My skills on the pitch may have gone unrewarded, but my idea for beating the toll camera is a winner, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
SO BRIAN COWEN’S wife says, “What are you doing home? I thought you were playing golf with Seán FitzPatrick today.” And Brian Cowen says, “Huh! Would you play golf with a man who’s forever trying to sneak his way out of the rough, who’s constantly asking for Mulligans and who can’t be trusted to do simple arithmetic?” His wife says, “Probably not, no.” And Brian Cowen says, “Well, neither will he!”
It’s possibly the first joke I’ve heard Hennessy tell that doesn’t involve a man who hasn’t had sex for 30 years and a genie who grants him three wishes. Of course, the old man laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
It’s 11 o’clock on a Thursday morning and the two of them are already half-cut. I have to pretend to clear my throat for them to even notice me standing at the door of the old man’s study. You could disinfect Beaumont with the brandy fumes in here.
“Kicker!” he goes. “I didn’t hear you come in.” I’m like, “Yeah, that much is obvious.”
“Your godfather and I were just discussing politics. The intrigue and so forth. I think I speak for both of us when I say we’ll be happy to see the back of the Greens, with their mealy mouths and their rental bikes. Tell him, Hennessy. Tell him that terrifying statistic you told me.”
Hennessy’s there, “In a lifetime the average worker will hand over €200,000 in taxes to pay for initiatives that began with the words, ‘In Scandinavia, what they do is . . .’”
“Terrifying,” the old man goes, “isn’t it? Wait a minute, Ross, is that a frown I see? Don’t tell me this current economic business is finally getting you down.”
I’m there, “I told you before, it’s not affecting me. I can’t believe you have to even ask me what’s wrong.” Except he just stares back at me, roysh, blankly.
“Okay,” I go, “so there I am, a few weeks back – it was during the snow – and I’m walking over Ranelagh bridge one night. There’s a woman in a cor and she’s stuck – as in she can’t get over the bridge because her wheels keep spinning in, like, the ice? So I tip over and go, ‘Can I be of any assistance?’ giving it the big-time gentleman act.
“So I end up giving her a shove over the bridge. She says thanks and tells me that it’s nice to see that, despite everything I’ve got
going for me, I’m still a nice, down-to-earth goy. That’s when I should have suspected. But I didn’t. I just gave her a wink and, well, obviously the guns, and she went on her way.”
“This story sounds mightily familiar,” it’s, like, Hennessy who goes.
I’m there, “Yeah! The reason being that the next day she rang Newstalk and told them that Brian O’Driscoll had rescued her from the snow the night before.”
They both act upset for me, in fairness to them. “You?” the old man even goes. “You were the famous knight in shining armour?”
"Exactly. And I wouldn't mind but I've only done maybe three good deeds in my entire life. And of all people, heends up getting the credit."
The old man – I think it’s a word that’s used – grimaces? “I could have Hennessy here send him one of his world-famous solicitor’s letters. Cease and desist and whatnot. I’ll leave the wording to you, old scout.”
I’m like, “No, because that’d come across as, like, sour grapes? Yeah, no, people will say it’s, like, pure jealousy. And especially because it’s him? I mean, I already feel like he’s living the life that was actually meant for me. It’s literally like something out of a science-fiction movie.” The old man gives me his best sympathetic look.
“By the way,” I go, “do you still have that franking machine?”
“Franking machine? I have to confess, Ross, you have me intrigued now. I was going to ask you when you walked through the door what that was under your arm.” It’s a stack of, like, brown A4 envelopes. “Wondered were they CVs. Worried I was about to lose your services to a rival document-disposal company. Rid Quick. Or even Shred Byrne.”
“They’re just spring-break brochures.”
“Spring-break brochures?”
“Yeah, I’m sending them to Rog and Strings and the rest of the Munster goys. I mean, they’re going to have fock-all else to do come April.”
He and Hennessy laugh, in all fairness. “Oh,” the old man goes, “speaking of unsolicited mail, you won’t credit what arrived with the morning post. A bill from those wretched electronic-toll people, for – get this – using the M50 toll! Oh, I gave them a piece of my mind. Said I hadn’t been north of Sussex Street for at least six months. It’s obviously one of these mistakes they’re famous for.”
The thing is, roysh, it’s actually not? See, I actually borrowed his wheels over Christmas. Had a couple of nights of non-committal fun with a little scrump-nugget from Malahide.
“It was me,” I end up going. “I borrowed your car.”
“Oh, Ross, I wish you’d told me. These bloody fines, they increase . . . what was that word you used, Hennessy?”
“Logarithmically.”
“That’s the one. It started out as €3 per journey. Seems now I owe them €100,000. Did you know that if you don’t pay after 10 weeks they can take your house and sell your children for vivisection? I mean, how did they get these powers? I shall be making it a central plank in my campaign for mayoral office.”
“It’s a pity,” I go, really just thinking out loud, “that no one’s ever invented, like, a wobbly licence plate?”
“A what?” they both, at the same time, go.
“As in, you press a little button and your licence plate sort of, like, wobbles from side to side? So basically the camera can’t get a reading on your actual reg.”
The two of them look at each other with what can only be described as pretty much awe.
“Charlie,” Hennessy goes, “it’s like listening to you 30 years ago.” The old man lays his hand on my shoulder. He looks prouder than he did the day I brought home my Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal.
“This family has already made one fortune during a recession by, well, let’s just say, operating on the fringes of legality. Seems it’s true what they say. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Hennessy, call the patents office.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie
