This Champagne Mojito is

the Last Thing I Own

Contents

Prologue

Who the fock is Edna O’Brien?

I’ve never heard of her. That’s if it even is a her. Oh, it must actually be, roysh, because it says,

Forty-five! Are you yanking my focking chain? The woman’s got facial warts that are forty-five. I’m never buying the Times again. That’s it – game over.

Stunningly attractive! What the fock are these people looking at? She’s uglier than a kitten in a blender.

This shit is beyond funny.

Oh, fock!

Of course, at this stage I’m thinking, and when is she going to mention her son, who captained Castlerock College to the Leinster Schools Senior Cup in 1999?

Er, hello? Any mention of me?

And then I see it, roysh, way down at the bottom of the piece. The last paragraph, in fact. Five measly focking words.

‘She also has a son.’

1. On Us Thy Rich Children

He looks like shit, it has to be said. Wouldn’t say the food in here is hectic, but all the same, it looks like he’s lost a stone, even two, in the – what? – six weeks he’s been here.

‘Any word from Michael Cheika yet?’ he goes, straight away trying to strike up the old pals act.

I don’t say anything, roysh, just give him the hord stare and eventually he goes, ‘He’ll see the light. I don’t think Leinster are sufficiently well-off for players that they can afford to ignore the claims of – in this humble observer’s view – the finest out-half this country has produced since Campbell, quote-unquote…’

The focker’s chicken oriental. It’s like he’s totally oblivious to where he is and shit? It’s probably, like, a defence mechanism. Wouldn’t envy him the next few years in here. I’m looking around the visiting room and I’ve never seen so much CHV in one place. It’s like the Ilac Centre, but with focking bors on the windows. We’re talking Adidas everything and Lizzy Duke bling and it hums of, I don’t know, defeat – defeat and desperation and Lynx.

There’s some random skobe at the next table and his eyes are all over my Henri Lloyd. Probably has a buyer lined up for it already – not that he can do shit about it in here, but I suppose old habits die hord.

It’s weird seeing the old man in his own clobber. I thought these places would give you, I don’t know, a suit with arrows on it or something.

I whip the little box out of my Davy Crockett and push it across the table to him. Then I go, ‘Here, I brought you something,’ and somehow – don’t ask me how – I manage to keep a straight face. He looks at the box, then at me and his face lights up like a focking slot-machine.

‘Kicker’s brought me a present,’ he goes, turning around, looking for someone to tell. No one’s interested.

I can’t believe some focker hasn’t stuck a knife in him yet.

‘Open it,’ I go, which he does. He whips off the lid, pushes aside the tissue paper and pulls it out.

It’s a harmonica.

He studies my boat, trying to work out if it’s, like, a genuine gift or if I’m just, like, ripping the piss.

I’m there, ‘An innocent man facing a ten-stretch? You’ve got to have a focking harmonica, don’t you? It’s like in the movies.’

He looks down, all sad. Then he goes, ‘Oh, I’m not innocent, Ross. Not by a long chalk. No, no, no. This time they’ve got what are popularly known as “the goods” on me, I’m afraid. Full stop, new par. Two-and-a-half million salted away in a bank account in Jersey, soliciting bribes from two property developers, paying bribes to two council officials…

‘Hennessy reckons two to five years,’ he goes, giving me the big cow eyes, feeling all sorry for himself. ‘I do appreciate your efforts to cheer me up, though. Look, the boy’s brought me a harmonica,’ he goes, turning to the pair at the next table, who are in the middle of a serious borney. Then at the top of his voice, he’s like, ‘Oh, that’s something you’re all going to have to get used to in here over the next few years, I’m afraid, the constant, inverted commas, joshing between Ross and myself. Oh, we’re famous for it. Like Jury’s cabaret. Although I’m a Berkeley Court man myself, and you’ll get no apology from me on that score…’

The pair beside us are staring at him with their mouths open, like he’s a personal injuries compensation cheque.

He’s going, ‘Be warned – earplugs are advisable when we get going. One will say one thing and the other will say something back and on and on it goes, with a heavy emphasis on hilarity…’

The two of them are still just staring. Then, without saying anything, they go back to whatever they were arguing about. I’d imagine she’s been boning some other Ken Acker while he’s been inside, probably his best mate or his brother, knowing these kinds of people, which I’m happy to say I don’t.

I look at the old man and I go, ‘Are you not… scared in here?’ and he’s there, ‘Scared? What’s there to be scared about?’ and I suppose if he doesn’t know, there’s no point me telling him. He goes, ‘Scared? No. Sad? Yes. Sad that I’m going to miss the first few years of my beautiful granddaughter’s life. How is lovely little Honor?’ and I just go, ‘She’s fine,’ and he nods, as if he’s trying to, like, process this information.

He’s there, ‘I meant to warn you, Ross, not to bring her in here,’ and I’m like, ‘I had no focking intention of it,’ and he’s going, ‘It’s no place for a baby. A photograph of her would be nice, though,’ and I just shrug, roysh, as if to say, I’ll see what I can do.

Suddenly, roysh, he looks over both shoulders, then he goes, ‘Of course, you know the real reason I’m in here today, don’t you?’

I’m like, ‘Er, because you’re a focking crook?’ and he’s there, ‘Well, yes, obviously. But why did they decide to step up their investigations? Think about it…’

See, I actually don’t give a fock?

I go, ‘Presumably because the old dear wrote a supposed book about some sexless trout whose husband was on the take. Wouldn’t take Columbo to work out that she was writing about her own miserable focking life…’

The old man’s just, like, shaking his head, with his eyes closed. ‘Must I remind you,’ he goes, ‘of the whispers in the wind vis-à-vis rugby football at Croke Park?’

I’m there, ‘Yeah? And?’

He’s like, ‘And they want me out of the way, of course. Stands to reason, does it not? What, the chairperson of Keep It South Side? At large at this pivotal moment in Mr Bertie Ahern’s big plan to bring rugby to the northside of the city? No, no, no, no, no. Couldn’t happen, see. The enemy had to be neutralized – with a capital N, if necessary. Oh, Hennessy and I were planning all sorts – protest golf outings and so forth. Our friend didn’t want that…’

Actually, this is storting to seriously bore me. I wonder would it be rude just to fock off now.

He goes, ‘Now I can see the light going out in your eyes, Kicker. You’re thinking, but who will lead us now? Well, fret not. Answer – I will. Because I’m not giving up. Oh, no. Sure, you can cage me. That’s easy. But your chap Ahern will find out, as Ceausşescu did, as F. W. de Klerk did, to say nothing of Papa Doc Duvalier, that you can’t cage a feeling. You can’t lock up popular sentiment.’

Out of the blue then, he suddenly goes, ‘So, how’s your mother, Ross? She bearing up okay?’ and – genuinely, roysh – I’m like, ‘What are you focking banging on about?’

He goes, ‘Well, just that. Give her my love, will you? Tell her I’m sorry about… all this…’

I don’t know why I give a fock, but I end up going, ‘Are you actually telling me she hasn’t been to see you yet?’ and suddenly he’s back on the defensive, going, ‘She’s busy, I understand that. She’s doing the publicity work for that book of hers. It’s flying off the shelves, apparently. Wonderful article about her in the paper. They’re calling her the new Edna O’Brien.’

I’ve never seen him look so sad. He goes, ‘Then she has her charity work. When I read about that earthquake in Pakistan, I thought, oh, there’ll be a roulade sale in a certain house on Brighton Road before the week’s out. And don’t forget her campaigns. Nobody said political marriages were a bed of roses…’

I’m just, like, staring at him, hating him for talking like this, hating him for being so focking weak.

‘And I expect she’s still doing that Yogalates programme with the girls. That’s three mornings a week, Ross, it’s a big commitment.’

And that’s when I end up totally losing it with him.

I’m like, ‘She’s a focking hound. She’s the reason you’re in here and now she’s just, like, leaving you to rot? When are you going to, like, cop onto yourself and shit?’

I know I’m going to have to watch this, roysh, but for probably the first time in my life I find myself actually feeling sorry for him.

The dickhead.

Her ears are so tiny, her nose, her little hands. She’s so peaceful when she sleeps.

I’m kneeling down, roysh, looking into her crib, watching her little chest fill up and then empty, watching her breathe in and out, in and out, in and out…

It’s, like, totally mesmerizing. I suppose you could say I’m having one of my famous intellectual moments, thinking basically that life is such an amazing thing when you, like, think about it and shit?

It has to be said, she’s an actual ringer for me, though you do have to be careful who you say that to, especially around here.

When she was born, Sorcha’s old pair – who hate my guts – were like, ‘Oh Sorcha, she’s the image of you,’ like it was a major relief all round, roysh, and of course I was there thinking, er, I’m not exactly Martin Johnson, in case you haven’t noticed, though I didn’t need to say it because deep down, I know – and they know – that it wasn’t true, roysh, because deep down, I know – and they know – that Honor looks like me.

Says in one of Sorcha’s magazines – might have been Mother & Baby – that in the first six months of their lives babies usually resemble their dads and this is, like, nature’s way of persuading the father – in other words, the breadwinner – not to abandon his, like, off spring.

Not that there’s any danger of that happening in this case. I’m looking at her, roysh, and I’m thinking, I would actually do anything for you – we’re talking clean toilets, we’re talking stack shelves in Lidl… We’re obviously not talking literally, but you get my point.

And God help the boys when they stort calling to this door for her.

It’s just, like, the most amazing feeling in the world to have this little, I don’t know, bundle of life basically, that is, like, totally dependent on you and you can’t fock up anymore because there’s, like, no excuses, it’s too important.

But the next thing…

She’s suddenly awake and she’s staring at me, roysh, and as usual this look of, like, total panic crosses her face. I’m there going, ‘Ssshhh! Ssshhh! It’s okay – it’s me. You know me…’ but her face just, like, creases up and then the crying storts.

