‘Shall we go for lunch?’ she, out of the blue, goes. ‘I’d rather spend two hours listening to Crystal Swing while Israel Dagg punches me repeatedly in the face’
THE OLD DEAR’S movie wraps today and she’s full of it. It with an S and a H, needless to say. “The studio,” she goes, “are already billing it as Angela’s Ashes meets Bonfire of the Vanities.”
I’m like, “So you said,” already regretting taking a lift into town from her.
“I’ve seen the pre-publicity, Ross. They also say that Mom, They Said They’d Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes marks the arrival on the scene of a formidable new screenwriting talent. There’s already talk of an Oscar nomination, although obviously it’s still early.”
I decide to bring her back down to earth. “Have you let someone have a crack at your face again?” She smiles at me – I swear to fock, those teeth could chew a cantaloupe through a set of prison bors – even though I know what she really wants to do is burst into tears. “Yes, I’ve had a little work done. In this industry, Ross, it’s just like going to the dentist.”
I laugh. “That face of yours is like the Rock Road. They’re forever digging it up and yet it never seems to improve it any.” There’s something about my old dear that brings out the best in me. “Shall we go for lunch?” she, out of the blue, goes. I’m like, “What?” “You and I, Ross. To celebrate.” And I’m suddenly thinking how seriously difficult it is to hurt this woman, no matter how many times I go through the phases. “I’d rather spend two hours listening to Crystal Swing while Israel Dagg punches me repeatedly in the face.”
She goes, “We really should make more of an effort to do things as mother and son.”
As we’re passing the Punchbowl, she asks me to pass her phone to her. It’s on the actual dash. A slick piece of work, by the way – we’re talking at least a grand’s worth.
“Excuse me a moment,” she goes. “I have an important call to make. I don’t know, between my writing and movie projects, then my famous humanitarian work, where do I manage to find the time? People like Ali Hewson must just look at me and think, ‘How does she do it?’” “Why does should do it, you mean.” She dials the number – while driving, by the way – spending a good five seconds looking down at her phone and not even at the road? She’s there, “I shouldn’t do this, of course. I’m two penalty points away from losing my licence.”
She puts the phone up to her ear. After a few seconds, someone obviously answers, because she’s suddenly going, “Hello, is that the Euro Hero discount store on Grafton Street? Yes, I have a complaint that I’d like to register, and I’d like to speak to someone above the pay grade of shop-floor functionary, thank you. The nature of my complaint? Well, it’s quite simple. I don’t think a shop like yours belongs on Grafton Street. It draws people from the – let’s just say – wage-bearing classes to this side of the city and induces general feelings of negativity. Yes, do put me through to someone – that’s why I’m phoning.”
I end up just shaking my head. There’s no word for her other than evil. She ends up getting put on hold, which is something she hates. “Give me a home, where the buffalo roam,” she goes. “That’ll be in my head all day now. Shall we go to Bentley’s, Ross? Or what’s this they’re calling it now?”
She eventually gets put through to someone. I end up just staring out the window and trying to blank her voice out. We pass the Merrion Shopping Centre and St Michael’s College and she’s still banging away in some poor focker’s ear as we pull up at a red light at the RDS.
“Henry Street,” she’s going, “is a far more appropriate location for shops like yours. That’s why they built Henry Street where they did.”
It’s at that exact moment that I cop the gord standing outside the British Embassy.
One of the things that made me the rugby player I very nearly could have been was my ability to spot opportunities and to, like, instantly act on them? I’d love to see some stats on it, but anyone who saw me play back in the days when I was good will tell you that I never let a chance go to waste.
So I stort staring hord at the gord – basically trying to get his attention. Except he’s looking up and down the road. Doesn’t see me. Probably has bigger things on his mind than people driving while talking on their Wolfe Tones. So I just keep staring at him.
“Well,” she’s still going, “it used to be the seventh most expensive street in the world. Now it’s full of the likes of you. And jewellers paying cash for gold. And don’t even get me started on that Paul Lynott exhibition, drawing in the dispossessed from all over.”
Finally, the gord looks at me and I stort rolling my eyes in the old dear’s direction, trying to subtly draw his attention to her, sitting there, giving out yords with her phone clamped to the side of her big botoxed head. The dude just screws up his face, not a clue what I’m trying to tell him. You’d have to ask what the fock they’re teaching them down in Templemore.
“Who am I? Well, for your information, I’m one of this country’s most influential writers and opinion formers. That’s what Who’s Who in Ireland said about me. Look it up.”
Shit. Up ahead, the lights turn green. The cors in front of us stort to move. I make a last-ditch attempt to tell the gord about the crime being committed right under his nose. I make the shape of a phone with my left hand and hold it up to my ear, then I flick my head in the old dear’s direction again.
This time he cops it. She doesn’t, by the way? She’s just about to press on the accelerator when there’s all of a sudden a tap on the front passenger window. I, very helpfully, roll it down.
She knows she’s in serious S-H-One-T as well. “I’m sorry, garda,” she tries to go, “it was part of my campaigning work. I’m very involved in social justice.” “Hang up that phone,” he goes, reaching inside his jacket for his all-important notebook. “Then pull in up ahead there?” I turn to her and go, “Looks like you’ve hit the old penalty point jackpot.” She’s suddenly grinning at him like a rat eating roadkill out of truck tyre. “Just to point out,” she goes, “I can’t afford to lose my licence. Too many people rely on me.” I’m struggling to keep a straight face.
He’s obviously not the type to take rubbish from anyone. He goes, “I said hang up that phone and pull in up ahead there.”
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