by Paul Howard
I’m like, ‘Hey, Kool and the Gang,’ roysh, and then I stort, like, showing them around, basically just spouting bullshit. I’m there, ‘This little baby is the last word in top-end, high-spec houses. It’s far more than just a location, you might almost say it’s a new way of living. It affords generous living space, having been substantially extended over recent years, sometimes with planning permission. Generous electrical specification in every room, concrete driveway, a high-quality fit-out kitchen. It’s got SFCH, WC, GDP, ESP and TV3 …’
The bird, roysh, a real nosy bitch, she goes, ‘Does it have DG?’ I’m like, ‘D-what?’ And she throws her eyes up to heaven again and goes, ‘DG! Double glazing! The house is on a main road, I imagine it’s very noisy.’ I’m there, ‘Extensive public road frontage is one of the features that makes this house so desirable. Some might consider the noise a downside, so all of the windows are, em, DG-able. But can I just encourage you to take a helicopter view of the situation. House price inflation may have reduced the affordability of houses in the city, but Ballyboden, sorry Dundrum, is proof that there’s still room in the city for the more discerning buyer. Sales activity in this area means you can expect excellent capital appreciation.’
The goy’s, like, scratching his head. He goes, ‘I thought the market had slowed …’ I’m like, ‘You’d think that global economic uncertainty would impact on consumer confidence, but the sluggishness in activity that was evident in the first half of the year hasn’t continued into the second half. It really is the time to buy.’ This bird, roysh, she goes, ‘We thought it was the time to sell.’ And I just look at her, roysh, full of, like, pity, and I go, ‘Who told you that?’ She’s there, ‘Your boss did. When he told us to put our house on the market last week.’ Fock him. I’m like, ‘Em, well, yes, of course it’s time to sell. But at the same time, it’s also time to buy. It’s time to sell and then buy, you might say. It’s a seller’s-then-buyer’s market.’
The bird, roysh, I’m really getting sick of her now, she goes, ‘Why is the house called Beachview?’ I’m like, ‘Well, if you go into the master bedroom …’ She goes, ‘The master bedroom is west-facing. The nearest beach is Galway. Comes with a telescope, does it?’ I’m like, ‘Sorry, I meant the box room.’ Of course she had to go and check it out, roysh, so we all had to, like, traipse all the way up the focking stairs again and we’re all staring out the window at the back of the house and she’s still not happy. She’s like, ‘Well, I can’t see the sea.’
I’m trying not to lose my rag with her. I’m there, ‘You can just make it out. Between the graveyard and the tyre factory there.’ She goes, ‘That’s a drop of rain on the window.’ I’m like, ‘Oh. Actually, when they said Beachview, I think they meant the tree.’ The bird goes, ‘You mean the one that’s blocking out the natural light in the sitting room?’ Fock it, I’m losing them. I’m like, ‘Yeah. They’re all in this year. Beech is the new, I don’t know, oak.’
The goy, roysh, who’s actually sound, he goes, ‘That type of beech has two Es.’ And I’m like, ‘A bit like me in English. An E in the Junior Cert and an E in the Leaving,’ and he cracks his shite laughing. I’m like, ‘Sorry, spelling’s never been my strongest point. I was on the S at school,’ and the goy’s ears prick up, roysh, and he’s, like, all of a sudden all interested. He goes, ‘What school did you go to? Good God, you’re not Gick, are you?’ and I’m there, ‘No, I went to, em …’ and I’m there trying to guess where the goy went to, roysh. He looks really loaded, roysh, but a bit focking dim, so I go, ‘Clongowes,’ and all of a sudden he high-fives me and then launches into this, like, song about, I don’t know, honour and glory, and I just smile and do this sort of, like, conducting motion with my hands, knowing that the house was as good as sold.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The One Where Ross Does A Shitty Thing
I’m locked, roysh, and I end up trying to make a move on Erika. Of course, I crash and burn. As usual. She goes, ‘The gap is too big, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘Hello? I’m only a year older than you.’ She goes, ‘I’m talking about the one between your ears,’ and everyone breaks their shites laughing. I’m like, ‘Very funny.’
Cara is this bird we used to know when we were all, like, fifteen or sixteen and hanging around in McDonald’s in Blackrock, eight of us sitting around one caramel sundae. She was a bit of a honey, roysh, but she never actually ended up being with any of us, just basically flirted her orse off. Flirted her orse off and hung around the Frascati Centre all day, which is how she got the nickname The Mall Teaser.
It was a total shock to me to find out a couple of weeks ago, roysh, that she’s suddenly going out with Oisinn, having presumed for all these years that she was either a lezzer or was saving herself for Matt Damon. And Oisinn’s no Matt Damon, that’s for sure, the fat focker, and he generally goes for fat, ugly mingers.
Anyway, roysh, there I am a while back sitting up at the bor in the Wicked Wolf, getting into this really heavy conversation with Fionn about relationships and shit. Basically what happened was that I got, like, a letter from Sorcha that morning. I knew it was from her before I even opened it because on the envelope it had: The paper used in the manufacture of this product comes from a sustainable forest source. It turns out anyway, roysh, that her and Dick-Features split up, like, permanently when she went back to Australia and she’s basically trying to suss me out to see whether she’s any chance of getting back in with me when she comes home after Christmas. It’s full of, like, hints, her asking me whether I’m seeing anyone special at the moment, blah blah blah.
I’ve no real interest in getting back with her at this moment in time, roysh – without wanting to sound like a total asshole, I just want to prove to myself that I could have her if I wanted her – but I make the mistake of asking Fionn what he thinks of the idea. Of course, Fionn uses it to launch into his latest theory, which is that no male-female relationship truly lasts more than two years. I’m like, ‘Two years? What are you talking about?’
He goes, ‘We’re apes, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘You mean rugby players?’ He shakes his head and goes, ‘Humans in general. We’re one of eighty-nine different species of ape. And apes aren’t monogamous.’ I’m like, ‘This is total bullshit. And we’re talking TOTAL here.’ He goes, ‘Ross, I’m the only friend you have who’s still enjoying the benefits of a third-level education. That makes what I have to say even more precious.’ I’m like, ‘Sorry.’ He goes, ‘I’m passing on wisdom here, Ross. Be grateful. Your average ape will father many offspring during his lifetime, with several different mothers. Not at the same time, of course. We’re not talking about Ballyfermot here.’
I’m like, ‘What are you talking about?’ He shakes his head and he goes, ‘I’ll use the baby voice then. Daddy ape meets mummy ape. They settle down. Baby ape comes along. Daddy ape stays with mummy ape but only until she can cope with baby ape on her own. Then he goes off to find another mummy ape. The whole process takes two years.’ I’m like, ‘And?’ He goes, ‘And … it’s the same for humans. Two years, Ross. Then your instinct takes you to the next tree. To try to keep a relationship going for longer than two years, well, it’s focking around with nature.’
Anyway, roysh, all of this is basically just background to the story, which is really about Oisinn and this bird, The Mall Teaser. Basically his old pair had been on at him for ages, roysh, asking him all about this bird he was seeing, trying to get him to bring her home to meet them. Of course, Oisinn’s like, ‘Hello? Mortification City, Arizona.’ So his old pair – they’re, like, such nosy fockers – they hear him on his mobile arranging to meet Cara in the Wicked Wolf that night.
So what they do, roysh, is they go to Blackrock to some restaurant for a meal and they decide to – we’re talking accidentally on purpose, roysh – pop into the Wicked Wolf afterwards for a drink, just to have a scope at the new bird. What they don’t know, roysh, is that it’s Wet T-Shirt Night. And who’s the star of the show? Up there standing o
n the bar, doing a sexy dance, soaked in water, big tits hanging out. You’ve guessed it. Oisinn. Then he drags Cara up on the bar as well and storts pouring water over her. His old man is just standing there with his mouth open. His old dear is bawling her eyes out. JP goes over and offers to buy them a drink. I can hardly take my eyes off Oisinn, though. Fionn turns around to me, a real look of, like, satisfaction on his face, and he goes, ‘What did I tell you, Ross? Apes.’
A very successful weekend of scoring results in the addition of two new CDs to my growing collection. Janet from Rathgar provided Jewel’s Pieces of You – unbeknownst to her, of course – and Amanda, this bird I met in Lillies who looks a little bit like Vanessa Marcil, weighed in with the soundtrack from Grease. Both are equally shit, but at this rate, by Christmas, I’m going to have to stort a second shelf.
There’s two rabbits on the screen, roysh, and the male one – I think he’s called a buck – he sort of, like, sniffs at the female for a second or two and then suddenly the two of them are, like, going at it hammer and tongs, basically doing the business like there’s no tomorrow. Anto, a young rabbit of just six weeks, feels his face go all hot and a sudden stiffening in his jeans as David Attenborough’s voice fills the lounge, ‘Rabbits have … many litters between … early spring and late autumn,’ he says in that sort of breathless voice of his. ‘There are between four … and six in each litter.’
But Anto is too engrossed in the sight of the two rabbits humping to hear what David Attenborough’s saying, or to notice that his old dear is all of a sudden in the room as well. She’s like, ‘What the …’ and he quickly tries to flick over, roysh, to pretend he was watching ‘The Osbournes’. But she storts, like, whacking him around the head with a rolled-up copy of Woman’s Way and going, ‘Ya dorty beggar. Ya dorty little fookin beggar.’
