Last orders at Cocoon – that means my record for pulling here will remain unbeaten, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
‘FOR YEARS I was meaning to write to my MEP about the problem of food adjectives,” Fionn goes. Hammered, obviously. “Except now,” he goes, “it doesn’t matter so much, does it?” I’m there, “What are you talking about?” obviously hammered myself.
“I’m talking about the ridiculous verbosity to which restaurants and food manufacturers resorted to describe the simplest things,” he goes, “when it was the Celtic Tiger, of course. I mean, when was the last time you had just Pear and Almond tart?”
I tell him I honestly don’t remember.
“No,” he goes, “because you’ve been eating Williams Pear and Sweet Syrian Almond tart.”
I’m there, “Oh, yeah,” humouring him as much as anything.
“There isn’t a restaurant in this town,” he goes, “where the lamb is just lamb. It’s always Pure Bred Wicklow Lamb. Just like the beef has to be Aged Hereford, the blueberries Wild Canadian and the bream Naturally Reared Volga River. I mean, even Tesco were in on the act. Do you know the difference between salt and vinegar crisps and Sea Salt and West Country Cider Vinegar Crisps?”
I’m there, “A couple of yoyos per packet, I’d say.”
He goes, “Exactly. But mark my words, it’s all going to change. See, pretentiousness is out. Frugality is suddenly the thing. People are losing their jobs, their pensions, their homes – they’re bound to start asking questions about the adjectives that are being put into their food . . .”
I catch Eddie Irvine’s eye and he waves over. The Irv was regarded as a major player in his day but there’s one dude he’s always dipped the knee to – I’m talking about the dude in the pink Hollister T-shirt who’s currently pretending not to see him.
Ah, it’s just a thing I do.
I still can’t believe this is the last night any of us will be sitting in Cocoon. I mean, who saw this coming? I turn to Fionn.
“Is it just me,” I go, “or is, like, the geography of our lives changing?” and it’s definitely the deepest thing I’ve ever said? “I mean, Sorcha rang me yesterday in tears. Harriet’s House – gone from Dawson Street. Only seems like yesterday that we were in there paying seven-hundred-and-fifty snots for a statue of two Greco-Roman wrestlers. Then, out of the blue, it’s gone - just like that! When she hears about Pia Bang Home – that’ll really send her over the edge.”
The Irv comes over – he always does. “Bycha!” he goes, which is Northern Irish for hello.
I give him some five, then go, “I can’t believe it’s really happening, Irv. I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind,” but the shrug says it’s game over.
He sits down beside me, grabs our empty glasses. Goes, “Some nights in here, hadn’t we?” I laugh. “They should put a plaque up.” He’s there, “Remember the night you sent Samantha Mumba over a Slippery Nipple? I think that was the first time I barred you for life.”
I laugh along. This is what he does. It kills him, you see, remembering how many times
I wiped his eye in his own battlecruiser.
I could mention Laura Woods, Kathryn Thomas, Caroline Morohan – but I won’t, of course.
“What’s going to happen to all the hairdressers?” I go. “As in, who’s going to take them?”
He’s there, “Ah, there’s other pubs,” and what I probably should say, but don’t, is, “Not like this one, Irv. Not like this one.”
He goes, in fairness to him, “You were always very popular with the hairdressing crowd,” and I’m like, “Stop! I went through Toni and Guy’s like a dose of contact dermatitis,” which he laughs at, again in fairness to him.
Fionn is chatting to a bird beside me. Unusual for him. He usually waits till the taxi rank – goes Golden Goal. I can hear him go, “I mean, twice-baked biscoti? For God’s sake, bis is the Italian word for twice – and coti already means baked? So why is it necessary to say twice-baked biscoti?” The bird is, like, nodding but you can tell she can’t wait to get her cosmopolitan and get the fock out of there.
I ask Irv what he’s going to do now and he shrugs and tells me he’ll be okay. You’d almost feel sorry for him if he didn’t own half of focking Monaco.
“It was the place to be,” he goes, suddenly all, I don’t know, reminiscing and shit? “When things were good. This place gave me more pleasure than any of the Grand Prix races I won, any of the stunning models I made sweet love to over the years,” which is another dig at me. “Some nights I’d just stand behind the bar there, not even mixing cocktails, just looking out at you all. We were so young. So beautiful . . .”
“I’m kind of feeling a bit sad about things,” I go. “And it’s weird because the old man told me that the whole economic tiger thing wasn’t going to affect me? It turns out the guarantee didn’t stretch to, like, feelings and shit.”
“It’s last orders,” he suddenly goes. That night flew. “It’s on the house, boys – what’ll it be?” I turn to Fionn. His bird has flown.
“A pint of Dutch-Brewed, Five Percent ABV, Force-Carbonated Pale Lager for me,” he goes. “And a bag of Mature Farmhouse Cheddar and Caramelised Onion Crisps, if you still do them.”
I smile at the Irv for maybe the last time and tell him to make that two.
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