‘I’m not in any way a fan of my old dear but she reckons that keeping down with the Joneses is the new thing’
SEE OISINN wandering along Appian Way with a dog. And I’m talking about an actual dog? It’s unfortunate, but given the dude’s history, it’s necessary to point out that detail. I pull over – I’m in the old Shred Focking Everything van – and I go, “Dude, what the fock?” and even he laughs at the, I suppose, madness of it. I’m like, “What kind of dog even is it?”
He goes, “It’s a chow chow. It’s my old dear’s.”
He looks well, it has to be said. I’m beginning to think that bankruptcy actually suits him. It’s like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. I’m like, “I don’t get it. What’s the angle here?” because he’s always got something up his sleeve.
He’s there, “There’s no angle, Ross. I’m bringing my old dear’s dog for a walk.”
“Oh,” I go. “By the way, I take it you’ve heard Christian’s home from the States. Sacked.”
Oisinn shrugs. “He was let go with a generous severance package, Ross. That’s how the corporate world works. He’s supposed to have overspent on that casino project by $400 million. He can’t be too surprised.”
I look at the chow chow sniffing my tyres.
I’m there, “I suppose you’re right. It’s all a bit depressing, though, isn’t it? Superquinn up for grabs. Leinster training in Tallaght. Drico with his credit union account and McWilliams advertising cider. There’s a lot going on in the world right now that you’d have to say is wrong.”
“He doesn’t actually drink it, Ross. It’s only TV.”
“I know he doesn’t drink it. I mean, I know one or two heads in Dalkey, don’t forget. When all the other kids were knocking back flagons at the back of the quarry, he’d roll up with a bottle of Pimms No 1 Cup. Everyone knows that story. I’d be more worried about – I don’t know – the message it sends out. I’m not in any way a fan of my old dear but she reckons that keeping down with the Joneses is the new thing.”
Oisinn knows me well enough to know that when I stort getting deep and – I suppose – philosophical, you’d better stort running for cover.
He just nods and goes, “She could have a point.”
I’ll say it again, he’s in surprisingly good form for a man who’s just had his gaff on Shrewsbury Road repossessed. “So what’s it like being back living with the olds?” I go. “A mare, I’d say.”
“No, it’s not too bad. There’s people worse off than me.”
“I wonder who’ll end up living in your old place, though. Some focking vulture, no doubt.”
He gives me a look, like I’m off my meds. He’s there, “You don’t know?”
I obviously don’t? I’m like, “Know what?”
You can imagine my reaction when he goes, “Ross, your old dear bought it.”
My mouth is suddenly slung open like something that’s just been pulled off a fishhook. “My . . .”
“She’s moving in next week apparently.”
Well, you can guess what I do next. I put the beast into drive and I take off with a screech of rubber loud enough to melt the wax in a chow chow’s ears. I point the van in the direction of the Four Seasons, where I might have mentioned the old dear has been living for the past year, like the focking major from Fawlty Towers – if you can picture the major wrapped in seal fur and with two pounds of his own arse fat injected into his face.
I don’t even need to go up to her room. She’s sitting in the lobby cafe, feeding scones into her face. Of course, when she sees me, she tries to act like nothing’s happened? She’s all, “Oh, hello, Ross! Well, your daughter is a natural, I’m sure you’ve heard. The camera loves her!”
She has enough make-up on her face to paint a focking cruise liner.
I’m there, “Is it true you’ve bought Oisinn’s gaff?”
She goes, “I beg your pardon!”
“It’s a basic enough question. Are you the vulture who bought Oisinn’s old place?”
“Ross, it was for sale.”
“Yeah – because the bank, like, repossessed it?”
“Yes – and put it on the market. I’m as entitled as anyone to . . .”
Her phone storts, like, vibrating on the table. This is how rude she is – she actually answers it, leaving me just standing there.
“God, you’ve a face like a ploughed field,” I go, except she just flicks her hand at me, telling me to go away.
It’s just as I’m noticing the second teacup on the table that I hear Sorcha’s voice. I turn around. She must have been in the old Josh Ritter. “Oh, this is very cosy,” I make sure to go. “Did you know she bought Oisinn’s gaff?”
She smells great, by the way – if that’s not too weird a thing to say about your STBX.
“Ross, don’t even try to bring me down,” she goes. “I’m in amazing, amazing form at the moment.”
“Oh, has your old man come up with a new way of bleeding more maintenance out of me?”
“No, if you must know, I’ve got a job.”
“What? Where?”
“My friend Claire and her husband Garret are opening an ethical vegetarian restaurant called Eat, Bray, Love. They want me on board for my retail experience.”
“Bit of a comedown, isn’t it? Going from owning your own boutique in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre to working for someone from – you said the word yourself – Bray?”
“Well, we’re all having to adjust to the new economic paradigm, Ross.”
The old dear suddenly gets off the phone and goes, “No, it’s not going to be as simple as I thought, Sorcha?”
Sorcha’s like, “But you own it, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it seems planning permission would be required. And as Charles will tell you, it’s not as easy to get as it was in the good old days.”
“Oh my God, that’s so unfair!”
I end up having to ask, of course. “What’s this about?”
You’re not going to believe what comes out of the old dear’s mouth. “I’ve also bought the first house that Charles and I lived in after we were married.”
I’m there, “The one in the Noggin?”
“It was technically Glenageary, Ross.”
“The one you always describe as your Dachau? Er, why, can I ask?”
“I’m having it pulled down,” she goes, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to say, “and rebuilt in the garden of Shrewsbury Road.”
“Why?”
“To remind myself of how far I’ve come, of course.”
Sorcha goes, “A lot of stars in America do it, Ross,” actually defending her?
I’m there, “Yeah, I’ve seen Cribs, Sorcha,” and then I just stare at the old dear, as she sips her Oolong, and go, “You’re pure evil – like a focking James Bond villain or something.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock
