Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  Sorcha gives me the filthiest of filthies. She goes, ‘Ross, she is making her Confirmation and that’s all there is to it!’

  I step out into the gorden and I ring JP’s mobile. He answers on the second ring.

  He goes, ‘Rossmeister!’ and he sounds – yeah, no – in great form.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, Dude. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m just setting off for Wexford,’ he goes. ‘We’re the official agents for a new scheme of commuter homes they’re building in Oilgate. They’re not due to go on the morket until the summer, but people are already queuing to put deposits down on them. They’ve pitched tents and everything.’

  ‘We seem to be doing all the same things as a society that we did fifteen years ago. Thanks be to God.’

  ‘Dad thinks we should just leave the people there. You know, good for the image – economy booming, demand for houses never higher. But I’m just going to go down there, take their contact details and tell them they can go home.’

  ‘That’s, em, very nice of you. And that isn’t meant to sound like a criticism.’

  It is a criticism.

  He’s like, ‘So, what’s up?’

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Do you fancy a spin?’

  ‘Down to Oilgate?’

  ‘Yeah, I can swing by and pick you up if you want.’

  So that’s what ends up happening. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the front passenger seat of his X5, wondering how I’m going to break the news to him. And he’s not making it easy for me because he won’t shut the fock up about his plans for Hook, Lyon and Sinker once his old man retires.

  ‘There’s going to be a lot of changes,’ he goes. ‘For thirty years, Hook, Lyon and Sinker has been a byword for unscrupulous practices in the areas of selling and letting property.’

  I’m there, ‘Your old man worked hord to build up that reputation.’

  ‘Well, I want to end all of that. I want people to think of Hook, Lyon and Sinker as the ethical estate agency. I want us to be one hundred percent straight and above board in our dealings with customers. When I take over, it’s going to be all different. We’re going to stop using flowery language to exaggerate the merits of our properties. We’re going to stop inflating prices to over and above what our properties are actually worth. We’re going to stop lying to prospective buyers about the level of interest in a property and pretending they’re in an auction situation when they’re actually not.’

  ‘That’s, em, a lot of changes.’

  ‘I want the behaviour of our staff to change as well. For instance, I’m banning chest-bumping in the office.’

  Jesus Christ. If he’s mad enough to think he can take the chest-bump out of selling houses, he’s mad enough to do anything.

  He goes, ‘The first thing I’m going to change, though, is the name. Hook, Lyon and Sinker has too many associations with the bad old days of the Celtic Tiger. I was thinking of something like Green Homes. Or New Stort.’

  We’re on the M11, approaching the exit for Brittas Bay, when I decide to just blurt it out. I’m there, ‘Your old man wants me to take over Hook, Lyon and Sinker when he retires.’

  He goes, ‘What?’

  ‘He asked me, Dude. I said I’d have to have a think about it. But obviously I wanted to say it to you first.’

  He’s like, ‘You?’ and I can already see that he’s devastated.

  I’m there, ‘For what it’s worth, he thinks you’re too nice to take over from him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did he make you this offer?’

  ‘Last Saturday. At the French match. When we were in the jacks.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re actually considering it. For fock’s sake, Ross, we played rugby together.’

  ‘Rugby is the reason I was scared to bring it up with you. Rugby is the reason I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep all week.’

  ‘This is because you didn’t laugh at his stupid Vampire Bed idea. You were the only one who didn’t laugh.’

  ‘He just thinks I’d do a better job steering Hook, Lyon and Sinker through the next bubble.’

  He suddenly steps on the brake and swerves into the hord shoulder. He’s like, ‘Get out.’

  I’m like, ‘What? We’re in the middle of focking nowhere.’

  ‘I said get out.’

  ‘How am I supposed to get home?’

  ‘Not my focking problem.’

  ‘Dude, this is crazy.’

  ‘Plotting behind my old man’s back to shaft me. Get the fock out of my cor!’

  He basically roars it at me, so I end up having no choice in the matter. Out I get. And with a screech of tyres he drives off, leaving me – like I said – out in the literally sticks.