He’s, like, trying to protect himself with his forepaws and he’s there going, ‘Stall the ball, will ye? I was only flickin’ through de channels.’ She goes, ‘Flickin’ through de channels me arse. I know what you’re after been doin’.’
His old man comes in then, roysh, and he’s like, ‘What’s the story?’ and the old dear goes, ‘I’m after catchin’ him watchin’ one of dem dorty movies … I can’t believe they put that filth on the telly at this hour.’ The old man’s there, ‘A bluey? Is dat all? Moy Jaysus, I thought World War bleedin’ Three was after breakin’ out.’ She’s like, ‘Is dat all? What do you mean, is dat all? No wonder your son’s turned out a bleedin’ pervert if that’s yer attitude.’ He’s like, ‘Will ye give over, Dolores. Doesn’t make him a pervert. The boy’s just curious, that’s all.’ She’s like, ‘Sex, sex, sex. It’s all yous think about.’ He’s like, ‘We’re fookin rabbits, for fook’s sake. It’s nature an’ dat.’
The old dear just gives him this filthy, roysh, and she goes, ‘I’m not even goin’ to tell you what I found under his bed yesterday. It’s no wonder I’m buyin’ toilet rolls every udder day.’ Anto gets a total beamer, roysh, and he goes to get up. His old dear’s like, ‘Where de fook are you goin’?’ He’s like, ‘To me room.’ She’s like, ‘No, you’re not. How long ago was it I asked ye fer to go to the shops?’ He’s like, ‘Ah, Ma.’ She’s like, ‘Up and get me me smokes.’ He’s like, ‘But the shop van’s closed now.’ She goes, ‘Go up to the village then.’ He’s like, ‘At this time? Ma, it’s dangerous out there.’ The old man’s like, ‘The boy’s right, love. Here, have one of mine.’ And she’s like, ‘I hate fookin John Player, ye know dat.’
He puts his hindlegs up on the table, roysh, grabs the remote control and storts flicking through the channels. He’s like, ‘Shouldn’t be smoking so much in any how. Especially when you’re pregnant.’ She goes, ‘I’m always fookin pregnant. You see to that … and is it any wonder I’m smokin’ so much, raisin’ a monster for a son?’ The old man suddenly slaps Anto around the side of the head, roysh, and he goes, ‘Your mudder’s right, don’t be watchin’ dem pornos.’ Anto goes, ‘I was only flickin’ through de channels.’ The old dear’s like, ‘I’m goin’ upstairs, see has Bernie any smokes.’
When she’s gone, roysh, the old man storts flicking through the channels again and then he, like, looks at Anto out of the corner of his eye. He’s like, ‘Which one was it, son?’ Anto’s like, ‘Wha’?’ He goes, ‘Which one was it?’ He’s like, ‘Em, ‘The Livin’ Planet, Lagomorpha and Other Burrowin’ Mammals’.’ The old man’s like, ‘Ah yeah, one of the lads in the job lent me that before. Happy days … he’s a dorty bastard, that David Attenborough but, isn’t he?’
Anto is not yet of an age where he can discuss these things with his old man comfortably. He goes, ‘I was only flickin’ …’ The old man goes, ‘He did anudder one. When he was younger. They all do. ‘Life on Earth’. Very hard to get. Animals and everyting in it … he’s a fookin dort burd alright.’
The old dear arrives back, roysh, a lot calmer now she has a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She’s like, ‘What’s on?’ The old man’s like, ‘Fook-all. Nine o’clock news is just after startin’.’ She picks up the Herald, roysh, sort of, like, scans the television page for a minute and then, like, grabs the remote off him. She goes, “The Office Party’. We’ll look at that,’ and she turns over, roysh, and this, like, elevator music suddenly fills the room and there’s this bird, roysh, who’s obviously, like, a secretary, and she takes off her glasses and lets down her hair and then she storts, like, doing the business with some bloke, while photocopying various parts of her anatomy and faxing them to the company’s office in Cologne.
Anto’s like, ‘Fook’s sake, this is borin’.’ The old man thinks so as well, but he doesn’t say so, just goes, ‘Nothin’ borin’ about nature, son. A couple of year, you’ll be learnin’ all this stuff in school.’ Anto goes off to his room and lies on his bed, roysh, wonders will he ever meet a doe who likes him – the big question on every six-week-old buck’s mind.
And suddenly I wake up, roysh, in a cold sweat, the sheets wringing wet, and when I, like, get my bearings I grab my mobile and, like, ring Christian and I go, ‘What the fock was that stuff we were drinking at the porty last night?’
