by Paul Howard
They were there, ‘If we tighten our belts … don’t go out so much … a bit here, a bit there … no more big Christmases for a while …’ – I’m there, COME ON! – and then the goy’s like, ‘Okay, we’ll take it.’ Two hundred and forty notes they went to. So that was it, roysh, lashed the old Sale Agreed sign on it and left it to the solicitors to, like, I don’t know, solicit. So Wednesday afternoon, roysh, the two of them were due to sign for the gaff and, like, one hour before, we’re talking one focking hour before, we get another offer. The goy who rings up, roysh, he goes, ‘How much have you agreed to sell it for?’ I’m like, ‘Two hundred and fifty.’ JP’s old man is there egging me on, going, ‘Go on, Ross. Go on.’ The goy on the phone goes, ‘I’ll up it to two hundred and fifty-five.’ After ten minutes of to-ing and fro-ing, I’m like, ‘Sale agreed, my man. Sale agreed.’
Of course, the couple, roysh – Timmons, I think their name was – the two knobs, they try to make me feel bad about it. They ring up, roysh, and the woman’s like, ‘You didn’t show up at the signing.’ I’m like, ‘I had a better offer.’ And she’s there, ‘Meaning?’ getting a bit smart with me. I’m there, ‘What I mean is GAME OVER. PLEASE INSERT MORE MONEY,’ which I have to say, roysh, I was pretty pleased with. She goes, ‘You mean we’ve been gazzumped?’ I’m like, ‘Look, I don’t know what the Irish for it is and I don’t care. All I know is that you’re out of the game, and to get back in, you’re going to have to come up with another twenty grand.’
JP’s old man is in front of me, punching the air, while I’m saying all this to her. She’s, like, blubbing her eyes out at this stage. She goes, ‘But we’ve given our notice in the flat we’re renting. It’s Christmas in two weeks. Where are we going to go?’ I’m like, ‘We’re an estate agents, not a homeless charity,’ which is what it says on the sign over JP’s old man’s desk. ‘But … what are we going to do?’ she goes. JP’s old man, roysh, he must have been through this many times before because he seems to know exactly what this bird is saying. He’s shouting, ‘They’ve got kids, haven’t they? Get them out earning. Paper round or something.’
She goes, ‘My husband doesn’t even know I’m ringing. He’s gone to see our solicitor.’ I’m there, ‘Well, if your solicitor is qualified, he’ll tell you that no law has been broken. I mean, you could try Marian Finucane, if it’s just a sympathetic ear you’re looking for.’ I’m actually shocked at how easily this stuff is coming to me. JP’s old man is dancing around in front of me. I’m like, ‘And stop your focking snivelling. You’re storting to wreck my head.’ She goes, ‘We’ve got two children. What do you suggest I do?’ I was SO tempted to say, ‘Get yourself sterilised,’ roysh, but I didn’t. I just went, ‘It’s going to be another week or two before the other goy signs. Improve your offer.’
When I hang up, roysh, JP’s old man is lighting a cigar and just, like, staring at me in admiration. He goes, ‘Ross, all my life I’ve been looking for someone like you. You have no heart and no soul.’
I go into Bon Espresso and Patisserie to get a coffee, roysh, and the bird behind the counter goes, ‘Black or white?’ I’m like, ‘Black.’ She’s about to put the lid on it, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Could you put some milk in that as well.’ And she goes, ‘I thought you said you wanted it black?’ I’m like, ‘I meant black as in made with water, not milk.’ She goes, ‘That’s not what you said.’
Sitting in the gaff in Dalkey, roysh, basically just chilling, watching ‘90210’ and thinking to myself that Tori Spelling actually looks a bit like Shirley Temple Bar, when all of a sudden Erika rings, roysh, and she’s like, ‘Do you want to head into town? Late-night shopping?’ I’m just like, ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ She tells me she’ll pick me up in, like, half an hour and then, before she hangs up, roysh, I hear her going, ‘Oh my God, that girl is SO lucky her father is Aaron Spelling.’
Erika’s attitude towards me has SO changed in the last few weeks, maybe because she thinks I was with Sorcha when she was home from Australia and now she wants to be with me, roysh, just so she’ll have one up on her, which is perfectly alroysh by me. I reckon at this rate I’ve a pretty decent chance of being with her on Christmas Eve, so even though shopping with birds is basically for knobs, roysh, when she asks me if I wanted to come, I was like, ‘Oh yes, I am SO there.’ Headed into my room to get ready, roysh, changed back into my work clothes because I know that suits impress her, we’re talking my navy Hugo Boss suit and, like, my new blue-and-red sailing jacket, a splash of Gio Acqua Di, we’re talking the works here.
