I just, like, crack up laughing in the tool’s face. He really shouldn’t be let out sometimes. He goes, ‘And to think, I might have ended up with Eduard’s Rover. The world and his mother knows the gearbox is banjaxed.’
I’m just, like, shaking my head. Never heard anything so funny in my life. I’m there, ‘Half-a-million. Get it transferred into my account first thing in the morning,’ and he’s like, ‘Absolutely,’ and as I’m leaving I just go, ‘You really are a dickhead.’
*
Fehily rings me, roysh, and it’s, like, half-three in the afternoon and he goes, ‘Hello, my child,’ and I’m there, ‘Hey, Father, what’s the Jackanory?’ and he goes, ‘Ross, are you nearby?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah, I’m actually in the Frascati Centre, pretty much chilling,’ and he’s like, ‘Can you come up to the school. There’s something I think you should see.’
So I go out, roysh, hop in the old Beamer, and I peg it up to the school and even from the front gate, roysh, I can see hundreds of people crowded around the rugby pitch and I take it for granted that that’s where I’m headed. As I get closer, roysh, I can hear all this, like, cheering. I pork the cor and walk across and I swear to God, roysh, I actually think my eyes are playing tricks on me. The trials for the junior cup team are obviously on, roysh, and it’s, like, the Probables against the Possibles and there in the middle of the pitch, with the ball tucked under his orm, daring people to tackle him, is Ronan, wearing, of all things, the Leinster jersey I bought him.
‘Quite a sight, isn’t it, child?’ Fehily’s standing beside me. He goes, ‘I told him he was too young for the team. Those boys out there are fourteen, I told him. He went off, all disappointed with himself. The next thing I knew he charged onto the pitch, picked up the ball and, well, it’s barely been out of his hands all afternoon. I suppose I should take him off, but, well, he’s giving the rest of them something to think about.’
I stand there and watch in, like, total awe. He’s, like, riding tackles, powering through forwards who are, like, twice the size of him, hitting ball-carriers like a focking locomotive. It’s unbelievable. Of course he cops me then, roysh, and he goes, ‘Rosser!’ and I give the old thumbs-up and he sort of, like, throws his head in the direction of a ruck and goes, ‘Piece of piss, this,’ and then, like, dives into it.
All the other kids on the sideline are giving it, ‘RO-NAN! RO-NAN! RO-NAN!’ and Fehily turns to me and goes, ‘I was fortunate enough to see the great Jack Kyle in action, you know. Saw Mike Gibson many times. Saw Tony O’Reilly, Brian O’Driscoll and yourself. That’s what we’re looking at here, Ross. He’s going to be one of the greats.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Who is it, Ross?’ and I’m practically hanging out the window trying to see when the doorbell rings again. It’s, like, some dude in a tin of fruit. I don’t know anyone who wears one. I go, ‘Must be a Jehovah’s Witness,’ and she’s there, ‘At, like – OH! MY! GOD! – midnight?’ I’m there, ‘Probably trying to get us when our defences are down. They’ve obviously heard about JP finding God and they think the rest of us are easy pickings. They’ll soon get bored ringing,’ but Sorcha goes, ‘No, Ross. I am SO not listening to that for another twenty minutes. Get rid of them,’ and she turns up the volume on the Savalas, roysh, as if to say, basically, conversation over.
So I end up having to peg it down the stairs in, it has to be said, roysh, a bit of a rage, I reef open the door and I go, ‘I love chicks, meat and beer – you’re wasting your focking time,’ but the goy just, like, looks at me, roysh, like ‘I’m the one with a screw loose. He goes, ‘Ross, it’s me,’ and I’m looking at him, roysh, thinking the voice is very familiar. The penny drops. I’m like, ‘One F?’ and he goes, ‘The one and only,’ and I’m like, ‘What’s the story with the threads? And your hair. It’s not… big anymore.’
He goes, ‘We’ve got an important meeting tonight. I’ve been talking to the present proprietor of a certain premises in Adam Court, Grafton Street, Dublin 2 – you know which one,’ and I’m like, ‘Lillie’s?’ and he goes, ‘Got it in one. I’ve managed to convince the owners that Echo and the Moneymen are serious about buying the place. We’ve been offered a viewing. As in tonight. I’ve got Fionn, Christian and Oisinn out in the jammer.’
I’m like, ‘Are you serious?’ and he goes, ‘I’m as serious as the Mylai massacre. Now, quick – I’ve got to have the suit back to Black Tie by ten o’clock in the morning.’
I shout up the stairs to Sorcha, roysh, that I’m just nipping out to buy Lillie’s and she goes, ‘Dunnes in Cornelscourt is open. They’ve lovely ones there,’ and it’s obviously some sort of, like, communication breakdown, but I leave it.
Like he said, roysh, One F had already rounded up the rest of the goys, probably from Kiely’s or the MI, judging by the hum off their breaths and the way they keep bursting into, like, choruses of, ‘One F in Foley, there’s only one F in Foley…’ and it is true, roysh, the goy is a legend, even though he went to Blackrock and is a bit, I don’t know, wacky.
We hit Lillie’s and have the usual hassle trying to get past the bouncers. There’s a bit of a debate going on as to whether Oisinn’s black Skechers are runners or shoes – they’ve their work cut out, these bouncers, having to keep up with, like, fashion and shit – but eventually this dude arrives who turns out to be the estate agent selling the gaff and he calls them off us, roysh, and as we’re heading in, Oisinn tells them that the second we buy the gaff their orses are SO sacked, and we’re talking totally here.
The dude leads us up the stairs, roysh, and Christian’s in my ear, telling me that if he has his way we’ll be totally renovating the Library to make it look like the bor in Mos Eisley where Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi recruited Han Solo and Chewbacca to take them to Alderaan.
The estate agent dude goes, ‘I expect you’d like to be shown around,’ and Oisinn – totally hammered – goes, ‘Yeah, you can stort by showing us around five pints of Ken,’ and One F ends up having to, like, rescue the situation by going, ‘Tell us a bit about the property,’ and the dude launches into what I straight away recognize as, like, fluent Estate Agentese. It’s all, ‘Apex of celebrity nightlife in Ireland… named after Lillie Langtry, Victorian courtesan and mistress of the Prince of Wales… tricked out in the livery of a high-class, nineteenth-century brothel… a nightclub of national and international renown… centrally located,’ and blahdy blahdy blah.
He goes, ‘Regular patrons include Mick Jagger, Bono, Julia Roberts, Bruce Springsteen, Prince, Van Morrison, The Corrs and Tom Jones,’ and quick as a flash, roysh, I’m there, ‘Julia Roberts and The Corrs are welcome. The rest are focking borred,’ and I’m thinking I really should get Christian or one of the others to write down some of my one-liners when I’m in this kind of form.
One F plays a focking blinder, roysh. I can’t believe he’s still writing for that peasant paper. The estate agent goes, ‘I take it you would intend for the club to continue attracting the glitterati?’ and One F puts his orm around the dude’s shoulder and goes, ‘Not so much the glitterati as the clitterati. We’re talking fin de siècle decadence, Baby, coming at you like a Chinese Type 59 main battletank.’
Ten minutes later, roysh, me, Fionn and One F are sitting in a corner of the Library bor with the estate agent, listening to Paul Harrington belt out ‘Rock and Roll Kids’ on the piano, while wrapping ourselves around a few pints of Gerard Adriaan H’s finest. Christian’s up at the bor, orm-wrestling with Damien Rice, while Oisinn’s telling Robbie Keane, the Carter Twins and two dudes I know to see from ‘Fair City’ that there’s a new name going up over the door and they’re basically off the guestlist. I’m looking at this and I’m thinking, We’ve arrived.
The estate agent turns around and goes, ‘An offer of four million will guarantee it,’ and me, Fionn and One F just look at each other, roysh, smile and I go, ‘We’ll take it.’
9. One Plus One Plus One Plus…
It’s, like lunchtime, roysh, and I’m in the old Margaret
watching, of all things, the lunchtime ‘Neighbours’, looking at the lovely Libby with the humungous thrups, doing a bit of the old blanket welding, when all of a sudden I hear Sorcha’s Rav 4 swing into the driveway and then the sound of her coming up the stairs.
She goes, ‘oh! My! God! I cannot BELIEVE you’re ACTUALLY still in bed?’ and I’m like, ‘I was actually thinking about getting up,’ and then she’s just there, ‘oh my God, you’re not going to believe what I just got a copy of?’ and of course I stort getting a panic attack, thinking she’s talking about the six-page spread on me and goys in the new VIP, we’re talking, The Darling Buds of Lillie’s – Meet the New Owners of Dublin’s Hottest Nightspot. When the bird who interviewed us asked me if there was anyone special in my life, I probably shouldn’t have said, ‘No, I’m young, free and single and I just want to mingle,’ but I just got a bit, like, carried away.