Emily, roysh, more a friend than a girlfriend you’d have to say, even though she looks a little bit like Holly Marie Combs and I’ve been there once, no twice, and even though she’s got, like, a boyfriend now, it’s a total boost to the old ego to know that I could, like, be with her again if I wanted to, which I’m pretty sure I could. She was on the Mount Anything debating team with Sorcha as well, roysh, and my friendship with her really pisses Sorcha off, which is another reason to, like, keep it going. Anyway, roysh, basically Emily works at her old dear’s pet-grooming service and you wouldn’t believe this place, we’re basically talking a hairdressers for focking dogs here. All these rich old dears come in with these little yappy things growing out of their armpits and they’re giving it, ‘Please cheer my wittle baby up.’ It makes you want to borf, roysh, but these stupid bitches are handing over a hundred bills, no questions asked, to give the dog a cut and blow dry.
Anyway, roysh, this particular day I’m down in Kilpedder of all places showing this couple around a house down there, and on the way back into the office, roysh, I swing by Emily’s work to see if she’s heading into Lillies on Friday night. I get in there, roysh, and she’s like, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Ross, you are such a lifesaver.’ I’m like, ‘Why do you say that, babes?’ She goes, ‘Can you bring that dog out for a walk? Maybe Killiney beach or something,’ and I’m like, ‘Which dog?’ and she points at this big, white, fock-off poodle in the corner, a massive thing, like the one in ‘EastEnders’, Roly or whatever the fock he was called. It’s one of those dogs that looks like it should have four wheels and a handle attached to it to be pushed around by a kid. And Emily must see the reaction on my face, roysh, because she goes, ‘Please, Ross. Be a darling.’ I’m like, ‘If I’m seen walking around with that thing, Emily, people are going to think I’ve come out. And I couldn’t live with hundreds
of female suicides on my conscience,’ playing it Mister Slick. I’m like, ‘Why does he need to go for a walk?’ and she’s there, ‘She, Ross. It’s a she. And that’s the problem. She’s in heat. I’ve three more dogs booked in this afternoon and I’ve had to put them out the back. That’s what all that barking is.’ I’m like, ‘But Emily–’ and she goes, ‘Ross, I’ll make it up to you,’ and, well, basically I’m a sucker for a hard luck story, especially when it comes from a bird I wouldn’t mind knobbing.
So she puts a leash on the focking thing, roysh, and I bring it out to the cor, one hand over my eyes just in case anyone recognises me. I open the boot, roysh, and I go to put her in and Emily’s like, ‘ROSS!’ and I’m there, ‘It was a joke. Chill out, will you?’ She’s like, ‘I’m sorry, I am SO stressed out this week. Can’t wait for the weekend,’ and I put the dog in the passenger seat. She goes, ‘Now don’t walk her too far, Ross. She has a weak heart,’ and I’m like, ‘There’s no chance of that.’ Emily gives me a peck on the cheek and I drive off and the second I get around the corner, roysh, I pull up, take the dog out of the cor and lash her back into the boot.
And as I’m driving along, roysh, I can hear all this whimpering coming out of her and I turn up the CD player – the new Coldplay album – but I can still focking hear it, and I’m storting to lose the rag and I’m there giving it, ‘I should just let you loose and let some big dog ride you,’ which is when I get an idea, roysh, a brilliant one I have to say. I head for Foxrock, roysh. It’s still only two o’clock in the afternoon so the old pair aren’t going to be at home. The old man will be at work and the old dear does lunch with the girls from the tennis club on Tuesdays. The traffic’s fairly light, roysh, and I get there in no time, I pull up outside the next-door neighbours’ house, get out of the cor and have a quick butchers over the fence. They’ve only moved in a couple of months, roysh, but already they’ve left their mark on the place, and we’re talking big time here. There’s, like, mattresses and broken washing machines all over the garden, and spare cor ports and an old fridge and, like, dog shit and black bin bags which have been ripped apart and, like, the rubbish dragged all over the front lawn. Then all of a sudden, roysh – AAARRGGHH! – this growling and borking storts and basically frightens the shit out of me, and I look down, roysh, and it’s the knackers’ Rottweiler, a big focking angry thing as well, roysh, going basically ballistic it is, and I just thank fock that I’m not on his side of the fence right now. I go to the cor, roysh, open the boot and drag Roly or whatever her name is out. The closer we get, roysh, the more ballistic the Rottweiler gets on the other side of the fence, obviously getting the scent, love is in the air, roysh, but she’s, like, really pulling hard against the chain, trying to, like, get away and I have to use all my strength, roysh, to drag her as far as the fence, then pick her up and throw her over it.