  I’m just thinking, He’ll calm down eventually. And that’s when I notice, in the foraway distance, JP’s X5 pulling into the hord shoulder again. He’s seen sense, I think. He’s thought about all the orguments: (a) it’s business; (b) it’s not personal; (c) he wouldn’t have won a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal if it wasn’t for me.

  I actually break into a run and it only takes me a minute or two to reach his cor. I open the front passenger door and I go, ‘Dumping me in the middle of Wicklow – I knew you couldn’t go through with it!’

  But I notice straight away that he’s crying – as in, like seriously bawling?

  I’m like, ‘Dude, I’ll keep you on the staff. There’s no question of me letting you go, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  But he goes, ‘Ross, I just had a phone call. My dad is dead.’

  4.

  Faux Pas to Avoid on Your Confirmation Day!

  ‘There’s a standard test,’ JP goes, ‘that estate agents use to decide whether or not a house is situated in what can be called a “desirable area”.’ It works like this. First, you ring the Feds and you tell them that a man wearing a balaclava and carrying a knife is climbing through your kitchen window. Then, when you’ve hung up, you ring Domino’s and you order a twelve-inch pizza with everything on it. The rule is that if the pizza shows up before the Feds – as is almost always the case in Terenure, I’m reliably told – then you couldn’t in all honesty describe the area as desirable.’

  The entire congregation laughs.

  He’s like, ‘The so-called Conroy Test is used throughout the property industry and was named in honour of the man who invented it, the man whose life we have come here this morning to celebrate – the man lying in a wooden box, here in Our Lady Queen of Peace Church on the Merrion Road.’

  It has to be said that JP is holding it together unbelievably well. Actually, he’s doing more than just holding it together. He’s delivering a eulogy that is doing his old man definite justice.

  ‘Inventing the Conroy Test,’ he tells the packed church, ‘was something of which my old man was justifiably proud – even though he wasn’t above exaggerating the chorms of a property himself!’

  Everyone laughs. The man was a focking crook, in fairness to him.

  He goes, ‘It was Dad, for instance, who first christened Stoneybatter “Dublin’s Notting Hill” and who came up with the idea of calling Greystones “Ireland’s very own Hamptons”.’

  Again, there’s more laughter – probably at the idea that anyone would actually choose to live in Greystones.

  He goes, ‘I’m also reminded that it was my old man who, in 2007, took a court case to try to establish the right of estate agents, when quoting the measurements of a property, to include the width of the bricks and the cavity wall space in their calculations. And while the High Court threw out the case – and subsequently his application for costs – I know he was enormously proud when the Sunday Business Post described it as one of the twenty moments that defined the Celtic Tiger era – along with Seán FitzPatrick calling on the Government to tackle the sacred cows of children’s allowance, old age pensions and
medical cords for the over seventies, and Gerald Kean dressed as Louis XIV.’

  Oisinn leans over to me. He goes, ‘He’s knocking it out of the ball pork up there.’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, he definitely is,’ but at the same time I can’t help but feel like shit. If only I’d kept my mouth shut for even ten minutes longer, then JP wouldn’t know the truth about what his old man really thought of him, which wasn’t much – certainly in terms of work.

  ‘My dad was obviously a brilliant, brilliant man,’ JP goes. ‘But his greatest gift – you might even call it the real Conroy Test – was for fatherhood.’

  Everyone claps, even though it’s basically bollocks. He was much better at selling houses than he was at being a dad. He’s probably spinning in that box right now at being dissed like this.

  ‘Because whatever else he was,’ JP goes, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘he was my daddy,’ and he looks down at little Isa, sitting on Chloe’s lap, directly in front of me. ‘And I would consider it my greatest achievement in life if I could be the kind of father to my son that my father was to me.’

  Well, he’s certainly that – in the sense that he’s no longer in a relationship with the boy’s mother and he only sees the kid at weekends. Still, everyone claps, then the choir sings ‘In My Father’s House (Are Many Mansions)’ as JP and a bunch of Mr Conroy’s mates from the Fitzwilliam Casino & Cord Club carry the coffin down the aisle and out of the church.

  We all shuffle outside to the cor pork and we do the whole sympathizing with the rellys thing. I tip over to JP’s old dear and I’m there, ‘Hey, Mrs Conroy, I’m really sorry and blah, blah, blah.’

  And she goes, ‘He was a focking prick, Ross,’ which makes me laugh out loud because it’s not the kind of thing you expect to hear at a South Dublin funeral? Especially from the widow. ‘If you want to sympathize with someone, do it with that Slovakian whore he left me for.’

  She flicks her thumb at Madlenka, who’s standing, like, three feet away from us. It’s like, awks much? The girl is literally bawling her eyes out. I’ve never been especially comfortable around crying women, despite my long years of exposure to them, so I give her a sort of sad face, head cocked to one side, bottom lip turned down – the same face that Sorcha pulls when she hears about, say, a polar bear who’s been found dead with four hundred used Nespresso capsules in its stomach – then I move quickly along.

  The cor pork ends up being rammers. Half of South Dublin must be here. Everyone is standing around, telling their favourite stories about the man. I hear one dude say that Barry Conroy sold him his very first house in 1974 – and, despite that, they managed to remain friends for more than forty years.

  I tip over to JP, who’s chatting to Christian, Oisinn and Fionn. There’s no sign of Magnus, by the way. He’s apparently – and this is the exact word that gets used – working?

  JP is telling the goys how his old man died. It turns out it was, like, a massive hort attack. No real surprise there. The dude’s orteries were so furry, you could give them to your kids to cuddle.

  ‘I mean, literally five minutes before he hit the deck,’ he goes, ‘he managed to sell a two-bedroom house in Dortry for €640,000.’

  Oisinn just shakes his head. He’s there, ‘Six hundred and forty thousand euros for Dortry! And they said this country was finished?’

  ‘He put the phone down, walked out of his office into the middle of the floor and said, “Can you believe they actually bought it? The walls are so thin that the neighbours will be finishing their fucking sentences!” And those were the last words he ever spoke.’

  ‘I suppose there’s some consolation,’ Christian goes, ‘in knowing that he died doing what he loved.’

  That’s Christian for you. He always knows the right thing to say.

  ‘Good point,’ I go. ‘Stiffing some dope with more money than sense is definitely how he would have wanted to go.’

  My old man and Hennessy tip over to us then. The old man shakes JP’s hand and tells him that Shanahan’s won’t be Shanahan’s without Barry Conroy sitting in his usual seat, telling some filthy joke or other.

  ‘I was talking to the chap only a few days ago!’ he goes. ‘In Peterson of Dublin, where, as you know, he always bought his cigors! He told me one about a woman who turned out to be a fishmonger’s daughter of all things! A fishmonger’s daughter! Have you ever heard the like of it? And that is how I shall remember your father!’

  JP’s like, ‘Thanks, Charles. We’re having a few drinks in his honour in the M1 later on, if you fancy popping in.’

  ‘I shall certainly show my face,’ the old man goes, ‘although I shan’t be drinking!’ And then he turns to me. ‘The doctor has put me on this new diet, Ross! No alcohol! A lot of red meat and green vegetables – try to improve the quality of my –’

  I’m like, ‘Okay, don’t even think about finishing that sentence.’

  ‘I’m just mentioning it in dispatches, Ross, that your mother and I haven’t quite given up hope yet!’

  The goys are all looking at each other, thinking, what the fock is he even talking about? But I’m just looking at JP, who’s still refusing to make eye contact with me.

  The last man I hurt this deeply was, believe it or not, Felix Jones. Long story. But back in the day, my old man had this deal with the Leinster Branch of the IRFU where he agreed – on the QT – to pay the release chorge for any current player unlucky enough to have his cor clamped. Cian Healy, for instance, would be basically skint today if it wasn’t for my old man.