Turns out she hasn’t seen it. She’s, like, talking about something else. She’s like, ‘I got a copy of the Yummy-Mummy Calendar. Your mum is like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and she has it in her hand, roysh, and she actually tries to show it to me.
I’m there going, ‘I don’t want to see it,’ and she’s like, ‘Why not? She has an amazing body for a woman of fify-one. I wish I’d a pair of—’ and I’m there, ‘Sorcha, STOP, I’m going to focking vom,’ and she looks at me, roysh, like I’m the one who’s totally lost the plot and she goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, I cannot BELIEVE you’re ACTUALLY overreacting like this. The way you’re acting, Ross, it’s like, Aaahggghhh!’ and I’m there, ‘I can live with that. Just – please – don’t mention it again.’
She turns off the old Liza, which I take as a hint that it’s time to get up. She’s like, ‘Anyway, Ross, you need to ring Ronan. He’s in trouble,’ and I sit straight up in the bed and I’m like, ‘What kind of trouble?’ and she’s like, ‘Look, he texted me. I promised I wouldn’t say anything, but, well, he’s in some kind of trouble in school. I think he’s too scared to tell you himself,’ and I’m there, ‘Well, I don’t blame him. It’s the middle of November. He’s only in the school a few weeks. This’ll be drugs or some shit, I just focking know it.’
I pick up the Wolfe and ring his mobile and when he answers, roysh, I go, ‘Okay, what the fock did you do?’ and he’s there, ‘Stall the ball, Rosser, I’m in class,’ and then he turns around – presumably to Horsman, as in his teacher – and goes, ‘Better take this call, Sir. It’s the Ross lad,’ and when he’s outside the door, he goes, ‘Storee?’ but I’m, like, too in shock to even remember why I rang. I go, ‘Horsman’s the biggest hord-orse in the school. Are you telling me he lets you take calls during class?’ and he’s there, ‘Pete? Ah, sure Pete’s game ball, Rosser. Play rugby in this school and you can do no wrong. Listen, Sorcha’s obviously told you about this bullying shite. Load of me bollicks. I told her not to worry her pretty little head, but she’s a darlin’ boord, as me oul’ grandda would say. There’s nothing in it, Rosser. It’s mustard.’
I’m there, ‘You mean, you’ve been accused in the wrong?’ and it’s a good five minutes before he stops laughing. He’s like, ‘Good one, Rosser. Nah, truth be told, I slammed this kid in sixth class up agin the wall. Might have hit him a couple of slaps as well,’ and I go, ‘Sixth class? Ronan, you’re in, like, second?’ and he’s there, ‘They’ve all got to pay up, Rosser. It was Thursday. He was already a week in arrears.’
I’m there, ‘You’re running a focking protection racket?’ and he laughs and goes, ‘I’m only pulling your chain, Rosser. Look, I promised I’d keep me nose clean, didn’t I? No, if you must know, he was picking on this other little kid, has a terrible bread-and-butter, takes twenty minutes to say hello, ye know yerself. I was doing me rounds at lunchtime, mooching around, seeing what was what and there was four of them, they had him in this classroom, up agin the wall, making him say things and laughing at him. I mean, that’s not right, Rosser. So I goes in and I squares up to the main man – somethin’ Swails – and I says, “Think you’re a fooken hard man, do ye?”’
He goes, ‘So he lets go of the kid and he laughs at me. So I turns around and I starts walkin’ away from him and says he, “Shitter,” but I had only turned around to lock the door, make sure none of them could escape when the slaps were being dealt out. Anyway, he was the only one I needed to sort out. The other three saw what I did to him and bottled it.’
I’m there, ‘So why are you in trouble?’ and he goes, ‘Ah, same drill as in me last school. His oul’ wan’s coming up to the school this afternoon and Fehily wants you there too – make it look like the school actually gives two fooks.’
So I hit Castlerock, roysh, and the plan is that Fehily’s meeting this Swails kid and his old dear first, with me and Ronan waiting outside, then we’re going to be basically called in. I’m sitting there wondering to myself whether the old dear’s, like, a yummy-mummy, when all of a sudden Ronan turns around and offers me a slug out of this hipflask that he pulls from his pocket. I tell him no thanks, I’m not for whatever the fock he’s got in there, but he takes a long drink from it and goes, ‘Swear to Jaysus, this stuff’s makin’ me voice deeper. Fook knows what it’s doin’ to me liver.’
Five minutes pass and Fehily suddenly calls us in. Swails’ old dear turns out to be far from a yummy-mummy, as it happens, she’s actually a total focking swamp donkey. Then I cop her son. He must be, like, five-foot-eleven and I’m looking at Ronan, who must be, like, a foot smaller.
