I've always thought Oilgate was a pretty random name for a village. Oilgate sounds like a scandal – and of course, looking back, that's exactly what it was? Vicarage Manor is an exciting development of ultra-modern residences in a highly desirable area with enormous growth potential – a suite of homes that manages to combine the excitement of urban life with the sedateness of the countryside, in the process setting the template for a new type of living, a pleasant, scenic commute from Dublin city centre.
You could count the lies in that sentence, then read it back and still find two or three you missed the first time. Yes, Oilgate was a scandal alright – but it was also one of JP’s finest moments as an estate agent.
It’s, like, three o’clock on Thursday afternoon and Vicarage Manor is quiet. But then it’s always quiet, on account of the fact that it’s 10 miles from anywhere else and no one wants to actually live here.
Only six of the 37 highly desirable residences have actual humans in them. The rest were bought as, like, investment properties – and, well, you can probably guess how that went. The banks are in the process of repossessing most of them, although it’s a fair bet that the elements will take them first.
“What are you selling?” a voice goes. “Salvation, is it?”
I turn around. There’s a dude standing in the driveway of number six – one of the supposed three-bedroom houses, which are actually two- bedroom houses. The third one is tiny – if you wanted to fart in bed, you’d have to do it in installments.
“Salvation?” I go. “What are you talking about?”
He’s like, “I’m just wondering what crowd you’re with? You’re not the Jehovah’s Witnesses because they were here this morning. And you’re not with the Mormons because we’d them at the weekend.”
I notice he’s checking out my suit. I’m there, “Dude, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”
Not for the first time, I could add?
He’s there, “Have I? We can’t get tradesmen to come. The supermarket won’t deliver. But once a week, without fail, one of your crowd is here, asking do we ever pray. I suppose there’s great potential for you in human misery.”
I'm there, "Dude, I'm not actually any religion?", which isn't strictly true, of course. I put "Leinster" on the Census form. "I'm actually an estate agent."
His mouth falls open. He looks over his shoulder and goes, “Ailish! Ailish, come quickly! Your prayers have been answered!”
Ten seconds later, a woman appears at the door behind him.
“This fella here is an estate agent!” he goes. “He’s here to ask are we interested in selling! You said this place would come back, Ailish! Although I had my doubts, especially after that sinkhole took numbers 33 and 34.”
I’m there, “Dude, you’re borking up the wrong tree. I’m not here to tell you that someone wants your house.”
Seriously, you’d pay half a million for a gaff is Westeros before you took a gift of one in Vicarage Manor.
Ailish goes, "So why are you here?"
I’m there, “I’m wondering do you remember the estate agent who sold you this place? His name was JP Conroy.”
Suddenly, a faraway look comes over their faces. It’s the same expression you see on me when I’m trying to figure out which of the five remote controls on our coffee table switches on the TV.
“JP Conroy,” he goes. “That’s a name I’ll not forget in a hurry.”
His wife goes, “He told us lies.”
I’m there, “You and a lot more like you.”
She goes, “The prospectus he showed us had a lake with swans on it.”
Swans were everywhere during the Celtic Tiger. You’d wonder whatever happened to them. Like a lot of others, they’re keeping their heads down.
“More than swans,” the dude goes. “We were promised shops, an adventure playground, a civic theatre.”
“Look,” I go, “I can’t give you any of those things. But what I can offer you is a chance to settle old scores. Would it surprise you to hear that the same JP Conroy is still working as an estate agent?”
The dude’s there, “No it wouldn’t. Because estate agents don’t die – they just come back with pointier shoes.”
“Well, were either of you also aware that you can actually complain about estate agents now? As in, if you feel you were, like, missold a gaff, you can bring it up with a crowd called the Something Something Regulatory Authority. They can fine them up to a quarter of a million shecks and even revoke their licence to operate.”
The two of them just look at each other. They’re like, “Really?”
I hand them a piece of paper and I go, “I’ve taken the liberty of printing out their address, phone number and email details for you. And I’ve written a sort of sample letter that you might consider using if you’re going to complain.”
She goes, "Why are you doing this?"
And I’m there, “Because I care. And because I think crooks like JP Conroy should be run out of the business.”
He goes, "Thank you. Thank you so much."
I say my goodbyes, then I tip back to the cor. I’m turning the key when my phone all of a sudden rings. Speak of the devil, it ends up being JP.
He goes, “Where are you?”
I'm there, "I'm in, em, Malahide. "
“That’s funny,” he goes, “because I’m in Vicarage Manor in Wexford and I’m looking straight at you.”
I look up. His cor is porked, like, nose-to-nose with mine and he’s grinning at me with the phone clamped to his ear.
“Er, yeah, no,” I try to go, “I was just taking a trip down memory lane, remembering some of the stunts you pulled before you decided we should become an ethical estate agency.”
He's there, "I've been following you since nine o'clock this morning, Ross. Shillelagh. Coolboy. Ballyhill. Oilgate. You've been visiting my old clients, trying to get them to complain about me."
I’m there, “I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“You’ve been wasting your time. The legislation only came in, in 2011. It doesn’t cover that period. Oh, and one other thing, Ross.”
“What?”
“You’re fired.”
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE
