The old pair have turned into text maniacs - time for a bit of technological sabotage, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
THE OLD DEAR is frying - of all things - liver and onions, handling the liver in a way, I imagine, she considers sexy, giving this sort of, like, faraway stare to the camera while at the same time licking her big, bee-stung lips. The old man looks like he's about to hump the TV.
He tells me she's still an attractive woman. "You're yanking my cord," I go. "The last time I saw a mouth like that, it was trying to eat Sam Neill and Jeff Goldblum."
I turn back to the computer, where I'm planning me and Ro's trip to Vegas. I'm thinking Christmas might be the best time to go, although it's hard to think with himbabbling away in the background.
"I expect you're wondering where I've been all morning," he goes.
"Couldn't give a fock," I go. "I slept till one," but of course he has to tell me anyway.
"Mr Hennessy Coghlan-O'Hara - AKA your godfather - and I had a meeting with a certain Martin Mansergh, Teachta Dála, and some of his OPW chaps. Made a formal presentation to them, vis à vis our plans to turn Mountjoy Jail into Dublin's first six-star hotel.
"Yes, I see your expectant little face, Ross. But . . . no decision yet. Process to be gone through, etcetera, etcetera. Suffice it to say that they seemed very impressed with what we put in front of them. Hennessy came up with this wonderful slogan - stay with us once and you'll want to do life. Or some such. He'll tell you it again. See, he's a words man, is Hennessy - always was."
I'm, like, trying to block his voice out, roysh, but it's impossible.
"I'm thinking of asking your mother if she'd be interested in the franchise for the restaurant - A Hungry Feeling. It's all celebrity chefs these days, credit crunch or no credit crunch . . ."
Ten seconds after the credits roll, the old man's phone beeps. It's the first time I've ever known him to get a text message. He cops the look of shock on my boat. "It's called SMSing," he goes. "Everybody's goingto be doing it." I'm there, "Everyone has been doing it? For, like, ten focking years? What I want to know is, who'd be texting you?" He's like, "Oh, just your mother. Telling me she's had a rotten day. I'm SMSing her now, just to tell her, you know, come home and I'll give those feet of yours a bloody good massage." My guts do an actual somersault.
"You can say all sorts, you see. No barriers to communication. In fact, I'm rather embarrassed to report, some of the SMSs we've been sending back and forth have been of a rather explicitnature . . ." I'm like, "Whoa! TMI, Dude. TMI!" and I end up having to run to the banana fritter to puke. "Sparks are beginning to - quote-unquote - fly again," he shouts after me.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, that evening I was in his study - the usual, looking for money to steal - when I noticed his actual phone on the desk and ended up having what I have to admit was one of my best ideas ever.
I picked it up, scrolled down through his contacts and found, like, Hennessy. I hit change details, then I keyed in the old dear's number under hisname. Then I found the old dear's name and did the same - switched her number for Hennessy's. Evil, yes - but with an old pair like mine, how am I to know any better?
Anyway, I ended up forgetting about the whole thing, roysh, until some time on Thursday afternoon, when I was tipping down the stairs to get a bit of brekky. Through the kitchen door, I could hear that the old dear had her friends around - Delma, Angela and one or two from golf.
I had to put my hand over my actual mouth, roysh, because the old dear was going, "I don't know what'scome over him. I mean, last week it was, I want to do this to you, I want to do that to you. Cover your body in such-and-such, then lick it off with my you-know-what.
"Now, I'm getting this - I'm still not a hundred percent persuaded re the idea of a full glass frontage for the hotel. I think I'll have another tête à tête, pardon the French, with this architect chappy."
Her mates are all making what would have to be described as sympathetic noises. "Then this," she goes. " Sewage treatment is going to be a significant problem, I rather suspect. Best to keep lying to the OPW for as long as we can get away with it."
"Oh, Fionnuala," I hear Delma go. "I feel for you, I really do."
"He's gone off me," the old dear goes. "Not that I'm surprised. Look at me, cooking food for the bloody . . . peasantry. How couldhe find me attractive? He's probably found someone, I don't know, younger and more agile to give his love and fancy words to . . ."
Now, you can imagine me, roysh, I'm sliding down the actual wall, I'm laughing that hord. I actually think I'm going to focking herniate myself when all of a sudden I notice that the front door is open and the old man is stood in the hall with his golf bag and an expression that no words could do actualjustice to.
"Two hours," he goes. "Two hours, I waited at Milltown. Hennessy never showed. Can you believe that? First time in 30 years of bloody well friendship."
• Follow Ross's adventures online at www.irishtimes.com/blogs/lifewithross