I pick her out of the crib and I’m going, ‘Please don’t cry, baby. Come on, you know who I am. Ssshhh! Ssshhh!…’ but that’s when the howling storts, and suddenly I hear the sound of Sorcha pounding up the stairs, followed by her old pair and her focking granny, which is a bit OTT, you’d have to say.

Sorcha’s there, ‘I thought you said you were going to the toilet?’ and I’m like, ‘I was… I… just decided to look in on her,’ and she’s like, ‘Oh my God, Ross, it took me ages to put her down,’ and she pretty much tears her out of my orms, and I notice I’m getting major filthies from everyone in the room.

Her old man’s there, ‘Your dinner’s going cold,’ basically telling me to get out of here.

Sorcha’s sort of, like, gently bouncing her up and down in her orms, trying to calm her, but Honor keeps turning her head in my direction and just, like, screaming her lungs out.

‘She doesn’t like him,’ the granny goes and they all look at her, roysh, as if to go, that’s the thing we all think but we’re not allowed to say. Then she says it again. She’s like, ‘I’m telling you – that baby does not like him,’ and I try to laugh it off by going, ‘Well, she would be the first member of the female population to feel that way…’

Sorcha’s old dear goes, ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. They just haven’t bonded yet. Fathers and daughters – it’s more common than you think,’ and I have to get the fock out of there, roysh, because I don’t want to give that family the pleasure of seeing me upset.

∗

It’s focking weird, Fionn being back at Castlerock, although he’s not repeating – he’s actually gone back as a teacher, we’re talking English and History. Seems happy enough, though. He’s sitting there – get this – preparing a class, in the middle of focking Lillie’s.

At one point he catches me staring at him and holds up his book – Modern Irish History or some shit – and goes, ‘Brings back memories, doesn’t it?’ and I swear to God, roysh, I have never seen the book before in my life.

Of course, then he remembers who he’s talking to and he goes, ‘Well, for some of us…’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, the focking nerds among us. I didn’t own a single book in school – and look at me now. It’s a Friday afternoon and here I am, kicking back, enjoying a pint of Ken in a club I own – sorry, portly own – while watching a bunch of immigrants do the focking work…’

Fionn storts giving it, ‘I suppose it’s true that the simpler you are, the less you want from life…’ and I’m just like, ‘Do you want to end up having to go back to SpecSavers?’

‘Ah, get a focking room, you two,’ One F goes. He walks in wearing his Cher Heart of Stone Tour 1990 T-shirt and I’m thinking, it won’t be long before we’re celebrating its twenty-first. ‘Listening to you two bitching – it’s like being back in Cam Ranh Bay,’ which goes totally over our heads, even Fionn’s.

‘Well said, One F,’ Oisinn goes. ‘Hey, did you bring a paper?’ and One F throws him a copy of The Stor, or whatever factory-canteen gazette he’s working for these days. Then he disappears behind the bor and storts fixing his Tony Blair in the mirror.

Christian’s on the Wolfe to Lauren. What the fock do those two find to talk about? I mean, they’ve just spent the morning together, roysh, then he comes in here and spends, like, twenty minutes on the phone to her.

I suppose it’s like, whatever you’re into – even if it does make him a focking sap.

When he hangs up, I go, ‘Hey, any word from your mystery woman?’

He suddenly gets all fidgety. See, the rest of the goys aren’t supposed to know.

‘Christian’s been getting these calls,’ I go. ‘Hang-ups, basically. They’ve been going on for, like, months. Some bird. She never says anything – oh, except his name – and aport from that all he can hear is, like, crying. Have you any idea who it is yet?’

Christian goes, ‘Er, no,’ like he’s actually embarrassed by it. I wouldn’t be. Then again, I’ve burned a lot of girls in my time. I’m, like, no stranger to their middle-of-the-night agonies.

I’m there, ‘I bet it’s that Susan Sandys – was headgirl in Loreto Foxrock. She always had the big-time hots for you. Or who was that bird from Muckross, asked you to her debs? Oisinn, you remember, she used to turn up in Herbert Pork every Sunday afternoon to watch us throw the ball about, used to hang around with Pagan Hicklin…’

Fionn sticks his oar in then. He looks up from his book and goes, ‘Ross, I don’t think Christian is comfortable talking about this,’ and I swear to God, roysh, I’m about to go, oh and you know my best friend better than I do, do you? But I don’t, roysh, instead I go, ‘God knows what those kids are going to turn out like having you for a focking teacher.’

I end up nearly spitting Heineken all over the gaff when he turns around and goes, ‘Well, you’ll get to see for yourself, because I’m teaching Ronan.’

When I’ve finished coughing and spluttering, I’m there, ‘Ro? You’re actually teaching Ro?’ and he’s like, ‘Yeah, History,’ and I’m there, ‘Don’t you go filling his head with facts and figures. Not everyone wants to turn out like you. And I swear to God, if his rugby suffers…’

‘What’s the story with JP?’ One F goes suddenly. I turn around and he’s still fixing his hair. The funny thing is, roysh, it looks exactly the same as it did when he storted – in other words, big.

We’re all like, ‘JP?’ and he goes, ‘Yeah, have you not noticed that he’s been acting weird?’ One F thinks he fought in Vietnam – if he reckons you’re weird, you must be in serious focking trouble.

‘He does seem a bit preoccupied,’ Fionn goes. Him and his big words and stupid focking glasses. ‘I rang him last night. Look, he’s probably just thinking about Monday…’

Monday is the day they’re bringing Fehily back from France. The Feds have decided not to chorge him with war crimes after all. Whatever shit he was up to in Paris all those years ago, he’s going to get away with, roysh, because he’s too old and too sick to stand trial. So sick, roysh, that Fionn and JP are going to have to go over and bring him back. They’re saying he’s only got weeks left.

All of a sudden, roysh, Oisinn goes, ‘Hey, Ross, look at this,’ and he holds up the paper, roysh, and there’s, like, a double-page spread and I have to strain my eyes to read the headline. All the goys crack their holes laughing. It’s like, ‘CO’CK OF FOCKROCK FACES TOUGH TIME IN THE DOCK’ and then underneath it’s like, ‘Controversial Councillor Looking At Lengthy Jail Term,’ and I’m just there, ‘I don’t care what they write – I hate the stupid tool as much as anyone. More, actually,’ but Oisinn goes, ‘No, listen to this. They’ve done a panel. The Wisdom Of Charles O’Carroll-Kelly – Quote Unquote.’

Then he storts reading. It’s like, ‘On teenage mothers – they should be forcibly sterilized to ensure they don’t produce any further burdens on the State,’ and of course that gets a big laugh, even from me, because we all remember him saying that.

Then it’s like, ‘On the National Lottery – an ingenious way of giving poor people dole money and then taking it back from them again. On heroin – God’s way of culling the package-holiday classes…

‘On the hospital crisis – if these so-called patients can afford cigarettes, scratch-cards and Sky Television, they can afford private health insurance. What’s wrong with sleeping on a hospital trolley anyway? Think of it as a bed with wheels…’

I swear to God, roysh, we’re all cracking our holes laughing now. I’d forgotten what a funny focker he can be sometimes.

‘On Travellers – I don’t know why they call them Travellers. The ones on the Sandyford Road have been there for fourteen years. They never travel anywhere. On the Hill of Tara – why is something worth keeping just because it’s old? If I’d adopted the same attitude to my Lexus GS 430, well, then I would never have driven the Lexus IS 300. And you can quote me on that…’

We’re laughing so much, we’re all going to need oxygen in a minute.

Oisinn goes, ‘Oh, I love this one. On Funderland – what are the Gardaí doing about it? Surely, there must be bench warrants out on most of the people who go there. On Christmas clubs – they encourage criminality by putting temptation in the way of the poorer classes…’

One F finishes doing whatever he was doing to his hair and storts reading over Oisinn’s shoulder.

Oisinn’s there, ‘On Grafton Street – it’s time to put a checkpoint at either end of the street. These mini-supermarkets and mobile phone shops are drawing – and let’s not mince our words here – peasants to what was once Europe’s most fashionably upmarket shopping street. On Ringsend – one of the benefits of global warming and the melting of the polar icecap is that this aberration, this awful experiment in environmental engineering, will soon be reclaimed by the sea, forgotten by the rest of Dublin 4 as some God-awful, working-class Atlantis…’

I swear to God, roysh, I’m pretty much on the floor, I’m laughing that much. I’m wondering do they get The Stor in the Joy. What am I saying – of course they focking do!

‘I don’t believe it,’ One F goes. ‘They didn’t even give me a byline.’

And we all crack up laughing again.

I’m gagging for my bit. I haven’t actually had it since about eight months before Honor was born.

Well, not with Sorcha anyway.

The thing is, roysh, she’s looking pretty incredible at the moment and she must have noticed that I’m on for it because I made her, like, two cups of tea this afternoon and then tonight, after she put Honor down, I suggested we watch You’ve Got Mail on DVD.

So when it’s over, roysh, we go up to bed and – without painting you a picture – I stort throwing the lips on her and all of a sudden she goes, ‘Wait, I’ve got to put something on,’ and she disappears into the en suite and I’m thinking, bit of lingerie action, happy days.

I grab two or three candles out of her drawer, because I know she likes that. I light them and then I hop into the sack.

I’m focking horder than honours physics here.

And I wait. And wait. And wait.

Twenty minutes later she comes out, with her face covered in Sudacream. Of course, she cops my reaction straight away. ‘Sorry, Ross, my skin is in ribbons,’ she goes. ‘It’s like, oh my God…’

The thing is, roysh, she’s never had a Randolph Scott as long as I’ve known her.

I’m like, ‘I thought we were gonna, you know…’

And she goes, ‘I’m not in the mood anyway.’

