‘Mr Whittle turns out to be a big, sweaty dude – only in his mid-twenties, I’d say – and he’s already giving out yords to my soon-to-be-ex-wife’
THE OLD MAN has a Romeo y Julieta the size of a focking courgette clamped between his Yasmine Bleeth. I think about saying something to him – as in, “Er, what would your cordiologist think?” – but I let it go because it’s, like, New Year’s Eve and the dude is on a serious roll.
“I see Nicholas Sarkozy is urging all of us to remain stoical,” he goes.
I’m like, “Who the fock is Nicholas Sarkozy?” and I actually mean it genuinely?
He ends up nearly coughing up a lung. “Exactly!” he goes. “Who indeed! Oh, I should know better than to try to draw you into a debate about the international sovereign debt crisis – you and your acerbic wit, Kicker!” Four o’clock in the afternoon, by the way, and he’s already half-twisted.
“So,” he goes, “where are you going to be ringing in 2012? I expect it’ll be with your wonderful daughter.”
I’m like, “Er, probably not. Her mother’s in a bit of a strop with me at the moment.” His face suddenly lights up. “Oh, yes!” he goes. “Yes, I met Sorcha’s dad – poor old Edmund – coming out of the famous Terroirs on Christmas Eve. He said the Christmas tree you picked up for Sorcha was infested with something.”
I’m like, “Yeah, basically weevils?”
“Weevils! Good Lord! I thought they went out with tuberculosis and sending children down mines. That’s the recession, I suppose.”
“Well, either way, her gaff is, like, infested with them? She’s had to move out while the place is being pretty much fumigated.”
The old man pulls a face. “Bad luck, old scout. Still, I’ve got a bit of news that might succeed in returning a smile to that famous face of yours.”
I’m there, “What kind of news are we talking?”
“I’m talking about work, Ross.”
“Work? Why the fock do you think that would put a smile on my face? Even the mention of it makes me want to get under the sheets and hide.”
“Work’s not a dirty word any more, Ross. In fact, our friend Sarkozy makes a valid point. We should all be putting our best face forward. Which is exactly what I’m about to do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Government is planning to send out something in the order of two million leaflets, Ross, informing people of this new €100 household charge that’s coming into effect. Well, under European law, our friend Enda is required to put the job of distributing those leaflets out to tender. And I’m planning to put in an offer that’s going to wipe the bloody floor with An Post.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” I go. “I thought the household chorge was a desperate measure by a Government bankrupt of ideas and the forerunner to a property tax designed to penalise entrepreneurs like you. At least that’s what you said on The Frontline.”
He shrugs. “That’s before I realised how much bloody money I could make from this thing.”
“By delivering leaflets?”
“Exactly. Be a wonderful complement to the shredding business, don’t you think?”
I’m like, “Whatever,” and that’s when my phone all of a sudden rings. I can see from caller ID that it’s, like, Sorcha – she always ends up forgiving me, it has to be said. I answer by going, “I hope you’re ringing to apologise for over-reacting.” Except I can hear straight away that she’s upset.
“Ross,” she goes, “where are you?”
I’m there, “I’m shooting the shit with Knob Head here. What’s up, babes?” That’s when she tells me. She’s in, like, work. She’s managing the Euro Hero discount store in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre – you may or may not have heard. A few weeks back, she took this shampoo off the shelves because some bird – a busybody, if you ask me – came in complaining that it made her scalp bleed. Anyway, according to Sorcha, Mr Whittle, the owner, was not a happy rabbit when she told him on the phone. He’s on his way into the shop and Sorcha wants me to be there – that’s how actually scared of him she is.
So I leave the old man to his cigor and his dreams and I point the old three-serious in the direction of town.
I can hear, like, raised voices coming from the shop, even from the little newsagents at the top of the stairs. So I quicken the pace. Mr Whittle turns out to be a big, sweaty dude – only in his mid-twenties, I’d say – and he’s already giving out yords to my soon-to-be-ex-wife. He’s practically jabbing his finger in her face and going, “Who facking told ya to do it?” because he’s, like, English from the sounds of him? “Who facking told ya, eh?”
Poor Sorcha’s on the verge of actual tears. “I tried to ring you,” she goes, “but you were in Cyprus.”
“So you took va decision – va facking unilateral facking liberty – to just go ahead and facking do it?”
I just step in between them. I know in the past I possibly haven’t treated Sorcha the way she deserved to be treated, but I’d do time to protect the girl – and I’d do it happily.
He’s there, “Who the fack are you?” I square up to him – wouldn’t take much to deck him. I’m the man who Frankie Sheehan once described as one of the five toughest-tackling backs he’s ever played against – a second cousin of Oisinn’s overheard him say that in Flannery’s in Limerick one night.
I end up just staring the dude down. “No one speak likes that,” I go, “to my still technically wife.” Sorcha probably didn’t expect this to turn into an actual confrontation – certainly not to soon.
“Ross, please!” she goes, obviously having second thoughts about ringing me. “I need this job.” This dude has the town halls to actually sneer at me – he’s one of those, I don’t know, cockney wide boys, like you see in EastEnders?
“Listen to the gell,” he tries to go. “She’s tawking sense.”
Sorcha shoulders me out of the way then and goes, “Just to tell you, Mr Whittle, I tried to contact the manufacturer.”
“You what?”
“I rang the number on the bottle,” Sorcha goes. “But it’s no longer active.”
“I’m in contact wiv va manufacturer.”
“And what’s he saying? I presume he shares our concerns?”
“Va stuff has been tested – not vat it’s any of your facking business.”
“Well, can he provide us with certification to that effect?”
“Eh?”
“This woman’s scalp was actually bleeding.”
“Look, vare’s naffing to warry abaht – va shampoo’s awight. It were a rogue one, vats awl.”
I go, “One rogue recognises another, I suppose,” which is unbelievably clever for me.
He knows he can’t beat me physically, roysh, so instead he goes, “Do you want er to be still working ear tomorrah?”
I don’t even answer him – wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
He turns back to Sorcha then and he goes, “Be a smart gell – get vem facking bottles back on vem facking shelves. Uverwise, you’re facking sacked.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock