'I've seen more meat on a snackbox the morning after'

My dodgy neighbours are planning to skip off to Spain, so we may have a chance now of actually selling our gaffs

‘JAYSUS fooken Kerroyst,” Terry goes, leaning against the wall of the lift, his hand over his hort, “you frightened the fooken loif ourra me, Rosser.”

" Ifrightened the life out of you?" I go. "I'm going to have to go back to my aportment now and change my boxers. Why did you have to shout, 'Shoot him'?"

Anyone who thinks they have bad neighbours needs to come and visit me in Rosa Parks.

“Ah, I thought you were the loar,” he goes. “Thee catch me with this lot and Ine looken arra fooken ten-stretch.”

I look down, roysh, and he’s got, like, five or six Aldi bags at his feet, stuffed to the gills with bundles of 50 yo-yo notes. Maybe I’m, like, jumping to conclusions here, but I presume they’re some of the counterfeit ones that the banks have been banging on about.

“Come on, let’s geroura this lift,” he goes and I sort of, like, hold the doors back while he struggles out on to the landing with the bags. It’s only then, roysh, that I notice the bird who’s with him.

You know me. I instantly turn on the chorm. I can't actually help it. It's one of those things that happens. It's pretty much automatic?

“And who,” I go, “is this . . . creature?” I say this even though she’s actually disgraceful-looking. The velour tracksuit, the platinum blond hair, the ink spot on the cheek and a pair of earrings that look like the kind of things that dolphins jump through to please their focking trainers.

“This is Saoirse,” Terry goes, happy as a man with breasts in his pockets. I take her hand. Hey, it’s what I do.

"Saoirse," I go, except I actually pronounce it, Say-har-sha, trying to make it sound, I don't know, mystical – less like the name of a baby delivered in the exercise yord of Mountjoy women's jail.

" Say-har-sha!" I go, then I hold her hand up to my mouth and kiss her fingers. I give it, "Chormed."

Of course I might as well be feeding strawberries to a donkey.

“Are you on fooken drugs?” she goes, and she looks at me, roysh, like I’m a no-win scratchcord she’s just picked up off the floor of the 78a. Then she turns to Terry.

“Gimme some money, will ye?”

“For what?”

“Ine getting me hayor done, I told ye.”

“Again?”

“I helped ye caddy all these fooken bags up, didn’t I? Ye fooken doort boord.”

Terry’s smile would honestly melt a clamper’s hort. He reaches into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and hands her, like, a wad of notes – real ones, I’m presuming.

She smiles – a horrible focking sight – then literally storts getting off with him in front of me. Then she hops back into the lift.

“Mon in,” Terry goes to me, putting the key in the door. It’s not an invite – never is with him and his brother – as much as it is a summons. Not that I mind. They might be two of most feared men in, like, gangland, but they’re actually all right. We’ve even become sort of, like, mates?

“Sure we mirras well lire up a joint so,” Terry goes, when he’s shoved the funny money into the hot press.

I’m like, “Er, not for me, actually. Might just have a beer if you’ve got one.” I sit down on the sofa and a can is put in front of me. Galahad Premium.

Jesus Christ.

“So,” he goes, plonking himself down beside me, “what do you tink?”

I’m like, “Sorry?” stalling for time, because I’ve a vague idea where this conversation is probably headed.

“Saoirse,” he goes. “What do you tink – as a fella who loves he’s boords, like.”

I'm like, "What do I think?" and I stort pulling all these – I don't know if it's a word – but non-committalfaces? Like you do in school when a teacher asks you what the, I don't know, theme of some poem is.

“I’m not even sure the word has been invented yet.”

“Nice?” he goes.

I have to just nod and go, “Veeery.” I mean, what else am I going to say? I’ve seen more meat on a snackbox the morning after?

“But whatever happened to your rule?” I go. “As in, no girlfriends? Too much aggravation, can’t be carrying around baggage in your world, blah, blah, blah?”

“Ah,” Terry goes, licking the edge of the cigarette paper, “that was before I met Saoirse.”

He finishes rolling the joint, then goes, “Ine getting out, Rosser.”

“Out? What are you talking about?”

“Ourra the game. That’s what that money in the hot press is fower. It’s me pension, man.”

I actually laugh. End up nearly spitting beer all over myself.

"I thought you goys never retired," I go. "I thought you were making so much moo that you stayed in until someone, I don't know, popped a cap in youor whatever the actualslang is?"

Terry laughs. It probably is funny the way I say it.

“Well,” he goes, “maybe Ine gonna be the foorst who knew when the toyum was reet.”

I’m like, “Well, good luck to you. I should also say fair focks. Where are you retiring to, by the way? I’m presuming Alicante.”

He gets suddenly serious then. "Why do you always presume it's Ali-fooken-cante?" he goes. "You're a teddible man for stereotyping people, you know that?" and for a second he looks like he could actuallytear my head off.

Then he suddenly smiles.

"Ah, no, Ine only pulling your woyer, Rosser. It isAlicante. Gonna buy a bar over there."

I just, like, sigh – relief as much as anything. “What about your brother? Is he, like, going with you?”

He nods.

“Twenty-five,” he goes, “and both of us gone ourra the gayum. What do you tink of dat?”

I’m there, “I have to say, Rosa Porks is certainly going to be a different place without you.” In other words, we might have a chance now of actually selling our gaffs.

He lights up, then just smiles. I can say in all honesty that I’ve never seen him happier.

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