While I’m lashing the old wax into my hair, roysh, my phone rings and I check caller ID and it’s Dick-Features again, so I just let it go to the message-minder. When I play it back, it’s like, ‘Hello, Ross. Just your old dad here. Your old man, whatever it is you call it. Just ringing with the latest on the pair next door. You won’t believe it. Snow spray, Ross! Yep, you heard right. They’ve written HAPPY XMAS on all the windows in snow spray. Snow spray, thank you very much indeed. Probably taken about twenty thousand euros off the value of our house in the process. The Gardaí were no help, of course. No crime has been committed, etcetera, etcetera. These people know the law inside out. All the loopholes. And the other thing–’ Then he suddenly gets cut off. What a knob.
I hear the front doorbell buzzing, roysh, and for one horrible moment I think it might be him, that he’s, like, actually managed to find out where I’m living, but it turns out to be Erika, roysh, and she’s, like, early. I head downstairs, hop into her cor and go to kiss her on the cheek, but she goes, ‘Don’t push it,’ and then she sort of, like, turns her nose up and goes, ‘Gio Acqua Di? Oh my God, Ross, that is SO last year.’ We get into town about seven o’clock, roysh, pork in the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre and head straight for Grafton Street, where there’s this big crowd and they’re, like, picketing the shop we’re heading to, a couple of them I think I recognise from Annabel’s, and they’re giving out leaflets with BATTERY BUNNIES in big writing on them, and they’re like, ‘Don’t go in there, they’re selling rabbit fur. Don’t go in there, they’re selling rabbit fur.’
I stop, roysh, and I’m actually considering not going in, but Erika walks straight past them and I sort of, like, call her back and she turns around and goes, ‘Hello? What is your problem?’ I’m like, ‘You’re not actually going to, like, pass the picket, are you?’ She goes, ‘Of course I am. There’s fock-all in French Connection I like.’ One of the protesters, roysh, this fairly alroysh-looking bird who may or may not be Tiernan’s cousin, she goes, ‘You SO shouldn’t go in. Did you not hear what we’ve been shouting? They’re selling rabbit fur in there.’ Erika goes, ‘And they’re selling rabbit stew in Patrick Guilbaud’s. So focking what?’ And this chick, roysh, the protester one, she goes totally ballistic then, roysh, and we’re talking TOTALLY. She’s like, ‘Oh, so is that how you like to think of rabbits, in a stew?’ Erika just looks her up and down, roysh, and goes, ‘Don’t give me that. I don’t even like stew.’ And then, just to piss this bird off, she goes, ‘I prefer rabbit braised, if you must know, with herb crust and Bunratty mead. And basil jus.’
This bird, roysh, I think her name’s Jade, she goes, ‘I remember you from Mount Anville. You were in the class below me. You never got involved with Greenpeace or anything like that. The only thing you ever cared about was you. You certainly never cared about the planet, or issues, or …’ Erika, roysh, she just looks her up and down again and she’s like, ‘Sorry, did the death of Linda McCartney open up a gap in the market that you’re trying to fill?’ Jade’s like, ‘You have one serious attitude problem. At least animals aren’t just food to me. Or something to wear.’
And Erika, she always has to have the last word, roysh, she goes, ‘Oh no, they’re much, much more than that. They can also be used for testing cosmetics. Come on, Ross.’ She goes into the shop and I, like, follow her in. What else could I do? I turned around to Jade, shrugged my shoulders and went, ‘She got you there
. You have to admit it.’
My stash of CDs is, like, humungous now. A random taste: we’re talking Come On Over by Shania Twain, we’re talking Be Yourself Tonight by the Eurythmics, we’re talking Ocean Drive by the Lighthouse Family, we’re talking the soundtrack from Coyote Ugly, we’re basically talking Changing Faces by Louise, we’re talking Never Stop the Alpenpop by DJ Otzi, we’re talking Young Lust by Aerosmith, we’re talking Full Circle by Boyz II Men, we’re talking Panpipes – the Flight of the Condor, we’re talking basically Gold – the Greatest Hits of Steps, we’re talking the soundtrack from Notting Hill, we’re talking Rise by Gabrielle, we’re talking Tuesday Night Music Club by Sheryl Crow, we’re talking the soundtrack from Moulin Rouge. But I did not – despite what she’s said to at least two people I know – steal Step One by S Club 7 from Ailish, as in Ailish LSB always in Lillies lives in Donnybrook Ailish. She focking wishes.
The old man rings, roysh, and he’s practically in tears. We’re talking tears of happiness here. He’s like, ‘Get over here fast, Kicker. I’ve got a cheque for you.’ I’m like, ‘Have they gone?’ He goes, ‘The For Sale sign went up an hour ago. Ross, this is the happiest I’ve been since Castlerock won the …’ I’m just like, ‘Cut the focking pleasantries. This is business. I’ll be up to you in an hour. Have the cheque written and ready for me when I get there.’
Which, of course, he doesn’t, roysh, he’s still farting around in the study, looking for his Mont Blanc pen when I arrive, which means I end up in the kitchen, listening to the old dear’s bullshit. She’s going, ‘How are you keeping?’ as if she gives a shit. I just, like, throw my eyes up to heaven, roysh, and go into the sitting room and turn on ‘Dream Team’. Linda Block, love goddess.
The front doorbell rings and nobody answers it, roysh, and it rings, like, six or seven times and I end up having to get up from Harchester’s vital UEFA Cup quarter-final clash to, like, go and see who it is. It turns out, roysh, it’s, I don’t know, whatever the fock the cream cracker next door calls himself, wanting to speak to the old man, or as he put it himself: ‘Howiya bud, is your oul’ fella in?’ Slip-on shoes and a football manager jacket. The windfall’s obviously done fock-all for the goy’s dress sense.
I’m like, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak working class,’ ripping the piss out of him, and I’m there, ‘You’ll have to speak slowly.’ He goes, ‘I’m, eh, looking for yisser fadder.’ I’m like, ‘Just caught the last word. I presume you’re looking for my old man. I’ll go and get him,’ and I leave him on the doorstep, roysh, put the security chain on – you can’t be too careful – and head into the study.
The old pair are there, the old dear’s helping him look for the pen and I’m like, ‘Is there something wrong with your ears or your legs?’ The old dear’s like, ‘Sorry, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘The doorbell’s been ringing for, like, ten minutes.’ The old man’s there, ‘Didn’t hear a thing, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Well you would have if you hadn’t been listening to that dead bird so loud.’ The old man’s like, ‘That’s Eva Cassidy, Ross. She has a beautiful voice. Helps me when I’m working.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, yeah, shut up, your best mate’s at the door.’
I follow the old man out into the hall, roysh, just to get his reaction when he sees who it is. He sees the chain, roysh, and turns around and gives me this sort of, like, strange look. He has to slam the door in the goy’s face first before he can take the chain off and, when he opens it again and he sees who it is, he goes, ‘Hello, there,’ then he turns around to me and he’s like, ‘The chain. Very good, Ross. You’re thinking.’ The goy’s like, ‘Alright, Charlie. What’s the crack?’ The old man just ignores this and goes, ‘Well, what is it now? Not another lad of yours doing a sponsored walk to pay for the school heating oil?’ He’s like, ‘Jaysus, no.’ The old man goes, ‘You’re not planning to block out our daylight upstairs as well, are you, with a new, giant-sized pigeon loft, a sort of Ballymun, if you like, for your feathered vermin friends?’ He’s like, ‘No, no. Actually, I’ve a bit of bad news for you, Charlie. Very bad news, as a matter of fact. Eh, we’re moving out.’ And the old man, roysh, goes, ‘YES!’ and shakes his fist at me.
The goy’s like, ‘It’s a real pity, I know. We never got to go for that game of golf at that club of yours.’ The old man’s there, ‘Shame.’ The goy goes, ‘A real pity. Sure herself was only saying the other night how well she gets on with your own missus. But, eh, don’t think we’re looking down our noses at you or anything but, eh, we just feel we don’t fit in around here.’ The old man goes, ‘Doesn’t have anything to do with the foie gras my wife sent in to you, does it?’ He goes, ‘What was that stuff?’ The old man’s like, ‘It’s a very expensive type of duck liver.’ The goy’s like, ‘It brought all the kids out in hives.’ The old man goes, ‘Very rich, you see. Not used to it, I dare say.’ The goy goes, ‘Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that. It’s just … well, it’s a lot of things. Sure the shop down the road doesn’t even have the papers. The real papers. They only have the big ones. With the big gobstopper words. But sure they’re no use for the sport.’
