far – they’re definites. And I’ve two or three more still to ring.’ I ask him what he’s waiting for … ‘That school!’ the old dear goes. ‘When I think about the money that Charles and I handed them over the years.’ See, this is how a normal parent should react. I only swung out to Foxrock to see if the old man had left any money behind in the safe. He didn’t, unfortunately, but there was an incredible smell coming from the kitchen. She’d been cooking – all gourmet shit as well – we’re talking Madras poussins with pear and rosehip chutney, we’re talking Cornish game hens with savoury stuffing balls, we’re talking lobster tails in beurre monté with Hasselback potatoes, we’re talking veal scallopini with blackberries and Parisienne frites. It’s, like, a reaction, I suppose, to what RTÉ were making her do. Much as I hate her actual guts, the things the woman can do with a three-ply roaster and a handful of t
amarind seeds. So I grab a plate, roysh, and stort helping myself and that’s when she says that shit about the school. I’m there, ‘Can I just say, I really appreciate the support. He couldn’t give a fock, by the way.’ ‘Who? Your father?’ ‘So-called. He had Hennessy taking out injunctions left, right and centre when Erika was caught boning that old dude. Yet when it comes to me …’ I just shake my head. ‘He thinks I should just give the medal back, by the way.’ ‘What?’ She’s genuinely horrified, in fairness to her. ‘I’m just saying what he thinks.’ ‘Does he even remember heckling Mary McAleese?’ ‘Says he does. But he reckons those days are in the past now? Thinks I should hand the medal over to some country bumpkin and move on – yeah, this’ll give you a laugh – to the next phase of my life.’ Her face suddenly hordens. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ she goes. I’m there, ‘Don’t bother. I don’t need him. Because I’m suddenly handling it. I’m going to fight this thing every step of the way.’ ‘Well, good for you – have some more frites – you worked too hard for that medal to just hand it over …’ ‘To some village idiot.’ ‘To anyone, Ross. It’s yours – through hard work and sheer talent. And when I saw your name spalshed across the newspapers like that …’ I presume she’s referring to the drugby legend headline in the PAYE Daily Monkey. Foley stitched me up in a major way, even though he did still mention the word ‘legend’. ‘Disgusting,’ the old dear goes. I nod. I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, the worst thing from my own personal point of view was having to break the news to Ro. I mean, there I am, trying to warn him away from focking Tony Montana and Manny Ribera next door – then I’m suddenly busted for drugs.’ ‘You did explain that they weren’t working-class drugs, didn’t you?’ ‘Tried – for all the good it did.’ ‘That’s why you can’t afford to give in, Ross. For your son’s sake …’ Which is a nice thing to hear. I’m there, ‘I know we’ve had our differences – the whole Trevion thing and blah blah blah – but this is all good shit you’re saying to me.’ She smiles at me. ‘Well, I can empathize,’ she goes, ‘because it’s very much like my situation. Being told to let go of the past.’ I’m there, ‘Okay – because you’ve given me a big-up, I have to say, I’ve watched one or two episodes of the show recently and I think what RTÉ are making you do is basically sick. I don’t know how anyone could make another, I don’t know, human being suffer like that.’ Her eyes take on a sort of, like, glassy look. ‘Do you know what they had me doing today?’ I’m there, ‘Don’t do it to yourself,’ because I can hear her getting all worked up again? ‘A three-course dinner, for under a fiver …’ ‘Jesus Christ!’ ‘Packet soup,’ she goes. ‘Oxtail, Ross – if such a thing even exists. Followed by pasta shells with Ragù. Ragù! And an ice lolly for dessert.’ I shake my head. ‘They used to call us the Singapore of Western Europe,’ she goes. I’m there, ‘You wouldn’t serve that to a focking dog.’ She nods. ‘I told Cathal Goan much the same thing. I’m cooking starvation rations for plane-crash survivors in the Andes. It’ll be toothpaste and stagnant water next – you see if it isn’t …’ She’s so upset that I end up having to tell her that everything’s going to be okay, except she looks at me, roysh, her eyes full of tears, and says she’s not sure that it is any more. ‘And that’s the worst thing,’ she goes. ‘I told you, Ross, that this recession wasn’t going to affect people like us. And I was wrong.’ I’m there, ‘Hey, I don’t want to hear that kind of talk.’ ‘I can’t help it, Ross. It’s just this feeling. I remember it from the 1980s. This awful, awful negativity. It gets into you. Like cold damp. Like rheumatism.’ I consider reminding her of the words of Harry Connick, Jr – this too will pass – but somehow it just doesn’t seem enough. ‘Hey,’ I go, ‘I’m not giving up and neither should you. Even if I’m going to in the end lose, I’m going to go down fighting.’ She sweeps the roads the same way she does everything else. She’s, like, a perfectionist? ‘You missed a bit,’ I shout, from the other side of Dawson Street, just ripping the piss basically. She stops pushing the broom and looks at me. Whether she’s pleased to see me or the exact opposite, I’m still not sure. It seems like every time I meet Sorcha these days, I’m studying her boat, trying to answer that basic question. Says a lot, I suppose, about the way I’ve been living my life. ‘Sorry about the whole wedding thing,’ I go. ‘The text and, well, all the other shit.’ This is outside Louis Mulcahy, by the way. She just shrugs – which is good. ‘I actually felt sorry for you on the day,’ she goes. ‘Everyone ganging up on you like they did.’ ‘Thanks, Babes.’ ‘Plus I’m beginning to wonder are you maybe autistic …’ I give her, like, a suddenly interested nod, going along with the idea – better than being hated, I can tell you. ‘Dad wanted to call the Gords when he saw what you did to Honor’s face.’ ‘We’re back to the moustache again, I presume.’ ‘Then he saw the thing in the Irish Times about you being on drugs …’ ‘I wish people would stop saying that.’ ‘He thinks if we can establish a pattern of this kind of behaviour, we could destroy your claim for unsupervised access when we eventually reactivate the divorce proceedings.’ I’m there, ‘We’re still doing that, are we?’ She’s like, ‘Yes,’ and she says it firmly. ‘We were never not doing it. We’ve only postponed it, Ross.’ I grab the broom from her and stort sweeping a patch that she’s already swept, more to avoid the conversation than anything else. ‘But the last thing in the world I want is to stop Honor seeing her daddy,’ she goes. I stop sweeping and just nod. She’s there, ‘How’s Ronan?’ I laugh. ‘Don’t ask me – ask the two whacks next door. They saw about five times more of him than I did this summer.’ ‘Oh my God!’ ‘I know. I know he’s always idolized people like them. But I thought it was something he’d eventually grow out of. Now I feel sort of, like, helpless – like I can’t stop him getting involved?’ Sorcha’s always been a glass-half-full kind of a person, which is how she ended up married to me. ‘Well,’ she goes, ‘he’s back at school next week, isn’t he?’ ‘True.’ ‘Starting secondary school. He’ll make new friends. Then this thing will just seem like, I don’t know, a summer fling …’ Her face lights up, like she’s been suddenly reminded of something. ‘Speaking of which – what do you think of Fionn and Erika? Isn’t it so cute?’ ‘I don’t see what’s cute about it.’ ‘Oh my God, she really likes him, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘I doubt that.’ ‘She does. She’s, like, so over that whole Toddy Rathfriland thing.’ I’m there, ‘Do you know have they done it yet? As in it?’ and she looks at me like I’m a complete and utter weirdo. I’m there, ‘Hey, I’m asking as much out of concern for him as for her. I still think this might be just a sensitive-guy phase she’s going through – like a lot of birds do.’ ‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, ‘you so have issues.’ ‘I’m just saying, Fionn is an actual mate of mine, even though we’ve had our differences in the past. Is it suddenly wrong for me to not want to see him kicked in the balls?’ Sorcha laughs. ‘Ross,’ she tries to go, ‘who are you jealous of, Erika or Fionn?’ and of course I have literally no idea what she’s even talking about. ‘Being honest,’ I go, ‘I’d prefer if he just kept his eyes on the prize.’ ‘Er, what are you talking about?’ ‘I’m talking about his Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal.’ She actually snorts – this coming from the girl who never missed a game. ‘I thought you had to hand them back. Ross, you admitted taking drugs.’ ‘Er, I know? But we’re still going to, like, fight this thing.’ She doesn’t seem at all impressed. ‘I don’t know why you can’t just let it go? It’s, like, so the nineties, Ross.’ I just shake my head. ‘You of all people should know how important this medal is to me.’ She takes the broom back off me. ‘Well, I don’t think it matters as much to you as you think it does.’ Which is easy for her to say. I’m there, ‘In case you’re wondering how exactly we’re going to fight this thing, let’s just say there’s a meeting in my gaff tomorrow night – we’re talking all the goys back together again. There’s
going to be a lot of anger, I can tell you that. The plan is to give them a speech that’s going to, like, knock them sideways. And that’s one of the things that I wanted to talk to you about …’ ‘What?’ I’m there, ‘I wanted it to be something along the lines of that dude you’re into – Something Obama?’ ‘President Obama?’ she goes. ‘Yeah. Have you got a copy of that speech he’s supposed to have made when he, I don’t know, won the whole thing?’ ‘Are you talking about his inauguration speech, Ross?’ I take a punt. ‘Er, yeah.’ She just sighs like she’s suddenly bored with me, then says if I’m really that interested, it’s on, like, her Facebook page? The moment has arrived. I’m looking around the living room at all the old faces, most of them a lot fuller than they were the last time I saw them. One or two of them are even pretty much bald. Lot of beer under the bridge and blahdy blahdy blah. Everyone’s, like, catching up. It turns out most of them have got, like, wives and kids and all the focking rest of it. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like a ten-year reunion to make you feel your sudden age. It has to be said, roysh, the first thing that strikes me is that they’re a lot more serious than I remembered them? Aodan, just as an example, our old loosehead – you literally couldn’t leave your Dubes anywhere near him back in the day in case he took a ten-ounce rump in one of them. But now, roysh, he’s wearing the ears off JP, talking about the hypocrisy of the American motor industry. For years, they pulled out of towns like Flint, Michigan, without a backward glance at the tens of thousands they slung on to the dole, saying they were running a business, not a charity. But now they’re about to go to the wall, he says, they’re on their knees up on Capitol Hill, saying the economic heart will be ripped out of so many communities unless the good people of America bail them out. Fionn laughs knowingly, then says there’s nothing like an economic disaster for turning arch-capitalists into unreconstructed socialists overnight. There’s no way she could be sleeping with him. Anyway, that’s when I suddenly decide to call the meeting to order. ‘Okay,’ I go, the voice big and commanding like the old days, ‘chat’s over,’ and everyone immediately shuts up. I’m pretty nervous, it has to be said, especially as I look around the room and see these ten or eleven goys all staring back at me – we’re talking Wellies, Melon, Munch, Flash Gorman, Finchy, Foreskin Feta, even the Pocket Rocket – their eyes full of expectation, just like they were back in the day. But it’s very much a case of cometh the hour, cometh the man. First, roysh, I reach inside my shirt, whip out the medal and just, like, hold it up for everyone to see. I do that for, like, thirty seconds, not saying shit, just letting them drink it in and focus on what’s at issue here. ‘I won this,’ I eventually go, ‘through blood, through sweat and through sheer focking talent …’ There’s, like, one or two nods, though most of them are just sitting there, obviously waiting to see where this is going. ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘the methamphetamine might have helped? There’s no proof either way. But this I can guarantee you – mostly it was down to me, putting in the hord yords and working my hole like a stripper with the rent due …’ I don’t get the round of applause I’m expecting for that line. In fact, they all end up just sitting there, staring stupidly at me. That’s when Simon, of all people, interrupts. ‘To be honest,’ he goes, ‘I don’t know what we’re even doing here … I mean, fock, how long ago was it – ten years? Does anyone honestly care any more?’ I literally cannot believe what I’m hearing. I even try to laugh it off. ‘Does anyone care?’ I go. ‘Er, history cares, for one.’ Again, no one says shit. ‘Look, Ross, no offence,’ he goes. ‘I can’t speak for the rest of these guys, but I’ve got far more important things to worry about than some focking medal I won back at school. Do you have any idea how much work has dried up for architects?’ I don’t know if he honestly expects me to answer that. He insists on telling me anyway. ‘Let’s just say that what I’ve brought in in the last ten months doesn’t even come close to covering the mortgage. Which means that if things haven’t improved by Christmas, Julie and I are going to have to rent out our house – that’s if we even can – and move the kids to Abu focking Dhabi.’ The worst thing is, roysh, that that’s the cue for them all to stort telling their stories and I suddenly realize, to my total horror, that Fionn was maybe right. ‘It’s the same for solicitors,’ Ultan goes. ‘I’m on, like, a three-day week. I’m not putting on the béal bocht here – a lot of people have it far worse – but for the last six weeks, I’ve been putting the weekly grocery shop on my credit card.’ I look at Fionn and JP, expecting back-up, but the two of them just sit there – focking picture, no sound. Everyone sort of, like, shakes their heads and this – if you can believe it – leads then to a general discussion on the whole, I don’t know, bail-out of the banks? ‘They behave recklessly,’ Aodan goes, ‘and it’s ordinary people like us who are going to end up paying for it.’ Ordinary people like us? I met that focker in Meadows & Byrne in Malahide last year – he told me he bought three gaffs in the Alliance Gasworks and a cor that he described to me as ‘a land-yacht’. I could point that out, but I don’t. Instead, I try to show them that the whole current economic thing is affecting me as well. ‘I’m not exactly, I don’t know, immune?’ I go. ‘I’ve got cream focking crackers living next door, upstairs, downstairs, everywhere. My wife’s shop went tits-up. My old dear is cooking pretty much shite on national television …’ I even try to draw JP into the conversation then. ‘And what about this poor focker? Hook, Lyon and Sinker was practically an institution on the Merrion Road for, what, thirty years, JP? Do you know what it is now? It’s an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet! Er, in Ballsbridge? Come on!’ I look around at the faces, roysh, and it’s obvious that I’m not reaching them. Most of them haven’t even brought their letters with them. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong,’ Simon goes, ‘it’s been great seeing you guys again – it’s brought back one or two memories, I can tell you …’ ‘Castlerock Über Alles!’ Aodan goes and everyone just laughs, like all it ever was to them was a funny catchphrase. ‘But the actual medal,’ Simon goes, ‘I couldn’t even tell you where mine is.’ I give him a serious filthy and tell him it should be round his Jeff Beck. Like focking mine. Like JP’s. Like Christian’s over in the States, no doubt. Like Oisinn’s, I can tell you for a fact, wherever the fock he is in the world. He actually turns on me then. ‘Well, the other thing is,’ he goes, totally out of the blue, ‘this is all your doing, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Well, I’m just wondering are you acting out of guilt here? You were the one who was on drugs – not any of us. You were the one who opened his mouth about it in that book …’ I notice three or four of the others even nodding their nods. ‘Hey,’ I go, ‘you wouldn’t even have that focking medal if it wasn’t for me.’ ‘Well, I don’t mind giving it back,’ he goes, ‘because it doesn’t matter a fock compared to what else is going on in my life – like finding schools in the United Arab Emirates.’ He suddenly stands up, roysh, says sorry – to Fionn and JP, but not me – then heads for the actual door. I tell everyone to just let him go – we don’t actually need him – but then they all stort getting up? Wellies, Munch, even Foreskin Feta. One or two of them say sorry under their breaths. One or two tell me I should have kept my focking mouth shut. Then the room is suddenly empty except for me, Fionn, JP and Aodan. The beers have been barely touched. I’m there, ‘Aodan, come on, Dude! What was it that Obama dude said? Can we fix it? Yes we can!’ He just looks at me sadly. ‘You’ve no idea how tight things are with us at the moment,’ he goes. ‘Look, between ourselves, we haven’t been able to pay the twins’ school fees. It’s only thanks to that prick McGahy that Iollan and Conlaoch are still in the school. What am I supposed to tell him? Thanks, but I’m still not giving back my medal?’ ‘Jesus!’ I go, ‘what are the fees for the junior school? Twenty grand a term? I’ll give you that myself, out of my own sky rocket.’ He shakes his head and says he’s sorry, then off he focks as well. Then it
’s only me, Fionn and JP. ‘I used to be able to inspire them,’ I just go, then I shake my head. ‘You two, by the way, were about as useful as a one-ormed trapeze artist with an itchy focking hole.’ I crack a beer open for myself. ‘You have to respect what they say,’ Fionn goes, glasses focking galore. I’m just there, ‘Oh, do we? Oh, that’s interesting to know,’ laying on the sarcasm like it’s peanut focking butter. JP has to throw his two cents in then. ‘What Fionn’s trying to say is, look, if most of the goys don’t even want their medals, what can we do? We’re kind of out of options here.’ I tell him he couldn’t be more wrong if he tried. The two goys suddenly look at each other, then at me. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ I go. JP sits forward in his seat. In fact they both do? Oh, they’re all ears now. ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘that secretary of McGahy’s? Susan is her name …’ Fionn and JP are there, ‘Okay …’ ‘What I was going to do is find out where she usually drinks …’ ‘Why?’ Fionn goes. Jesus, for a supposedly intelligent man, he’s slower than Calista Flockhart to the focking breakfast buffet. ‘Why?’ I go. ‘Er, the plan eventually being for me to have my sweaty way with her?’ Of course the questions keep on coming. ‘To what end, Ross?’ I’m there, ‘What end do you think, Fionn? To piss McGahy off.’ It’s suddenly JP’s turn. ‘But how’s that going to allow us to keep our medals?’ I end up pretty much losing it with him then. ‘I don’t focking know. But at least I’m coming up with ideas. See, it’s all right for you two – I had to ring my son the other day and try to explain all of this to him …’ I look at Fionn and I get the impression that he’s shaping up to say something. ‘Look,’ he suddenly goes, ‘I might end up having to give my medal back.’ I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Ross, I work in the school. We start back next week.’ ‘Er, I know? Ronan’s going, remember. Actually, he wouldn’t be if I’d found out about this medal thing sooner. What I’m asking is, what’s your point?’ ‘What’s my point? Tom is my boss. He could make life very difficult for me.’ ‘Well, I’ll ask you straight out, then – why don’t you quit?’ ‘Quit my job?’ ‘Yeah. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of moving Ro to Blackrock or possibly even – and I know I’ll never hear the end of this from focking D’Arcy – but Clongowes after Christmas.’ ‘Ross, you want me to give up a job I love?’ ‘To be honest, I don’t know why you haven’t already. Don’t tell me you couldn’t get work in the Institute. Er, with your brains?’ He has no honest answer to that. But then JP suddenly backs him up. ‘Look, the way I see it,’ he goes, ‘is that one of two things is going to happen next. Either we’re going to give our medals back and the Leinster Branch is going to present them to Newbridge College. Or we’re going to hang on to them and the Leinster Branch will strike new ones and present them to Newbridge College anyway. Either way, these things don’t mean anything to us any more. They’re like old fifty-pence pieces. Relics of the nineties. Worthless metal.’ 9. The Wire
The Oh My God Delusion Page 8
