The days of lounging round the parents' gaff are over and the only option is a shoebox in the wilds of Sandyford, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
I NOTICED THE other day that those ads about insurance fraud are back on the box, giving it, 'This dude's off on his holidays – and yourpremium is paying for it.'
And to be honest, roysh, it sort of, like, depresses me? Okay, I’m not exactly George Lee – I admit that – but it has to be a sign of how focked this country is that falling off things and chopping off your ears are back to being career options.
As JP says, it’s like the nineties never even happened.
One person who isa happy banana with the way it's all going is Hennessy Coghlan-O'Hara? Devotees of daytime TV may have seen him recently fronting the campaign for a solicitors firm specialising in personal injuries called Go On, Claim.
And you know the kind I’m talking about: “I was walking along, minding my own business, when a bus shelter fell on me. I dialled the No Mon, No Fun hotline and, six weeks later, I was on a beach in Fuerteventura.”
Then Hennessy suddenly appears on the screen – shiny black suit, hair like an oil spill – points at the camera and goes, “Don’t let these insurance companies treat you like pricks! Dial four, treble six, two, five, two, four, six.” And before you check it – yeah, it does spell Go On, Claim.
Anyway, I’m thinking all of this while lying in bed the other morning and I’m actually turning over, roysh, looking forward to another few hours spitting zeds when I suddenly become aware of what I would have to describe as a presence in the room?
That and the unmistakable smell of Cohiba smoke.
So I open my eyes and there he is – the man himself – pottering around the room with, like, a measuring tape, checking shit out, humming away to himself, happy as a goldfish in the sea.
“Er, can I help you?” I obviously go. Because it’s, like, 11 o’clock in the morning.
He takes the cigor out of his mouth and uses it to sort of, like, indicate the corpet. He’s there, “What kind of weight do you suppose that floor would hold?”
It's only then that I remember that he's actually boughtthe place? I'm there, "Why would you want to know that, Hennessy?" He goes, "I'm thinking of putting a Jacuzzi in here. Want to model it on Baby Dolls in Soho. . . " I just, like, shake my head. He really is a filthbag.
“You ever been to Baby Dolls?” he goes.
I’m there, “Of course I’ve been to Baby Dolls. I’m the one who hasn’t missed a match at Twickenham for, like, 10 years, remember?” He sort of, like, nods thoughtfully, then storts measuring the window, which he mentions is going to have to be bricked up.
“So,” I go, “business is obviously going well for someone,” and he actually laughs. He’s there, “You see those ads about bogus claims? I got them bastids scared.”
I'm like, "Are you saying you'rethe reason they're running them," and he laughs again and goes, "You bet I'm the reason! Me getting back in the game is the worst news they've had since September 11!" which he seems to think is, like, a good thing?
I have to admit, roysh, I’m still having difficulty getting my head around Hennessy living in the gaff that’s been my home, on and off, since I was basically a kid, and I’m storting to feel suddenly sad, even though – you know me – I’m usually as shallow as piss on a morble floor.
The next thing, roysh – and this is without a word of warning – he literally rips my Rocky Elsom poster down off the wall, then storts feeling, like, the plasterboard behind it? “These walls are going to be all leather,” he goes. “Easier to wipe down.”
And maybe it's the idea of being turfed out of my own home, or maybe it's the sight of the Human Juggernaut crushed under Hennessy's Bally loafers, but I can suddenly feel myself, I suppose, welling up and I actually haveto get out of that room.
“Six weeks,” he goes, as I bolt out the door, “there’ll be a cover charge to get in here.” I go out onto the landing to try to, like, recover my composure?
Downstairs, I can hear the old pair chatting away. So I tip down to the kitchen. He'sin there, mid-anecdote, like the whole thing's a basic joke, while she's just sitting at the table next to him, grinning like a shot fox.
"Ah, Ross," hegoes. "Your mother and I have just been reminiscing. The, quote-unquote, good old days. Oh, if these walls could talk – full point, new par. . . "
I end up totally losing it.
"I thought you said this, I don't know, recession,whatever you want to call it, wasn't going to affect me? Now I'm losing my actual home?"
"You're not losing your home because of the recession," sheends up going. "Your father and I have agreed to divide everything as part of the divorce settlement."
The old man goes, “Yes, I need the money to address one or two, shall we say, liquidity problems. And your mother’s future is in America. Oh, Fionnuala, they’re going to love you over there.”
“They’re bound to,” I go. “They’ve no actual taste,” which she decides to ignore.
I’m there, “So where am I going to live? Has that even crossed your minds yet?” The two of them sort of, like, exchange looks, then the old dear pushes this, like, brochure across the table at me.
I pick it up and give it the old left to right.
It’s, like, a prospectus for an aportment complex in Sandyford called Rosa Parks. On the cover, it says, “Because Courteous Living – Is A Civil Right!”
“Welcome,” the old man goes, “to your brand new home!”
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