What do people actually mean when they say they slept like a baby? Do they mean they woke up every hour, on the hour, screaming for focking food?

I’m just wondering because that’s how mine sleeps.

All focking night she had me up, screaming her little hort out, which probably explains why I’m unusually cranky today. I had to keep hopping up out of the scratcher and grabbing the shit Sorcha had left for her in the fridge – formula, it’s called – and of course by the time I got back upstairs with it she was out of the game again, spitting zeds.

And if it wasn’t Honor keeping me awake, then it was Sorcha, who’s in Wicklow with her old dear, enjoying another of their pampering weekends. She was the one who thought it’d be a good idea leaving me and Honor alone for the weekend. ‘Might help you bond,’ she goes.

No exaggeration, roysh, she must have rung, like, eight times during the night, bawling her eyes out, telling me how unnatural it is for a child to be separated from her mother so early and, well, she might have said the words oh my God once or twice as well.

She was like, ‘I can’t believe you actually let me go away and leave her,’ like it’s my focking fault.

She was also the one who decided not to breastfeed, supposedly because Honor has infant eczema and needs a prebiotic supplement in her milk, but really, I suspect, because Chloe told her that it would make her Walter Mitties sag and her chest would end up looking like – and I quote – two rocks in a hammock. As if Chloe can afford to talk! She’s still wearing a training bra. But what the whole bottle-feeding thing means is that I’m having to work my orse off, roysh, especially since Honor is still going totally ballistic at the very sight of me. And we are talking totally here.

So with all that going down, you can only imagine how cream-crackered I am today and I don’t think anyone would call me a bad father for putting Honor down a little bit earlier than usual in the afternoon, whipping the batteries out of the baby monitor and crashing out on the sofa in front of Ricki Lake, Meg & Mog and SpongeBob SquarePants.

I totally conk out, of course, and eventually, roysh, when I open my eyes I notice two things at the same time, the first being that Hollyoaks is just finishing, which means it’s, like, half six in the evening, the second being that the doorbell is ringing, as in somebody has their finger pressed on it, we’re talking constantly?

I’m thinking, fock, it’s probably that painter Sorcha asked to do the nursery. He said he’d call around to check out the room, see how many tins he’s going to need.

So I get my shit together and go out to answer the door, roysh, but I can see through the glass that it’s not him at all, it’s Christian and Lauren – and at least one of them isn’t a happy bunny to see me.

‘Can you not focking hear that?’ Lauren goes – there’s no, Hi, Ross, how are you? Are the rumours true that you might be going back playing rugby? – she just, like, pushes past me and disappears up the stairs and it’s only then that I notice that Honor’s awake again and screaming the basic house down.

Christian gives me a look that says, you’re in serious shit, Dude. I go, ‘I ended up sleeping through Hollyoaks – you didn’t hear who the father of Dawn’s baby is, did you?’ but before he gets a chance to say anything Lauren’s shouting down the stairs, ‘She’s soaking wet, Ross! Have you changed her at all in the last twenty-four hours?’ and I hear her stomping around upstairs, looking for nappies.

I don’t like the mince pies Christian’s giving me either. I look at him and go, ‘The short answer to that question is no. You’ve no idea, Christian. I mean, you change her and literally an hour later, she’s pissed herself again. I mean, you could end up changing her, like, six or seven times a day. No point, in other words. I’d prefer to do just one big serious change a day.’

Christian just, like, stares me down and goes, ‘Ross, whatever you do, do not repeat that within earshot of Lauren,’ and what can I do, roysh, except nod, I suppose you’d have to say sympathetically, as in, she must be, like, menstrually disturbed at the moment.

He’s there, ‘I’d probably keep your questions about Hollyoaks to yourself as well, just until she calms down,’ and I offer him the high-five, just to say, it’s good to see you, Dude, and we go into the kitchen and I stick on the kettle.

I’m there, ‘So how many weeks is it now?’ and as he sits down at the island, he goes, ‘Four,’ and I’m like, ‘Four weeks to live,’ and then I laugh and I go, ‘I’m only yanking your chain, of course. No, marriage has actually surprised me, as in, like, a good way? Aport from the first few months obviously, when Sorcha was trying to get an annulment.’

So we sit there, shooting the shit, me talking mostly about Leinster and how it’s a huge test for Dorce against Glasgow this weekend, Christian talking mostly about how climate change on the planet Hoth has decimated the Tauntaun population and how Wampas are adapting to the new environment by becoming scavengers, as opposed to predators, which they’ve been for, like, millions of years – the usual shit really.

Lauren arrives back downstairs just as I’m pouring the coffee. She doesn’t look at me, which means she’s not a happy camper, and I’m thinking, I might actually open the Fox’s Golden Crunch Creams, get back in her good books.

I turn to Christian and I go, ‘Hey, I’m sorry I brought up that shit yesterday, about the crank calls?’ and I can tell from both their reactions that I’m on thin ice here.

The thing is, roysh, I have the answer to the problem. ‘Hey, I’ve got something for you,’ I go, and I open, like, the third drawer down, under the hob, and whip out this little box.

I’m like, ‘This is turning out to be a week for presents,’ and I hand it across the island to Christian and, looking at Lauren, nervously it has to be said, he goes, ‘This is very Luke and Obi Wan in the hovel on Tatooine, isn’t it?’ and he takes off the lid, looks inside and goes, ‘What is it, Ross?’

Lauren has a look in and she goes, ‘It’s… a whistle.’

I’m there, ‘Correction – it’s a pest whistle,’ and Lauren, who in fairness has never had any time for my shit, goes, ‘Ross, are you actually suggesting that Christian deafens this poor girl?’

I’m like, ‘Absolutely – blow her focking eardrums out,’ and she just looks at me in, like, total disgust.

I go, ‘I don’t understand how you’re being so cool about it. This bird is trying to basically muscle in on your patch,’ and I turn to Christian and I go, ‘I bought it off the internet. It’s banned in, like, America, Europe and loads of other countries. Whatever, I don’t know, frequency it is, the person on the other end of the phone will end up with basically a perforated eardrum,’ and I turn back to Lauren and go, ‘But the good news is that the eardrum eventually repairs itself.’

‘This girl needs sympathy,’ she goes. ‘Not… this,’ and then, roysh, out of the blue Christian goes, ‘Lauren thinks she knows who it is,’ and of course my jaw just drops.

I’m like, ‘Is she from, like, Cabinteely?’ thinking, Christian used to score a bird from there who’s a bit Baghdad.

‘She won’t tell me,’ he goes and Lauren’s like, ‘Well, it would be unfair if I was wrong…’

I’m definitely not getting out the good biscuits without a focking name.

I’m like, ‘Did she sing “Time of Your Life” by Green Day at the Rathdown graduation a few years ago?’ and of course Lauren flips. She’s like, ‘Ross, this isn’t a game. This girl is in love with Christian. She can’t help that. She doesn’t deserve to be… maimed. And I’m certainly not going to give her name to you to spread all over town.’

The girl can read me like a book. I was actually just thinking who I’d text first with it.

I’m like, ‘Okay, just tell me did she ever play hockey for Three Rock?’ but she just gives me a look that means I should shut the fock up, as in now.

I pour us each another coffee and Lauren’s eyes suddenly fix on the big pile of Laura Ashley shit for the nursery that Sorcha has piled up by the back door. That gets the first smile of the day out of her.

She’s going, ‘Aw, this stuff is so cute,’ sorting through the bedding sets, dust ruffles, diaper stacker, window valance, musical mobile, lamp base, mirrors, wallpaper borders and other shit that cost me the guts of a grand. She’s going, ‘She went for the Hello Kitty Princess range in the end? I knew she had her heart set on that beautiful blue whale crib set, but I suppose it has to be pink for a girl.’

Suddenly, I hear a cor pulling up outside. I look out the window. It’s the painter. He turns out to be working class, but then I suppose they all are, aren’t they?

I let him in and follow him up the stairs – mostly to make sure he doesn’t focking half-inch anything. Seven and a half litres should do the job, he reckons, and then he asks – he actually has the cheek to ask – for a cup of coffee because it smells so good and, fair enough, roysh, it is the Gloria Jeans southern pecan, but you’re supposed to wait until you’re focking offered.

We go down to the kitchen and I pour him one anyway – nice to be nice – while Lauren’s going, ‘Oh, these little pink picture frames are SO gorgeous. Sorcha has SUCH good taste,’ and I automatically go, ‘Exactly, that’s how she ended up with me,’ and I’ve got a big, stupid grin on my face, but nobody acknowledges the line. After downing his coffee in two mouthfuls, the painter goy goes, ‘Right, I better make tracks. So it’s seven and a half litres of the Raspberry Crush…’ and I don’t know why, roysh – well, I do, it’s me playing Jack the Lad as usual – I go, ‘Actually, no. Change of plan…’

He’s there, ‘But your missus said—’ and I’m like, ‘Doesn’t matter what she said. I make decisions in this house, too. I’m thinking, how about Leinster blue?’ and that’s got Christian and Lauren’s attention.

The painter’s like, ‘What’s Leinster blue?’ and I grab a handful of my shirt and go, ‘You’re telling me you’ve never heard of the Leinster Lions?’ and he scratches his head and goes, ‘That looks like maybe a Windsor or a Peacock Blue. Be very dark for that room now, especially with only the one window.’

And of course Johnny Big Potatoes here has to go, ‘Sorry, who the fock are you – Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen all of a sudden?’

He’s just there, ‘Okay, okay, you’re the boss. Peacock Blue it is. I’ll see you in the morning,’ and as he’s making his exit, roysh, Lauren says that they’d better make tracks, too, and as they’re heading out the door, I turn to Christian, grab another handful of shirt and go, ‘If it’s good enough for Drico, huh?’

‘Do you know the difference between a hamburger and a blowjob?’

