‘It’s exactly who I thought it was – Terry, one of the Westies from next door, then, running behind, the brutter’
I DON’T KNOW when it was that I stopped reading the Ireland squad announcements with hope bordering on expectation, though it might have something to do with the fact that I’ve actually grown up.
At 29, going on pretty much 30, I’ve finally accepted that the call from Declan Kidney is possibly never going to come.
So there I was, roysh, yesterday afternoon, in the corpork under Rosa Parks, waiting for the elevator and quietly congratulating myself on how suddenly mature I’ve become as a person. I think the whole current economic thing might also have helped?
It’s true that I’ve storted to suddenly appreciate the simpler things in life, like doing – believe it or not – a decent day’s work. Six hours I spent at the thrasher today, shredding the secrets that certain people in this town would rather you didn’t know.
“God’s work,” the old man called it, picking up a random bank statement and giving it the quick left to right. “If people knew the half of this, they’d be rioting in the bloody streets.”
The doors open. I step in and hit the button for the top floor, feeling like I’ve really earned this weekend.
In my mind I’m already pulling on my Canterburys with the focked elastic and vegging out in front of TV3’s Xposé.
That’s when I hear the dreaded words, “Hold the lift!”
Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but those words are usually the cue for me to stort hitting the close doors button with the rapid thumb action of a teenage girl bitching about her friend by text.
Which is exactly what I do.
The doors close, nearly the whole way, but then they suddenly stop, no more than a couple of inches aport, and I look down to see a white Lacoste runner jammed in between them.
Of course my hort nearly ends up stopping.
I could stamp on his foot, then sort of, like, kick it out, but the chances are that he already knows that it’s me in here, so I end up having to hit the Open Doors button instead?
It’s exactly who I thought it was – Terry, one of the Westies from next door, then, running behind him, Johnny, the brutter.
“Ah, howiya, Rosser,” Terry goes, then he turns to Johnny. “It’s fooken Rosser, Johnny.”
God, I could have kicked his foot out.
I’m just there, “Yeah, hi, goys,” being civil, roysh, but at the same time trying to keep, like, my distance?
The doors close again and the elevator slowly groans into action.
“I tink he was hittin the Close Doh-ers button,” Terry goes. My face gets suddenly hot – it’s obviously red. “Were you hittin Close Doh-ers, Rosser, were you?”
I’m there, “No!” the terror obvious in my voice. “I swear!”
“Feer enough,” he goes, “Ine only astin.”
There’s, like, silence again. I’m looking up at the numbers above the door, thinking how can we only be between the first and second floors. This elevator’s so slow, they could have a focking duty-free trolley service on it.
“So how’s it goin, Rosser?” is the next thing I hear. “How’s every little ting?”
It’s one of Johnny’s, like, catchphrases?
“Er, cool,” I just go, making sure to keep staring straight ahead.
“And how’s Charlie? How’s your oul fella?”
“Yeah, cool as well. Busy.”
“Keepin he’s head abuff wather, says you.”
“Er, yeah.”
“Like the rest of us, wha?”
“I suppose.”
There’s, like, silence again. I look up. We’re only at, like, the third floor.
I’m standing there, listening to the gears grinding away, wondering when will this ever end. At the same time, roysh, I can pretty much feel the weight of them staring at me.
This is going to sound racist, but I always imagine working-class people are checking my orse out to see how much I could carry as a drug mule.
“Any plans for ta weekend?” Terry goes.
“Just to let you know,” I automatically go, “I’m pretty sure my passport’s out of date.”
He hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about, of course. “Ine only astin have you athin nice planned.”
It’s amazing, roysh, but back in the day, I used to have two or three thousand people in Donnybrook, booing me and baying for my blood – and still I never let it faze me. But 30 seconds in a lift with these two and I’m like an actual jelly.
“Sorry,” I go, “I must have got the wrong end of the stick. No major plans, except for like, the match on Sunday?”
“Ah, the rubby,” Terry goes. “Here, I hear Charlie has a corperrit box . . .”
I don’t answer one way or the other and it just hangs there in the air between us. He’s obviously waiting for, like, an invite.
Fooouuurrr . . . Fiiivvve . . . Siiixxx . . .
“Here, does that lift sound funny to you?” Johnny goes.
Terry’s like, “Imachin it broke dowin. Rosser there’d be stuck wirrus for the night, wha?”
“Don’t woody, Rosser,” Johnny goes, holding up two shopping bags, “we’ve plenty of foo-id to see us troo,” and they both burst into hysterics, probably because they know – as well as I know – that they’d kill and eat me before they’d even think of using whatever’s in those Lidl bags.
Seeeevvven . . . Eeeiiight . . . I’m thinking, why did I have to buy a penthouse suite?
Ping.
The doors finally open and I’m out of there like a dog out of a trap. I’m like, “I’m sure I’ll bump into you again.”
I’ve just got the key in the door when I hear Johnny go, “Sure we’ll see you tamarra night,” and I stop dead in my tracks.
“It’s Arlunt against France,” he goes. “Come in eerly,” and he makes, like, a smoking gesture, which I presume is a reference to hash.
“Soccer?” I go. “I’m still not sure it’s my actual scene, goys? Remember the last time? All the stupid questions I ended up asking?”
Terry points at me. He’s like, “Call in around foyiv,” and it’s more of an order than an invitation. His smile is, like, pure evil. “Sure we’re frettens now.”
