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“Mass tickets,” Ronan goes. “Buying or sedding?”
And all I can do is just, like, smile to myself. The old man always says that any fool can make money when times are good. But it takes a real entrepreneur slash sociopath to do it when times are hord.
“I’ve two for Our Lady of Consolation in Doddycarney on Christmas morden,” he goes. “They’re front row. But it’s godda cost you.”
Yeah, no, he’s been dealing in black morket Mass tickets ever since the 50-person limit on indoor gatherings was introduced and he’s made some serious wedge from it – you’d have to say fair focks.
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There's some choorches, I could fill them five times over with the number of people has been on to me
“They’re a grand apiece,” he goes. “Hey, that’s Christmas for you, love. Prices go up when demand increases – it’s simple ecodobics. Yeah, you have a think about it. But doatunt take long. Ine operating a waiting list for a lot of choorches – especially in that area.”
He hangs up on her.
I’m there, “Is that true?”
“Bleaten right,” he goes. “There’s some choorches, I could fill them five times over with the number of people has been on to me. Especially for midnight Masses – moy jaysus, Rosser!”
“How much moo are we talking – for, like, midnight Mass in, say, Foxrock?”
“Our Lady of Perpetual Whatever It Was? You’re looking at five grand.”
“Five grand? What, per person?”
"Midimum, Rosser. It's whatever these shams are prepeered to pay – thee hab the muddy in Foxrock. It's a sedder's meerket."
He means morkesh.
I’m like, “Fair focks, Ronan. And I genuinely, genuinely mean that.”
His phone rings again.
He’s there, “I hab to take this, Rosser”, and then he answers and goes, “St Ignatius in Galway? No, they’re not gone, but Ine arthur having anutter fedda on to me looking for them. You’ll take them. You won’t regret it. A lubbly spot in the transept.”
While this conversation is taking place, there ends up being a ring on the doorbell and I tip outside to answer it. When I open the door, there’s, like, three dudes standing there, smiling at me.
One of them – the middle one – goes, "We've come to collect our tickets for the Holy Rosary in Greystones. midnight Mass on Christmas Eve."
I’m like, “Yeah, no, hang on a second”, and I shout over my shoulder. “Ro, three more happy customers at the door”.
Ronan steps out into the hallway behind me, takes one look at them and goes, “Ah, boddicks!”
I’m like, “What’s wrong?”
“Why did you hab to open the bleaten door to them? They’re priests, Rosser.”
“How was I supposed to know they were priests?”
They sound like restaurants. I know there's a Balthazor in Covent Gorden because I had brunch there with Sorcha
“They’re dressed in black with white coddars, for jaysus sakes.”
Yeah, no, I can see the collars now.
“We know all about your little scam,” the one on the left goes.
Then the one in the middle is like, “Have you ever heard of Balthasar, Melchior and Gaspar?”
I'm there, "They sound like restaurants. I know there's a Balthazor in Covent Gorden because I had brunch there with Sorcha when we went to London to see Hamilton. It was the first time I ever had steak tortor, believe it or not."
"Balthasar, Melchior and Gaspar were three wise men," the one on the right goes, "who followed the clues and managed to track down a very special child".
I'm there, "Okay, sorry, you've totally lost me."
“It’s the stordy of the nativity,” Ronan goes, then he flicks his thumb at me. “There’s even a fooken donkey here, look.”
The three dudes actually laugh at that – priests, bear in mind! – then they turn suddenly serious.
“So,” the one in the middle goes, “how much have you made from this little scam of yours?”
Ronan’s like, “Norra lot, being hodest with you. Three or four grand is alls – and that’s norra woord of a lie.”
They just stare him down for a good, like, 20 seconds and Ronan – who’s been questioned for 12 hours straight by some of the toughest detectives in the country and still not cracked – ends up collapsing like a Scottish scrum.
“Two-hundord-and-ten-thousand eurdos,” he goes, “plus change.”
I’m like, “€210,000? Jesus, I’m even more proud of you than I thought!”
If he's expecting a "fair focks" from the three priests, though, he'll be waiting a long time. They are definitely not happy bunnies?
“And what were you planning to do with this money,” the one in the middle – again – goes.
Ronan’s like, “I was godda buy a Lambo. A Christmas predent to myself, like.”
I’m there, “A Lambo is a Lamborghini”, like I’m talking to someone who’s just woken up from a 70-year coma.
"I know what a Lamborghini is," the dude goes. "Which one did you have your eye on? The Gallardo, was it?"
Ronan’s like, “No, the Huracán.”
“Ah! 5.2 litre, V10 engine. Four-wheel drive. Seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox. Zero to 60 in two-point-five seconds. Carbon chassis. Predictive diagnostics -“
“You’re obviously a fan, Fadder.”
Ro, don't do it. You earned every cent of that money by exploiting people fairly and squarely
"I've heard the steering feedback is disappointing, but yes I'm a fan of cars. Reading about them mostly. I doubt I'll ever drive anything more exciting than my Toyota Avensis."
“Jesus,” I go. “Sorry, Father. Sorcha’s old man used to drive one, so I’m bound to be biased.”
“According to Matthew’s account of the first Christmas,” the dude on the left goes, “the Three Wise Men arrived bearing gifts for the child. In this telling of the story, we hope the wise men will be leaving with gifts.”
I turn to Ro and I’m like, “This is a focking shakedown! They’re trying to get a Lambo out of you!”
The one on the right goes, “There is a wonderful organisation called the Society of St Vincent de Paul, which serves God by providing direct help to the homeless, the poor and others in dire social need.”
I’m like, “Ro, don’t do it. You earned every cent of that money by exploiting people fairly and squarely.”
But I can see that Ronan is torn in a way that his old man definitely wouldn't be?
“It’s a lorra muddy,” he goes, pleading his case with them.
The one in the middle goes, “Then you can understand how much good it could potentially do.”
My son takes a deep breath.
I’m like, “Ro, don’t be a mug. It’s a focking Lamborghini.”
“Alright,” he goes. “Thee can hab it – evoddy bleaten cent of it.”
“Behold,” the priest on the right goes, “a Christmas miracle!”