Time to speak out about the inequalities in our society – as in, like, restoring them?

'Holdall" is one of those words you only ever hear mentioned in relation to criminal activity. I've often wondered – in any of my famous intellectual moments – whether anyone in history has ever had an honest reason to own one. Of course, my old man made pretty much the same point when he ran in the 1997 general election on a law and order platform, arguing that the way to stamp out working-class crime was not gun control but holdall control, and that those who deal in these "instruments of misery" should be required – by law – to keep a register of anyone who buys one. Sensible policies for a happier Foxrock!

He was eliminated on the second count, of course, with 334 votes, though very few people will forget the courageous stand he made and the memory of him holding one up to the audience on Questions and Answersand shouting, "I bought this only this afternoon. In The Great Outdoors. Chatham Street, if you please! Twenty-two pounds, 99 pence – and no questions asked . . ."

It was the old man who flashed into my mind on Wednesday night, when I was on the way out the door for a Midweek Special with a girl called Thalissa Barton, the sweaty details of which I probably shouldn't go into. The point is, roysh, as I was locking the door behind me, Johnny and Terry, the two Westies from next door, came out of the stairwell, struggling with these two – that's right – holdalls, the zips on the things pretty much bursting.

“Alreet, Rosser?” one of them – it doesn’t matter which – went. Except I couldn’t bring myself to even answer? No, I was left just staring at these two bags, stuffed to the actual gills with God knows what. I sort of, like, muttered something back to them – they’re pretty scary dudes – then shuffled off and pressed the button for the lift, elevator, whatever you want to call it.

“It’s ourrof order,” I think it was, like, Terry who went? “Ya doatent tink we dragged these bags up eight bleatin flights for the good of ear helt, do ya?” I actually apologised – fear does funny things to, like, the mind? – then I shot down the stairs.

Later that night, as I was putting Thalissa over the jumps, I couldn’t help but think about how Rosa Parks has gone to the absolute dogs and how this wasn’t the bright shining future promised to us by the brochure, with its pictures of a happy couple sharing a hilarious moment at the breakfast bor and a Newbridge Silver fork with a bit of asparagus on the end of it.

As I was tiptoeing out of Thalissa’s life the following morning, I was already ringing the crew who are supposedly managing the actual property. I ended up cutting straight to the chase. “I’m living in practically Colombia,” I went. “The two I’ve ended up living next door to are running a pretty much crack kitchen?” Anyway, the bird, Alison – nice voice – she said that, as it so happened, the property management company was holding its AGM that actual night and I could raise any concerns I had regarding the administration of Rosa Parks there.

It suddenly stirred something in me. I went home, watched 20 minutes of Loose Women– it's not as good as it sounds – then stuck the TV on mute and storted to, you'd have to say, compose a bit of a speech? It ended up being a cracker as well, all about the recession and how the line that used to separate people like Johnny and Terry from people like me is sadly disappearing and how it's up to every one of us in this room to stand up and say enough is enough! I practiced it, like, three or four times in front of the bathroom mirror, until it suddenly struck me how terrifyingly like my old man I'm beginning to sound.

I set off for the meeting in the Radisson that night, bursting with confidence, thinking I’d do what I used to do with the S back in the day – soften them up with a couple of cracking gags, then hit them with the message. End of.

Of course, what I hadn’t bargained on was that Johnny and Terry were going to be actually there.

I went up and introduced myself to Alison – like Loose Women, she fell far short of what was advertised – then took my seat, only to see the two boys walking sideways along my actual row, like a couple of criminal crabs, then docking themselves beside me and going, "Howdy, neighbour!" I wondered, as anyone would, whether these property management companies operate witness protection programmes.

The next item on the order of business – after the accounts and blahdy blahdy blah – ends up being the lift slash elevator. The long and short of it is that it’s focked, while the even worse news is that we, as the stakeholders – not a mention of that word in the brochure either – are going to have to pay for a new one. Not only that, roysh, but because only half of the aportments in the block have been sold – and because the developer is missing, presumed living in Dubai under an assumed name – 10 of us are going to have to pony up the moo between us; we’re talking 35 Ks, including installation.

This news goes down about as well as you'd expect. People are not happy campers. They're all shouting at the same time about what a disgrace it is, how things are bad enough with the whole negative equity situation, how they're already put to the pin of their collar with the whole current economic thing, and how this wasn't what they were promised when they bought their gaffs in the first place. The Newbridge Silver fork gets a mench, as does the dude putting on his cufflinks, which I'd actually forgottenabout?

It was at that exact point of the proceedings that Terry stood up and went, “We’ll pay for it.”

Of course this was greeted with, like total silence, to the point where he ended up having to say it again. “The brutter and me – we’ll pay for it.”

“It’s . . . it’s €35,000!” Alison felt the need to go. Terry said he’d write her a cheque as soon as the meeting was over. “Some of us are still doing alreet,” he went.

And of course you can imagine the reaction. There was, like, a sudden burst of applause, then people were coming over and shaking their hands and telling them how unbelievably generous they were, not realising that in their line of work this’ll go down as a focking business expense.

“Now,” Alison went, once it all settled down again, “Ross O’Carroll-Kelly wants to raise a matter.” Of course I haven’t kept my face this pretty by not knowing how gauge the mood of a room. One wrong word and I was a dead man – and Johnny and Terry wouldn’t have had to lay a finger on me. I was like, “Errr, it doesn’t matter . . .” because plastic surgery ain’t my bag.

Okay, nobody say “holdall”.