  Anyway, about a week after he signed for Munster, Felix rang me to say that his Kia Sorento had been clamped after he threw it in a loading bay outside Supermac’s in Dooradoyle and could he have my old man’s credit cord details? I should have just given him the number – the goy worshipped me – but instead I told him that since he was no longer a Leinster player, he wasn’t covered by the terms of the deal any more.

  Let’s just say that angry words were exchanged. He said one or two things about my rugby career – or, more specifically, lack thereof – which he definitely didn’t mean, while it was possibly childish of me looking back to suggest that he put his complaint in writing and send it to Conor Pope via the Irish Times.

  In my defence, he’d gone to play for the enemy and I was hurt. But I lost a friend that day.

  The next time I heard from Felix was about a month later, when he asked me to return his copy of Paddy Casey’s Living, which I remembered borrowing from him but just couldn’t find. Then about two years later, I tried to Like a Vine that he posted on Twitter of a man skiing into a tree, only to discover that he’d blocked me.

  Yeah, no, I hurt Felix badly – just like I’ve hurt JP now.

  I sort of, like, steer the dude away from the rest of the goys and I’m like, ‘I just wanted to say – again – sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ he goes. ‘Plotting with my old man behind my back to shaft me?’

  ‘No … Well, yeah … But mostly I’m just sorry for opening my mouth.’

  ‘For telling me that my old man thought I was useless?’

  ‘He didn’t think you were useless, Dude. He just thought you had too much human decency to run a successful estate agency. In a way, if you think about it, that’s sort of a compliment.’

  ‘Don’t try to dress it up as something it’s not, Ross. My own father didn’t trust me to take over the family business. You’ve no idea how it feels, Ross, to know that no matter what I achieve in life now, I’ll never be in a position to prove my old man wrong.’

  ‘Dude, I’m sorry I even opened my mouth.’

  ‘So am I, Ross. Believe me. So am I.’

  I spot Ronan coming out of the Orts Block. He’s surprised to see me.

  ‘Rosser?’ he goes. ‘What are you doing hee-or?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was just passing – thought I’d swing in and see did you fancy grabbing a bit of lunch slash a few pints?’

  He’s like, ‘’M
on, so, we’ll go to the restordoddent.’

  ‘So you’re choosing the lunch option over the pints option?’ I go, unable to hide my disappointment. ‘Is everything okay?’

  He laughs. He’s like, ‘I’ve leckchodders this arthur noon, you bleaten mad thing!’

  We stort walking along the side of the lake. It’s great to see him back in college and back in cracking form. I say it to him as well.

  He goes, ‘Thanks, Rosser. Me and Shadden ardent at war with each udder addy mower. And Ine getting to see me thaughter pretty much evoddy utter day. Hee-or, do you know what we should do? We should arrange a playdate between Rihatta-Barrogan and the boyuz.’

  I’m there, ‘My boys?’

  ‘The thriplets, yeah.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ro, they’re banned from pretty much everywhere.’

  ‘We could bring them thram poddle eden.’

  ‘Okay, give me that again?’

  ‘Thram poddle eden.’

  ‘Go again?’

  ‘Thram poddle eden.’

  ‘Still not getting it?’

  ‘Thram poddle eden.’

  ‘Once more?’

  ‘Thram poddle eden.’

  ‘Once more?’

  ‘Thram poddle eden.’

  ‘One more time?’

  ‘Thram poddle eden.’

  ‘Trampoling! Yes! I knew I’d get it in the end!’

  ‘Rihatta-Barrogan’s mad into it, so she is. There’s a place in Saddenyfowurd calt the Jump Zowunt.’

  ‘I’m proud to say that’s one place they haven’t been banned from yet, mainly because they’ve never focking been there.’

  ‘We’ll sort it, so. Hee-or, how’s Sudeka, by the way?’

  ‘Sorcha? Yeah, no, she’s sort of pissed off with me at the moment for one or two things. Okay, answer me this, Ro. If you had a wife and she came to you and said she thought you should stort dating again, would you think that meant dating her or dating other people?’

  ‘Dating her.’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I doatunt neeyud to think abourrit. I’d think she meddent dating her.’