I doubt if JP’s old man will ever change. The bird he’s shouting at – she’s actually a ringer for Adele Silva – is standing behind a table with a poster behind her that says, ‘Turkey – A Land Of New Horizons,’ and she’s doing her best to ignore him, roysh, but he’s not going to let it go and, well, he’s drawing a bit of an audience, so when he turns around for, like, the third time and goes, ‘Do you know the difference between a hamburger and a blowjob?’ she looks at him all flustered and goes, ‘No. No, I don’t,’ and of course he gives her the punchline then.

‘Good – do you want to have lunch?’

It gets a few laughs, roysh, but most people walk away muttering words like ‘obscene’ and ‘disgusting’ under their breaths, but he’s as oblivious to it as ever. At no one in particular, he shouts, ‘I never wanted to play doctors and nurses when I was a kid – I wanted to play gynaecologists.’

The Conrad is focking rammers for a Saturday afternoon. They’re hosting one of those, like, foreign property exhibitions and there must be, like, a thousand people milling about the place, talking investment funds, spa resorts and, I don’t know, advantageous offers.

I’ve got Honor with me – she’s out for the count for once – so I wouldn’t mind splitting pretty soon.

I go, ‘So what’s the Jack, Mr Conroy. What did you want to talk to me about?’ and he looks at me like it’s the most ridiculous question in the world. He sort of, like, sweeps his orm around the room and goes, ‘You’re saying this hasn’t got your haemoglobin pumping?’

I’m like, ‘Well… no, actually,’ and he shakes his head, roysh, like he’s disappointed and shit? He goes, ‘Look around you, Ross. Doesn’t it make you proud? Not content with having the fastest-growing economy in the world, the Irish are buying up Europe. We’re colonizing this continent on a scale not done since… well, Hitler.’

I’m there, ‘And this affects me how exactly?’ and he’s like, ‘Mark my words, Ross, it’ll affect you when you wake up in a couple of years’ time and realize that you’re the only one of your friends without, shall we say, a place in the sun.’ He flicks his thumb at Honor and goes, ‘And how’s this little princess going to feel, the only girl in Mount Anville without a place on the Black Sea to go to for an Easter study break? There’s no telling how that might scar a girl.’

I suppose he has a point.

I go, ‘Where are we talking exactly?’ and with his two hands he sort of, like, traces the outline of a woman’s body and goes, ‘Bulgaria.’

I’m there, ‘Bulgaria? You’re saying that’s an actual place? You haven’t just made that up?’ and he goes, ‘No, I haven’t. Believe me, it’s there, where it’s always been, in the southeast corner of Europe – as sure I’ll be in Joy’s at three o’clock tomorrow morning, wrapping myself around a €70 bottle of sauvignon blanc and a fifty-year-old divorcée. It borders Macedonia, Serbia and Montenegro, Romania, Greece and Turkey. Stinking hot, but the Rila, Pirin and Stara Planina are snow-capped all year round. Surf in the morning and ski in the afternoon…’

He puts a brochure down on the table in front of me and goes, ‘Talking of skiing, look at the tits on that! Does she sleep on her back or what?’ There’s a cracking-looking bird on the cover alright, we’re talking Naomi Watts except, like, hotter?

He goes, ‘The Black Sea coast is made up mostly of long, white sandy beaches and the water is even warmer than the Med. Inland, you’ve got quiet, rural scenery, spectacular mountain ranges…’ and I cut him off halfway through his spiel and remind him that I was an estate agent once, too.

All I want to know is how much a gaff over there will set me back and how I could, like, make a few shekels from it.

He goes, ‘Well, for the pure investor, I have quite a number of prestige apartments in established complexes in Pleven, Varna and Burgas.’

I’m like, ‘They sound like sexually transmitted diseases.’

He’s there, ‘That’s funny, I always think gonorrhoea, chancroid and trichomoniasis sound like Balkan holiday resorts. Anyway, for a two-bedroom apartment, it could cost you as little as fifty Ks.’

He lets it hang in the air, then he goes, ‘Out of your league?’ and I’m there, ‘No way,’ suddenly sounding more John B. than I actually am.

He goes, ‘You’re a smart guy, Ross. That’s why I wanted you in on the ground floor of this idea. For fifty Ks, remember, you’re getting a prime property in an area with a six- to seven-month rental season, giving you a guaranteed annual yield from your investment, as well as an asset that might even quadruple in value when Bulgaria joins the European Union.’

I have to say, roysh, my head is focking spinning at this stage. I’ve been out of the game too long.

I go, ‘I probably should, er, think about it,’ and he’s there, ‘Of course. It’s a big step. You want to kick its tyres, see how they stand up. Take the brochure away. Actually, I’ll give you another. The cover of that one’s a bit, eh, sticky. Bit of a spillage. We’re all adults here.’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, cool. I’ll, er, take these home and give you a bell in maybe a couple of weeks…’ and he goes, ‘Yeah, have a talk with your wife and let me know what she decides.’

