The first thing that hits me when I put the key in the old man’s front door is this, like, machinegun blast of obnoxious laughter – “haw, haw, haw, haw, haw” – and I get this sudden flashback to when I was a little boy dragging his drunken orse out of Doheny and Nesbitt’s every Budget Night.
The gaff is full of people, a lot of whom I recognise: a lot of barristers, one or two billionaires and the odd Government Minister. That's when I remember that today is the annual policy summit of my old man's Bild O'Berg Group, an influential collection of people who work in business, banking and the Law Library, who come together once a year to drink rare Cognac and vintage port and discuss ways to make Ireland a better place to live for people who work in business, banking and the Law Library.
I end up having to literally fight my way through the hallway to find him. He's sitting in his big leather ormchair in the livingroom, with a huge crowd around him, whispering about how incredibly powerful he looks these days and generally staring at him in just, like, awe?
He's changed since he found that Denis O'Brien wig in the attic. Or actually he hasn't changed; it's like everyone else has? He's telling the anecdote of the time at a charity auction when he outbid Michael Smurfit for a round of golf with Christy O'Connor junior, and even though they've all probably heard it a thousand times before, they're hanging on his every basic word.
He's going, "Now the punchline to the story is that the round of golf happened to be a threesome. If I won the bid, I was going to bring Michael along as my partner – and if he won, well, vice versa. So I said, 'No, Michael, you're going to be my guest on the day!', and I upped the bid by 10 thousand punts, as it was in those days. And he said, 'No, no, Charles – this round is on me!', and up it went by another 10! We went on like that for a bloody well hour! All for a wonderful, wonderful cause, I might add, although I'm damned if I can remember what it was. I was rather pissed."
Everyone laughs, then he runs his hand through his big silver mane and the laughter turns into an actual round of applause.
“He’s just so, so charismatic,” I hear some dude, who’s either a TD or a senator, go. “So commanding and so . . . just so powerful.”
I manage to squeeze my way through his crowd of adoring fans. He sees me and goes, "Ah, Kicker, we're just winding down after a day of discussing the problems facing western civilisation! We had a terrific symposium this afternoon on the schools admission Bill and the efforts by the Labour Party to fill the halls of our elite secondary schools with the voices of – I don't wish to be unkind – but the dis, dat, dees and doze brigade."
I’m like, “I need to talk to you.”
He goes, “What is it, Ross? You seem upset about something.”
I am upset about something. I tell him exactly what. About an hour ago, I was driving past Castlerock College when I spotted a humungous For Sale sign outside. The old man looks at me, confused.
I’m there, “They’re selling off the old rugby fields, the fields where I brought glory and honour to the school, before I was, well, eventually busted for drugs.”
He instantly stands up. People are like, “Where are you going, Charles? Tell us more anecdotes!”
He’s there, “I’m sorry, chaps, there’s something I have to do first”, and then he turns to me and goes, “Do we know where this so-called school principal lives?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I do.”
He’s there, “We’ll go in your car.”
Literally 60 seconds later, we’re in the old Lambo on the way to Blackrock. We pull up at the traffic lights outside the Punch Bowl and a dude in the cor beside us winds down his window and goes, “Bring back Trapper Tony, what?”
I turn to the old man and go, “Who the fock is Trapper Tony?”
He’s like, “I’ve no idea. I wonder is it something to do with pheasant shooting?”
Ten minutes after that, we're standing at Tom McGahy's front door and I'm getting ready to give the dude a mouthful of abuse. He's hated my guts ever since the time he told he that getting a good Leaving Certificate was more important than winning the Leinster Schools Senior Cup and Fr Fehily made him apologise to me in front of an entire assembly.
He opens the door, sees me standing there and smiles. He goes, “Ah!” in a really, like, smug way. “To what do I owe the considerable pleasure?”
I’m like, “I think you know why I’m here. Er, selling the famous Fields of Castlerock?”
He goes, “The school no longer plays rugby. We have no cause to . . .” and then he stops mid-sentence, roysh, because he’s suddenly looking at my old man – or, more precisely, he’s looking at my old man’s hair – and now he’s going, “W . . . w. . . w . . . w . . . w . . .”, his mouth working away, except he can’t get any words out.
The old man goes, "The rugby fields of Castlerock College are sacred ground. God-given and inviolable. If I have to go to the High Court to argue that case, then, as a school trustee, I will."
McGahy’s goes, “W . . . w. . . w . . . w . . . w . . .”, his eyes just focused on the top of the old man’s head.
The old man goes, “You will take the land off the market first thing tomorrow morning – do you understand me?”
McGahy storts nodding, going, “Y . . . y . . . y . . . y . . . y . . . y . . .” and it’s like he’s in some kind of trance.
The old man goes, “Good. Come on, Ross. The chaps will be wondering where I’ve gotten to.”
We reach the cor and it's only then that McGahy manages to actually say something? "Your hair! It's . . . It's extraordinary!"
The old man sweeps his hand through it again. As I stort the cor, he goes, “He’s right. It is extraordinary. I suddenly feel like the most powerful man in the country.”