‘These GAA people are quick enough to embrace the Border when it suits them’
DO YOU KNOW what I’d be interested in hearing?” the old man goes, looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Your take on this whole Quinn business!” “My take,” I go, “is pretty much, I don’t know, whatever?” and the dude laughs, having presumably misheard me.
“See, I knew you’d have something to say on the subject!” he goes. “Something suitably pithy! Oh, these Gaelic games people make me laugh, Ross. All my life, they’ve been telling me that there’s no border on this island. Well, they’re quick enough to embrace the idea when it suits them, aren’t they?”
“Sorry, Sir,” the dude in the shop manages to go, through a mouthful of pins, “could I ask you to stand still for just a moment?” This is us in, like, BTs, by the way. The old man is getting a new tux fitted for this wedding of his. I can’t believe we’re all going to be in Barbados this time two weeks.
“Apologies,” he goes. “Mea culpa, et cetera, et cetera. This is what happens when you and I start debating the major issues of the day – eh, Kicker? We stir up no end of trouble. Dear, oh, dear – what are we like?” The dude measures the leg of the old man’s trousers, pins up the ends, then tells him he can take them off. The old man performs what can only be described as, like, a military salute and, at the same time, goes, “Message received and understood.” He really is a knob-end.
He disappears into the changing room then to throw his civvies back on, including those yellow cords that he always wears at weekends.
“Here’s an idea,” he goes, when he emerges from behind the curtain, “why don’t you and I pop into the Westbury for a couple of looseners?” I check my watch. It’s, like, midday. “Yeah,” I end up going, “why not?” Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in the cocktail lounge, wrapping ourselves around a couple of Bloody Marys. “Are you alright, Kicker?” he, at some point in the conversation, goes.
And I straight away know why he’s asking? The bird who brought our drinks was a ringer for Rita Ora and I didn’t make so much as a suggestive comment to her. “You seem rather a bit off-colour to me.” I end up just blurting it out. It’s only a matter of time anyway before, like, everyone knows? “Me and Sorcha are back together,” I go. “As in, like, officially?” The old man’s face is suddenly lit up like a runway. “Well, that’s wonderful news! So why are you looking so – inverted commas – down in the mouth?”
“Yeah, no, I’m a happy camper – don’t get me wrong . . . ”
“So you should be. This is something worth celebrating. Let’s swap these Bloody What’s-Its for something with bubbles!”
“It’s just . . . What was that thing you had when they let you out of Mountjoy?” “What, lice?” “No, when they released you and said you had to be on, like, your best behaviour and blahdy blahdy blah-blah?”
“Oh, probation.”
“Probation – that’s the word. Well, that’s what I’m on? We’re back together, but we’re not, like, back back until I can – what was the phrase she used? – demonstrate my commitment to a monogamous relationship? Basically, I’m not allowed to be with another woman – as in, like, with with? – for the next six months.” The old man looks at me like this is somehow not a major deal at all.
“That’s kind of the point of marriage, though, isn’t it, Ross?” I end up just shrugging. The last time I went six months without Ant and Decs, the focking Spice Girls were still together.
“Still,” he suddenly goes, “who am I to be giving out advice? I wasn’t much of a husband. And I was pretty useless as a father as well.” I go, “Yeah, you were shit all right.” And then I end up instantly regretting it, roysh, because I can see that he’s a bit in the dumps himself. Might be the voddy. But I think it’s actually Erika. The closer we get to this wedding, the sadder he is that his only daughter’s not going to actually be there? He just nods and goes, “What Erika did, Ross – leaving poor Fionn at the altar like that, then running off to so-called Buenos Aires with this other chap – well, that took a degree of coldness. And from where did she learn that coldness? From me, of course.” I’m there, “I won’t have that. Even as your number one critic. You’re actually the most caring, most incredible human being I’ve ever met. And I’m saying that as someone who, 99 per cent of the time, wants to just punch you full on in the face.”
“That’s a lovely thing for me to hear, Ross. But you don’t have to sugarcoat it. No, it’s little wonder Erika turned out like she did. Given that her father watched another man raise her for 20-whatever-it-was years. Just a few miles up the Stillorgan dual carriageway. Never said a word. Then he bloody well bumbles his way into her life. Suddenly wants to be a father to her and a husband to her mother. The bloody gall! No, no, I keep telling myself – this one’s down to you, Charlie boy.” I knock back the last of my breakfast. He asks me if I fancy another one. I’m like, “No, I actually won’t. In fact, I better make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here.”
“Oh,” he goes. “You and Sorcha doing something special for the weekend?” I’m like, “Yeah, no, we’re actually heading to, like, Paris? I’m supposedly meeting her at the airport.” He nods at my Ralph Lauren flight bag. “Yes, I wondered what that thing was for!”
“Well, we just thought, since we’re making a new stort – blah, blah, blah.”
“Well, Paris is the place for that. The City of What-Have-You. Oh, you two belong together, Ross.” We end up saying our goodbyes on the steps of the Westbury and I hop into a taxi. He stands there and waves me off, looking about as sad as I’ve ever seen him.
I lied to him, by the way. Me and Sorcha aren’t going away for the weekend. No sex – what’d be the point? No, I’m actually going to get my father a wedding present.
“The airport,” the driver goes. “Are you going anywhere nice?” I tap my back pocket to make sure my passport’s there. And I’m like, “Orgentina.”