The old man goes, ‘Yes, they’re catering for their market, you see. People in this area love The Irish Times. Always have.’ The goy goes, ‘And then there’s the off-licence. Sure they don’t even sell my beer anymore. Or cider. She loves cider, you see. And the other thing is the telly. Can’t get Sky Sports up here. The dish won’t pick up the signal for some reason.’ The old man goes, ‘Foxrock, you see. It’s very high up.’ The goy goes, ‘That’s probably what it is. Listen, I better get in out of this rain. Catch me death, so I will. Just wanted you to be the first to know. Hope you weren’t too upset when you saw the For Sale sign going up. Don’t worry but. We’ll stay in touch.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the old man goes, closing the door while the goy’s still talking. Then he looks through the spyhole and when he’s, like, disappeared out the gate, he turns around and goes, ‘Yeeessss!’ He high-fives me and he goes, ‘I think it was the foie gras that clinched it, Ross. Did you like that little detail? Your mother’s idea.’ I’m like, ‘Don’t give me that,’ and I put this big lump of metal with, like, wires hanging out of it, into his hand. He goes, ‘What in heavens is this?’ I’m like, ‘Don’t know exactly. I broke it off his satellite dish last Sunday night.’
I tell him he owes me five grand. He goes back to his study to look for the pen.
Me and Oisinn are in Club Knackery Doo and we meet the birds. Aoife asks me whether I’ve seen Sophie since she, like, came out of hospital. Me and Oisinn just look at each other and we both go, ‘No,’ at the same time, a little bit overeager actually, but she doesn’t seem to, like, notice and shit. She goes, ‘Ingrown toenail, my orse. I know a rhytidectomy when I see one.’ I’m like, ‘Really?’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, you SO wouldn’t recognise the girl. I walked straight past her in Blue Eriu.’ And Jayne with a y goes, ‘It’s weird. She was supposed to come out with us tonight, but when she found out you goys were going to be here …’
Aoife goes OH! MY! GOD! she is SO not looking forward to Christmas this year, roysh, because she SO knows that her points are going to go, like, totally off the scale, and we’re talking TOTALLY here. Oisinn heads up to the bor to, like, get a round in while Aoife storts, like, counting up how many points she ended up eating last year. She’s going, ‘Two slices of turkey is, like, three points and it’s, like, three for the ham, five for the roast potatoes, or seven given the amount of them my old dear ends up doing, and then Christmas cake is another five and pudding with, like, brandy butter is another, I don’t know, seven. And that’s not even counting drink.’
‘And what about, like, sweets?’ Emer goes. ‘One Quality Street is, like, one-and-a-half. You could eat, like, twenty of those without realising.’ And Aoife’s like, ‘Well you certainly could,’ and Emer gives her this filthy, roysh, and Erika breaks it up, going, ‘If I’d wanted to listen to bulimics and anorexics bitch-fighting, I’d have stayed home and wa
tched ‘Ally McBeal’.’
Oisinn, fat bastard and proud of it, roysh, he comes back with the pints, Ken for me and him, Miller for Fionn, and he goes, ‘Which one of you is wearing DKNY?’ Emer goes, ‘I am, do you like it?’ He sort of, like, sniffs her neck, roysh, and goes, ‘An urban floral with accords of blood orange, tomato leaf, orchids and daffodils for a woman who appreciates the natural and the authentic,’ and he says this in, like, a French accent. Emer goes, ‘It is such a cool perfume,’ and I think Oisinn’s basically in there tonight if he wants to be, though I have to say, roysh, he’s welcome to her. I’m with Fionn on this one: she’s a focking bus stop with eye shadow.
Fionn is telling Aoife how he’s basically pissing his way through second year psychology, roysh, and when the three birds go off to the jacks, he turns around to me and asks where JP is tonight. I’m like, ‘He’s still in a fouler with me.’ He pushes his glasses up on his nose and he goes, ‘Third week of the month, Ross. The boy’s menstruating.’ I’m there, ‘No, we’re not talking period costume dramas here. It’s work stuff.’ He goes, ‘I have noticed a bit of tension there. Heard you’re whupping his orse, saleswise.’ I’m like, ‘The goy just can’t sell houses like I can.’ Fionn high-fives me – I think he must have thought I said something else – then heads off.
Claire comes over then, roysh, and tells me she got a Christmas cord from Sorcha and an e-mail and a couple of text messages as well, and that her and Killian are, like, back together and they’re really happy and, like, SO looking forward to their first Christmas in Australia, even though it’s going to be TOTALLY weird eating, like, turkey and ham when it’s a hundred and ten degrees outside, and they’ll probably end up actually having, like, a barbecue, maybe even down on Bondi, blah blah focking blah.