by Paul Howard
My phone beeps. Text message from Sorcha. She wants me to go out with her tonight for, like, something to eat and shit. She’s home from Australia for a week for the opening of her old dear’s new shop in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre. She’s going back tomorrow and I still haven’t seen her. I’ll text her later. I’m like, ‘Do you also stock the Herald?’ He goes, ‘The Hedild? Yes, it’s an evening newspaper. We get about twenty of those in. Very popular.’ I’m like, ‘I’ll take them. All twenty. Same deal. You take the bundle in, you stick it under the counter, and if anyone asks, you tell them it’s sold out.’ He goes, ‘And do you want me to have all these papers delivered to the house?’ I’m like, ‘No, burn them. Do you have anywhere you can do that?’ He goes, ‘I’ve an old barrel in the yard out the back.’ I’m like, ‘There you are. And let’s call it a nice round fifty-five euros a day for the lot. And I don’t want to see either of those two newspapers selling in this shop again. Got it?’
He nods, roysh, and he’s like, ‘I’m with you now, Ross.’ I slap another thirty bills on the counter, roysh, and I go and gather up the bundle of Hedilds and tell him to get that fire storted. He looks really sad. I’m like, ‘What’s your problem?’ He’s like, ‘I love the papers, Ross. It’s the scandal, you see. I love the scandal.’ I throw my eyes up to heaven, roysh, I’m basically too soft really, then I pull one of the papers out of the bundle and I hand it to him. I’m like, ‘Go on then, you can have one last read.’ He’s all delighted with himself. He, like, scans the front page, roysh, and he goes, ‘LAWLOR’S CELLMATE SPEAKS,’ and as I’m heading out the door, he calls me and when I turn around he goes, ‘Oh, Ross, you’re not Liam Lawlor, are you? Your father would be so disappointed.’
I get outside the shop, hop into the cor, and I ring the old man. I’m like, ‘You know some focking weirdos.’ He goes, ‘Hey, Kicker, how are you?’ I’m like, ‘Less of the focking old pal’s act. That goy in the shop near the gaff …’ He goes, ‘Frank? He’s a bit much at times, yes, but he means well. Anyway, listen to me, Ross, we’ve more important things to discuss. You should see what’s arrived next door.’ I’m like, ‘What?’ He goes, ‘A caravan. A caravan, if you don’t mind.’ I’m like, ‘So? Maybe they’re planning to go away on holidays.’He goes, ‘We did not buy a house in Foxrock so we could end up living next to a bloody … HALTING SITE.’ I’m like, ‘Chill out, will you?’ He goes, ‘I will NOT chill out. And what about that little job I gave you. Two months I gave you to get them out. Two weeks have already gone and still no sign.’ I’m like, ‘What do you think I was doing at the newsagents?’ And there’s, like, silence on the other end for about ten seconds, like it’s slowly dawning on him. He goes, ‘Damn it, you’re up to something.’ I’m like, ‘You’re damn right I’m up to something. I’m smoking them out. Smoking them out.’
Michelle from Ulster Bank has noticed that I don’t have a pension. She leaves a message on my mobile reminding me that the current State pension is basically only one hundred and thirteen euros a week, which isn’t a lot, she says, when you consider that the average industrial wage is, like, three hundred and eighty euros a week. She says that pensions offer substantial growth on your investment and are the only form of regular saving that offers you tax relief, blah blah focking blah.
Sorcha orders a raw salad and, like, a bottle of Evian – some things never change – then takes out her Marlboro Lights and puts them on the table. I’m there, ‘How’s knobhead?’ cracking on that I don’t know the goy’s name, roysh. She’s like, ‘You’re talking about Killian, I take it?’ I’m like, ‘Whatever. Where is he?’ She goes, ‘He’s in Australia. I know what you’re getting at, Ross, and you’re wrong. We actually have a very healthy relationship, if you must know.’ I’m like, ‘Meaning?’ She goes, ‘Meaning we both like our freedom. Meaning we don’t have to be full-on, twenty-four seven.’ Meaning Killian’s got another Sheila on the go by the sounds of it. I decide not to push it, though.
She changes the subject, asks me how Christian is. I’m like, ‘We’re back talking again after … well, you know.’ She’s like, ‘Are his mum and dad back together?’ and I go, ‘No, but … they didn’t break up over me, you know.’ She ignores this and tells me she’s sorry she didn’t get to see all the goys, but it was really only a flying visit and there was so much, like, family stuff to do. I ask her what time her flight is tomorrow, roysh, and she says ten o’clock and when I tell her, roysh, that I’d like to go to the airport to see her off, she goes, ‘Much as I’d like to buy that attractive piece of merchandise, somehow it doesn’t fit,’ which sounds suspiciously like another line from ‘Dawson’s Creek’, and she takes off her scrunchy, slips it onto her wrist, shakes her hair free, puts it back in the scrunchy and then pulls a few strands free. Like I said, some things never change.
Her raw salad arrives. So does my yasai itameru. My phone rings when we’re, like, halfway through our food and it’s the old man, having an eppo as per focking usual. He’s like, ‘Ross, come quickly. He’s been here, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Who’s he?’ He goes, ‘Him, Ross. Him next door. Called here about five minutes ago. Brazen as you like. With a ladder. “Couldn’t help but notice there’s a couple of slates missing off yisser roof,” he said. Trying to get money out of me. The gall of it! Oh, if I’d had my wits about me, of course, I’d have hit him with something hard, but my golf bag was just out of reach and, well, it’s the shock, you see. And he must have seen it in my face, because he said, “I told herself the day we won the lorro, money or no money, I’m carrying on working. You’d go off yisser head otherwise, Charlie.” He called me Charlie, Ross. CHARLIE!’ I’m like, ‘Hey, I need you focking calm. Stay with me here. What did you do next?’ He goes, ‘I slammed the door in his face.’ I’m like, ‘Good.’ He’s there, ‘And I’m just about to call the Gardaí.’ I’m like, ‘Do NOT call the feds. I mean it. I am handling the situation. I pulled off a focking masterstroke today. Another week and they’ll be gone, I’m telling you.’ I manage to talk him down and then I hang up.
There’s this old dear, roysh, suddenly standing over our table and she’s with, like, her daughter I presume, pretty tasty, nice boat race, Ashley Judd with blonde hair, and this complete tosspot who I reckon is her daughter’s boyfriend from the way they’re holding hands. Anyway, roysh, this old dear goes, at the top of her voice, ‘ARE YOU TWO GOING TO BE FINISHED SOON?’ And Sorcha, roysh, who’s been, like, chasing this water chestnut around her plate with her fork for the past ten minutes, she looks up and she goes, ‘We are trying to have our lunch. Do you mind?’ And the three of them, roysh, they’re totally focking bulling it, but they don’t fock off, roysh, they just stand over us, thinking it’ll make us leave quicker.
Sorcha’s, like, trying to ignore them and she goes, ‘Where were we? You’re working for your dad now?’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, just a one-off thing. I’m still working for JP’s old man, in the estate agents. But my old man asked me to do, em, a special project, you could call it.’ She goes, ‘Is it my imagination or are our horizons unexpectedly broadening?’ Her and that focking programme. I’m just like, ‘Yeah, Kool and the Gang.’ She goes, ‘So what exactly does this special project involve?’ I’m like, ‘Well, tomorrow morning I’m going to offer the goy in the off-licence two hundred bills to stop selling Linden Village and Dutch Gold.’ She goes, ‘Dutch what?’ I’m like, ‘Dutch Gold. It’s beer. Central heating for skangers.’ She’s about to light her cigarette, but stops when she hears this, the flame about an inch away from the end of it, and she’s there, ‘Why would you want to pay the local off-licence to stop selling it?’ I’m like, ‘Long story. Suffice it to say that the old pair have got some Tallafornian refugees living next door. And you could say their application for asylum has been revoked.’ I don’t know where that last bit came from, but I have to say, roysh, I’m pretty happy with it.
Sorcha’s not. She goes, ‘Oh my God, you are such a materialistic snob.’ I just, like, shrug my sho
ulders and I’m there, ‘How much did that shirt cost?’ She goes, ‘Oh, so you can’t wear Abercrombie and be concerned about those less fortunate than you, is that what you’re saying? Don’t go there, Ross. Do not go there.’
All of a sudden, roysh, I notice that the old biddy who was trying to get us to leave has collared one of the waitresses, roysh, and she’s going, ‘I mean, could they not move to that table over there? They could share with that couple. We need three seats, you see.’ But the waitress, roysh, she hasn’t a focking clue what your one is talking about and then Sorcha makes a big deal of ordering, I don’t know, a grande orange mocha-chip frappuccino or some shite, with extra chocolate as well, and the old bitch, roysh, she throws her eyes up to heaven and then hops it before I have to tell her to.
Sorcha goes, ‘That’s one thing I can’t get used to. Ireland has changed SO much.’ I’m like, ‘You’ve only been away eight months,’ and she goes, ‘Will you share a bowl of chunky dairy peach ice cream with me?’ and I know the thing’ll come, roysh, and she’ll basically horse the lot. That’s birds for you. They don’t want to share the ice cream. They want to share the guilt. I’m like, ‘Okay.’ She orders, roysh, then she goes, ‘Dublin especially has SO changed. Totally. Everyone is, like, SO rude. Nobody cares about other people anymore, it’s all, like, money, money, money.’ I remind her that Philipa was saying the same thing six months ago. Philipa as in Shut Sellafield. Philipa as in Save the focking Dolphins. The last time I saw her she was working in some morkeshing firm, blabbing on about consumer recognition, aural spillover and the glamour-sex-excitement curve. You’d need a focking degree in bullshit to understand her. When I say this, roysh, Sorcha suddenly looks all sad. She goes, ‘I used to love that Labi Siffre song, ‘Something Inside so Strong’.’ I reach across the table, roysh, grab her hand and I go, ‘I remember, Sorcha. It was one of the main reasons you joined Amnesty.’ She goes, ‘I come home, I turn on the television and it’s on an ad for a bank.’ I tell her I’ve missed her. She ignores me, pulls her hand away and says that Philipa is a sap who always had an attitude problem. Then she storts looking around to see what’s keeping her coffee. She looks great.
I meet Faye in Dun Laoghaire and she has, like, a bag with her and I ask her whether she’s been to the gym. She goes, ‘Just for a sauna. And a sunbed. Did you hear about Amy?’ I’m there, ‘Em, about her joining Riverview?’ And she stares through me and goes, ‘That girl is such a sad case.’
For the past three weeks, I’ve been seeing this bird called Eimear, roysh, well-stacked, nice boat race, but basically thicker than the queue outside a northside post office on family allowance day. Which doesn’t matter to me, of course. To me, it’s only a bit of fun. The problem is that she’s, like, totally fallen head-over-heels for me, the sappy bitch. I haven’t mentioned it yet, roysh, but Eimear has a boyfriend, which seems to be a problem to her. I couldn’t give a fock. To me, roysh, birds with boyfriends are the best kind of birds to be with. Playing off the big striker, we call it. He takes all the knocks, the elbows and the rough treatment, while you do all the scoring. The last few weeks, roysh, I’ve been like that Robbie Keane. Without the jewellery, though. And the Tallaght accent.
Eimear and Michael – that’s the boyfriend, roysh, or Big Quinny, as the goys christened him – they live in this gaff down near Dun Laoghaire Dorsh station, a bit of a hovel if the truth be told, but pretty much what you’d expect for, like, students. I don’t really listen to her that much, roysh, but he’s doing, like, veterinary science in Trinity, which takes serious brains, and she’s doing, like, commerce in UCD, which doesn’t.
But it’s obviously not brains she’s after, roysh, because last Friday she, like, texts me to tell me that Michael’s in Wexford for the weekend, I don’t know, shoving his arm up cow’s orses or whatever it is vets do, and she’s like, WOOD U LIKE 2 COME 4 DNNER? and you know me, I’m like, Hello? Is the bear a Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?
Lash on my black DKNY shirt and my Hugo Boss jeans, quick splash of Gio Acqua Di, and the next thing I know I’m in her sitting room, taking in the smell of some chickeny thing she’s cooking while flicking through her CD collection for one bad enough to Petty Pilfer. She’s giving it, ‘Oh my God, I am such a bad cook. I’m, like, SO embarrassed.’ As it turns out, of course, she’s not. The nosebag is amazing and when we’ve finished eating, roysh, we – as Fionn says – retire to the drawing room for the preliminaries.
She’s another one of those birds who love that whole oh-romance-me thing, roysh, which is why I agreed to sit with her through the whole of Sleepless in Seattle, which is basically the biggest pile of shite ever to be made into a film. By the time it’s over, roysh, I’m totally gagging for it, but she wants to put on Dirty Dancing. I’m like, ‘I’m, em, a bit tired … Eimear.’ I nearly called her Orla. I’m like, ‘I think I’ll turn in.’ She goes, ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner,’ which I think is a line from Dirty Dancing, then she storts breaking her shite laughing, which is when I realise she’s either drunker or thicker than I thought.
We head through to the bedroom, all lava lamps and three-bar electric heaters, which is pretty much what you’d expect from a girl you met in Club M. I whip the threads off, roysh, but by the time I get into the scratcher, roysh, she’s out for the count and snoring her focking head off, so I climb into the sack, as clumsy as I can, to try to, like, wake her up, but it’s no go, and now I know I shouldn’t have let her open that second bottle of wine.
I’m in a bit of a Pauline Fowler at this stage, but you don’t score as many birds as I have in my life, roysh, without learning a trick or six. I already knew my next move. Okay, I’m lying there, wide awake and basically dying for it, roysh, and she’s lying there, out to the world and basically not dying for it, so I grab her by the shoulders, roysh, and I stort, like, shaking her, and just as she’s waking up, roysh, I’m there going, ‘It’s okay, Eimear … ssshh … calm down … it’s okay, you just had a bad dream.’
Of course, she wakes up and she’s totally clueless. She’s like, ‘What’s wrong?’ I’m like, ‘You were having a nightmare.’ She’s there, ‘Was I?’ I’m like, ‘Yeah. That’s all it was, a bad dream.’ Of course, in her half-asleep state, roysh, she’s convinced now that she was having a nightmare and she storts, like, crying, which is when I offer her a comforting hug and, well, I don’t need to draw you a map of where we’re going next.
Or rather, where we should have been going next. There’s me and Eimear about to get jiggy, roysh, when all of a sudden I hear the door of the flat open and Eimear’s like, ‘That’s Michael. Are you ready for this?’ I’m like, ‘I thought you said he was in Wexford.’ She goes, ‘Ross, we have to stop all this sneaking around. He needs to know.’ There’s no time for me to, like, argue and shit. In he comes and asks that stupid question I’ve heard so many times before: ‘What’s going on here?’ The state of him, he’s a total bogger, I mean, who dressed him – Stevie Wonder? Eimear goes, ‘I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Michael. But … we love each other.’ I’m like, Whoah, horsey. Who said anything about … This goy, Michael, he goes, ‘What’s your name?’ I’m like, ‘What’s it to you?’ He’s there, ‘Well, you’ve eaten all my food, drunk all my wine and now you’re sleeping with my girlfriend in my bed. I’m just curious.’ Good comeback, I have to give him that. I’m like, ‘The name’s Ross.’
He goes, ‘Outside. Now.’ Eimear’s there, ‘Please, no fighting,’ I’m like, as if. He’s only a little goy, roysh, and I’m pretty confident of decking the focker. I hop out of bed and I see him clock my pecs. It turns out, roysh, he doesn’t want to fight. It’s really weird, roysh, but we go into the kitchen and he tells me to sit at the table, then he pours, like, two large glasses of whiskey. He takes a sip of his and goes, ‘Did you know that Eimear hates Christmas?’ I’m like, ‘What’s that got to do with the price of cabbage?’ He goes, ‘She hates Christmas and she’s allergic to milk and she can’t swim. And she loves
pigs and she cries when she hears Karen Carpenter sing ‘Solitaire’. And she’s a diabetic and she wants to be a concert pianist and she once dyed her hair blonde and it turned bright orange. And her mum died when she was three.’ This is, like, weird shit. He’s like, ‘And you don’t know anything about her, do you?’ I’m just like, ‘No.’ He goes, ‘And you say you love her?’ I’m there, ‘Fock, no, she said that, not me.’
And suddenly, she’s at the door of the kitchen, roysh, and she’s like, ‘Ross?’ And I just knock back the whiskey in one go and I get up from the table, and she’s there going, ‘Ross? Ross, this isn’t fair.’ I stop and I look at her and I’m like, ‘Nor is Samantha Mumba’s orse.’ It’s a JP line – one of his better ones – and I tell them I’ll let myself out.
I hear them crying, talking, trying to put what they had back together, as I sneak into the sitting room on my way out the door, roysh, and grab the Phil Collins Buster soundtrack that will be my little souvenir of one majorly focked-up night.
‘I’ve been watching ‘Fair City’ for ten years,’ Fionn goes, while cleaning his glasses on his shirt. ‘It’s supposed to be a slice of authentic north Dublin life. Yet in all that time I’ve never seen anyone being held up with a syringe. Explain that.’ I’m like, ‘I can’t. Come on, Fionn, you can watch the omnibus. We’re heading out.’ I was so gagging to go on the rip, roysh, just to, like, celebrate making my twenty-fifth house sale that morning. It turned out basically to be a piece of piss. Even got out to the gaff half an hour late, roysh, traffic was the usual focking mare, and the goy and the bird are waiting outside in the rain, her looking at her watch and, like, throwing her eyes up to heaven, roysh, to try to make me feel bad. She’s like, ‘About time, too.’ And before I can say a word, roysh, she goes, ‘Now, talk to us like we’re children. Sell us the house, but spare us the bloody jargon, okay?’