Fehily goes, ‘Now, I’ve been trying to explain to Mrs Swails here that things can often be… misinterpreted,’ and she does NOT look like a happy bunny, whatever’s been said. Ronan goes, ‘Like I said, Fadder, the kid had a dizzy spell. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to stop him from fallin’ and hurtin’ himself,’ and the kid goes, ‘That’s not what happened and you know it,’ and he’s, like, whimpering like one of them spoiled little shits you see getting dragged around supermorkets, and I actually feel like hitting him a couple of slaps myself.
Fehily claps his hands together and goes, ‘So, that’s that then! Thank you for coming in, Mrs Swails,’ but she’s not leaving it there. She’s a face on her like a well-slapped orse. She goes, ‘It’s because he plays rugby, isn’t it? That’s why you won’t discipline him?’ and Fehily doesn’t answer, roysh, just turns his head towards the window, as if to say, like, meeting over.
She’s like, ‘Well, if that’s your attitude, I’m taking Timmy out of the school,’ and I’m thinking that if you want your kid to turn out to be a little shit, calling him Timmy’s a good stort. She goes, ‘You think rugby’s that important? Well, let’s see how the school orchestra survives without its best flautist,’ and Fehily actually sniggers, roysh, and then she focks off and brings the beanpole with her.
Fehily goes, ‘Well, Ronan, I think that went rather well,’ and – I don’t believe it, roysh – Ronan high-fives him across the desk and then, like, gets up to go. He’s like, ‘Gotta fly. Pete’s startin’ teachin’ us German, Fadder. Don’t want to miss it,’ and Fehily goes, ‘Auf Wiederschauen, my child,’ and when he’s gone he turns around to me and he’s like, ‘A star of the future. And quite the chip off the old block…’
I’m in the gaff, roysh, flicking through a stack of Sorcha’s Now magazines, actually looking for ideas for who to invite to the reopening of Lillie’s on, like, Christmas Eve. I’m sprawled on the sofa and the old Savalas is on and it’s, like, the news of all things and I’m looking at all the sad fockers bawling their eyes out because Bewley’s is closing down.
Some dude’s being interviewed and he’s saying that you could a buy a cup of coffee and sit there with it all day, sometimes for two or three days, and I’m shouting, ‘That’s how the place went tits-up, you focking tosser,’ and then I stort thinking how funny it would be, roysh, if the Feds arrived on the scene and, like, basically baton-charged all the old biddies and old forts, we’re talking broken teeth and bits of focking Eccles cake scattered all over Grafton Street, and
I stort, like, cracking my hole laughing, roysh, even though there’s, like, no one else in the gaff, but then I stop when all of a sudden Sorcha’s face fills the screen. She’s on Grafton Street, roysh, which explains why she’s not here making my focking dinner, and I’m wondering what her game is, roysh, because she hates Bewley’s, she always cracks up when I say it’s for boggers, septic tanks and coffin-dodgers.
The reporter bird’s like, ‘Not everyone at today’s protest was sad to see the passing of an era,’ and then you hear Sorcha going, ‘I’m spokeswoman for the Campaign to Keep Bewley’s Closed. What Grafton Street is crying out for is a Starbucks. We need white chocolate frappuccinos, tall skinny caramel macchiatos and pumpkin spice and eggnog mochas. What we don’t need is menopausal women in French maid costumes serving sausages and beans from a bain marie.’
Fock me, roysh, I didn’t even know anything about this campaign, and I’m thinking I really should listen to her a bit more. I can see, like, Chloë and Sophie and Claire from, like, Bray of all places, and Aoife, and I’m wondering what her objection is considering she hasn’t let anything other than water, popcorn and Weight Watchers’ soup pass her lips since she was, like, fourteen. She’s next up. She’s like, ‘Oh my God, Bewley’s just, like, totally attracts the wrong type of people to Grafton Street. It’s like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and in the background I can hear Chloë go, ‘She’s SO right. It’s like, Aaaggghhh!’ and then Aoife goes, ‘We would appeal to the Government, though, to make emergency provisions for all the down-and-outs and mental defectives who will be made homeless by the closure. Perhaps they could consider some form of, like, short-term detention, just to ensure a slow release of these people back into the community?’ and I can hear Sorcha giving it, ‘OH MY GOD! I don’t agree with that,’ and then it’s like, ‘Vivienne Traynor, RTÉ News, outside Bewley’s on Grafton Street.’
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress Page 25