I’d forgotten how good he is – the focker knows exactly what buttons to press.

I’m there, ‘My wife? As in Sorcha?’ and he goes, ‘Yeah, she’s a smart girl – a businesswoman. It’s understandable that you’d want her to make the final decision,’ and of course he knows he has me by the knackers now.

I end up going, ‘Hey, I wear the trousers in my gaff,’ and he nods, like he doesn’t believe me.

I’m there, ‘Sorry, how much did you say these aportments cost?’ and he goes, ‘Well, I’ve got two beautiful prime properties in the exciting city of Sofia,’ and straight away I’m like, ‘Okay, I’ll take them…’

He goes, ‘Er, great. Now, the mortgage…’

‘Mortgage?’ I go, sort of, like, snorting at him at the same time. ‘I’m not one of your mortgage-paying classes. I’ll pay cash…’

We have exactly €127,660 in our current account.

He’s there, ‘Cash?’ totally thrown by it. He’s never had a client like me before. ‘Excellent.’

I’m there, ‘I’ve actually been with a bird called Sofia,’ and he puts his orm around me and leads me over to a table with a laptop on it, to do the paperwork.

‘I bet you have,’ he goes. ‘I bet you have.’

Fionn rings from, like, Paris. He’s there, ‘Hey, Ross, how are you?’ and I’m like, ‘Ah, Sorcha’s focked off down to BrookLodge again for the weekend, leaving me with a baby who hates my guts. Don’t ask basically. How’s Fehily? Have you picked him up yet?’

‘He’s in good spirits,’ he goes, ‘considering. He looks like shit, but he knows what’s happening to him. You know – he knows he’s coming home to die…’

The way he says it leaves me cold.

Then he goes, ‘But it’s not Fehily I’m worried about…’ and straight away I’m like, ‘You’re talking about JP, I presume?’

He’s there, ‘Ross, he hasn’t said a word to me since we left Ireland. I wondered was it just grief, but it seems somehow more than that. I’m sensing, I don’t know, a deeper distress in him. Once or twice I’ve looked at him and I’m sure he’s been crying… I think he’s having some kind of crisis of faith.’

I ask Fionn when they’re, like, coming back and he says they’re about to leave for Charles de Gaulle. He goes, ‘We’re going to take Fehily to the nursing home next to the school. Give him a day or two to get settled in before you come and see him, yeah?’

She bursts through the front door, as in literally, as in nearly takes the thing off its focking hinges. It’s like watching those Septic soldiers on Sky News searching a house in, like, Iran or Iraq or wherever it is they’ve bombed the shit out of.

She sticks her head around the kitchen door and it’s like… CLEAR!

Sitting room… CLEAR!

Study… CLEAR!

We’re actually out in the conservatory. I’m holding Honor, who, after crying for seven hours non-stop, has slipped into what I presume is a coma due to sheer exhaustion. I’m reading The Hungry Caterpillar, which is the only book I’ve ever actually finished, aport from Drico’s, of course.

Sorcha comes in and I’m there, ‘Hey, Babes, did you have a good time in—’ and before I’ve even finished the sentence, roysh, she’s whipped her out of my hands, like I’ve just tried to, I don’t know, abduct her or something, and then she bursts into tears and goes, ‘I’m so sorry, my baby. Mummy will never go away again. Promise. I’ll never leave you on your own again.’

She’s, like, hugging her really tight and Honor wakes up and suddenly storts getting really, like, distressed, obviously picking up that her mother’s upset, but I keep the old Von Trapp shut.

‘Now, you picked her up whenever she cried,’ she goes, ‘and comforted her, like we agreed?’ and I’m there, ‘Of course.’

She goes, ‘And you changed her nappy whenever it was dirty?’ and I’m like, ‘Hey, what do you take me for, Sorcha?’ and she’s there, ‘I’m sorry, I’m just feeling SO guilty for leaving her. I shouldn’t take it out on you.’

Then, all of a sudden, she remembers something. ‘The nursery?’ she goes. ‘Oh my God, is it done?’ and I’m there, ‘Er, yeah. One or two changes of plan, though. That Raspberry Crush, they don’t do it anymore, so obviously I had to go for the nearest thing to it. Now, it looks unusual, but it actually grows on you,’ but she’s not listening, roysh, she’s taking the stairs like I’d take the Seoige sisters – in other words, two at a time – and when I hear nothing for, like, thirty seconds, I make the mistake of thinking she loves it.

Like a fool, I’m shouting up the stairs, ‘You heard they beat Glasgow, I presume. You’d want to see D’Arcy’s try. It’ll be a focking disgrace if me and him never get to play on the same team together…’

And that’s when Sorcha appears at the top of the stairs, looking like she wants to tear my focking head off.

It’s probably not the time to tell her we’re also the proud owners of two prestige investment properties in the exciting town of Sofia. I decide to go out for a coffee, give her time to cool off, otherwise it’s another night in the spare room.

I hate putting her in there, but when she’s in this kind of form, what can I do?