“So what do you think of her, Rosser?”
My eldest son is asking me for my opinion on the new love of his life – which isn’t a girl, in case you’re wondering, but the Lamborghini that my old man bought him as a pre-present for finishing his Law degree.
I'm like, "It's a nice cor, Ro, but I wonder should you be driving it so fast?"
He’s there, “She’s apposed to be thribbon fast, Rosser. Here, let’s open her up – see what she can do.”
We’re on the N11 heading south. He puts his foot down on the accelerator until I can feel my eyes nearly rattling in their sockets.
“Moy Jaysus,” he goes, “that’s some feeling, idn’t it, Rosser?”
I'm there, "Like I said, I'd be happier if you brought the speed down a few clicks?"
So he eases off on the pedal and goes, “Just think of the histoddy of this car.”
I’m like, “The what?”
“The histoddy.”
"Sorry, I'm not actually getting that word? Maybe if you slow it down like you did the cor-"
“His-tod-dy!”
“Oh, history! Yeah, no, I’m hearing you now.”
It once belonged to Fat Frankie Maher, one of Ireland’s most successful and apparently down-to-earth drug dealers. The Criminal Assets Bureau seized it as part of its clampdown on white-collar crime when it’s committed by people who didn’t go to good schools.
“Frankie bought her to cedebrate landing a fifty-middion-euro shipment of hash in Arklow in 2016,” Ronan goes.
And I’m there, “I’m going to have to say fair focks.”
"I read it in the Sunday Wurdled. It was a little present to heself."
“Ronan, I have to tell you that I’m not altogether happy with you driving this cor.”
“You’re not jeadous, are you, Rosser?”
"No, I just don't like this side of you that it brings out."
“What side?”
“The side of you that had me reading you Paul Williams books instead of bedtime stories when you were a kid.”
"The Gener Doddle! A modder don classic!"
I'm worried that my old man giving you this cor is going to have you idolising criminals again
“The side of you that insisted we spent our unsupervised access days touring the scenes of some of Ireland’s most famous heists.”
“The Brinks Addied in Santroddy! Ah, them were great days, Rosser!”
“This is what I’m talking about. You’re about to sit your finals. I thought that having a Law degree was going to set you on the straight and narrow for life. Now I’m worried that my old man giving you this cor is going to have you idolising criminals again.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Rosser.”
"Am I? Because your accent has gone full Colin Farrell from Intermission since we passed the turn-off for Newtownmountkennedy."
“Rosser, it’s a bit of fun is alls. It’s like you with your Rubby Tactics Book – saying there’s ideas in it that could help Arelunt to win the Wurdled Cup. It’s fantasy stuff.”
Er, in this case of my tactics book, it's not? But I don't get the chance to point that out because the next thing I hear is the sound of a siren and Ronan looks in his rearview mirror and goes, "Boddicks."
I look over my right shoulder. Yeah, no, it’s the Feds all right.
Ro goes, “Will I see can I outrudden them?”
I’m there, “Outrun them?” unable to believe what I’m hearing. “That’s not how we do things in our family, Ro. When the cops tell you to do something, you do it. You can always get a solicitor or a TD to make representations slash threats on your behalf later on.”
I'm like, 'Hello, there – what county are <em>you</em> from?' using a line that's worked for me a hundred times before in Copper Face Jacks
Ronan sighs, then he pulls into the hord shoulder. “Should be out investigating the real crimonoddles,” he goes, growing suddenly agitated. “The ones in Leinstor bleaten House.”
I'm like, "Yeah, no, maybe leave the actual talking to me, Ro?"
A lady gorda suddenly appears at my window. I wind it down. I'm like, "Hello, there – what county are you from?" using a line that's worked for me a hundred times before in Copper Face Jacks.
“Can I see your driving licence?” she says to Ro in a Dublin accent. Unfortunately, my powers don’t work on lady gordaí from Dublin.
Ronan basically flings it at her. I end up having to pick it up out of the footwell and hand it to her. She gives it the old left-to-right, then she goes, “Do you know why you were stopped today?”
Ro’s like, “I do, yeah. You saw a yong fedda thriving around in a Lambo and you immediately thought he must be a criminoddle.”
She goes, “Our camera caught you driving at 137 kilometres per hour in a 120 zone. Wait here.”
She goes back to her cor with his licence.
I’m like, “Seriously, Ro, stop giving the girl tude. Just take the penalty points and we’ll talk to my old man and Hennessy about getting them wiped later.”
“You should have let me outrudden her,” he goes. “She wouldn’t have got near me in her Mondeo and her bleaten Brogans.”
"Yeah, no, you've gone a bit Intermission again there, Ro."
Thee just assume addyone thriving a car like this is a thrug dealer
A minute or two later, the lady gorda reappears at my window.
She goes, “I’m going to have to impound this vehicle.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
She’s there, “Step out onto the hard shoulder, please.”
I’m like, “Why?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Ronan goes, “because thee just assume addyone thriving a car like this is a thrug dealer. I want your number, Love. Ine godda have you up in front of Gsoc. Mathor of fact, I’ll take it further. Ine writing a lethor to Threw Haddis.”
She’s like, “Who?”
“Threw Haddis!”
I’m there, “I think he’s trying to say Drew Harris.”
Ro’s like, “That’s right. My grandda paid good muddy for this car at a CAB auction. And now Ine being foddied around by geerds, hassling me – what, just because it was once owunt by Fat Frankie Maher. Well, I’ve got paperwoork to prove that it’s my car now.”
I’m like, “Ro, calm down.”
“That’s not the reason I’m impounding the car,” the lady gorda goes.
Ro’s there, “Oh, Ine sure it’s not. Ine sure you’ve got a perfectly good cubber story for taking it off me.”
“It hasn’t been taxed since 2017,” she goes.
And I’m like, “Come on, Ro, let’s see can we hail a taxi.”
