The old man back in public office? He’s right – this city really is going down the toilet
THEY’RE SAT in their usual corner of the Horseshoe Bor, giggling like a teenage disco and pissed as one as well.
This is four o'clock on a Wednesday afternoonwe're talking? Hennessy's still celebrating getting his licence back, though I'm not sure what the old man's excuse is, just that he's got a brandy in front of him the size of a focking sheep-dip.
“Ssshhh!” he has the cheek to go when he sees me, his finger to his lips, like I’m six years old again.
I’m there, “What’s the Jack?” because Hennessy, I notice, has the old Wolfe Tone clamped to his ear.
“We’re crank-calling George Lee,” the old man whispers. The hum off his breath could strip wallpaper. “Oh, we’ve been at it since lunchtime . . .”
“So it would seem.”
“Yes, a couple of chaps I know in the party – they’re very unhappy, Ross – well, they were only too happy to pass on his details. Oh, we’ve been having great sport . . .”
I look over at Hennessy. He’s putting on this sort of, like, high-pitched voice, like a crazy old woman, going, “Now, I didn’t vote for you myself, but you were elected to represent me, for better or worse, and I’m told you’re a man who gets things done. Now, Mrs Callery three doors down – she’s a martyr to her rheumatism but she offers up her suffering for the people of Zambia where her sister’s worked in the missions this thirty year – she has a little dog that keeps doing its business on the pavement outside my house. Now, whatever she’s feeding him, it’s clearly not agreeing with him . . .” Hennessy’s suddenly silent for a few seconds, then he goes, “Resigned? No, I didn’t hear. Oh! Never mind. I’ll call Olivia Mitchell . . .”
He hangs up, then he and the old man collapse in pretty much hysterics. “The poor guy’s right on the edge,” Hennessy goes. “I think three or four more calls will do it . . .” I’m looking around me.
I'm there, "Would you not leave the dude alone?" The old man dries his eyes. He's there, "We're just hammering the message home, Ross, that public representation isn't easy." Hennessy goes, "Although you made it lookeasy, Charlie."
“Er, no he didn’t,” I go, “he ended up in prison for three years for taking bribes,” which suddenly softens both their coughs. “Hang on, are you telling me you rang me, got me out of bed, then got me to drive all the way into town – to watch you two punk George Lee?”
“No,” he goes, “we called you here to tell you the news – that I, Ross, am about to re-enter the very world from whence our friend has fled.”
“English, please.”
"Well, if you're asking me for the exact moment when I realised that I was being – inverted commas – called, it was while I was driving along the south quays on Monday night, minding my own business, listening to that Harry Connick Jr CD that your mother left in the car when we separated, thinking about the wisdom in his lyrics – 'it will be spring again' – and how they could be applied to the challenge facing Ireland's economy. I like to stay positive, as you know.
"The next thing is, I'm being pulled over by a couple of these ladygardaí. This is a fine how-do-you-do, thinks I. What's all this about? One of these – like I said – ladiesapproaches the driver's side, tells me I was doing 40 kilometres per hour. Was I indeed, says I. Thanks for the information. Now we can all get on with our lives. Then she hits me with it. Out of the blue. The new city centre speed limit, if you don't mind. Thirtykilometres per hour!
“Naturally, I figured it was some class of joke. Honestly, Hennessy, for a moment, I thought you’d sent me another of these famous stripograms of yours – I mean they were very attractive.
“Anyway, various comments were passed, back and forth, until eventually I accepted that they were who they said they were and that this folly of theirs was real.
"Thirty kilometres, says I! If I got out and pushed the bloody thing, I'd cover more than 30 kilometres in an hour. Anyway, as I sat at the next lights, totting up my penalty points in my head, the old Vice-Chairman of the Board was singing There Is Always One More Timeand that's when I had it, Ross, my eureka moment. We've forgotten what it was that made this country great for eleven-and-a-little-bit years – what we need now, more than ever, is strong leadership."
I’m there, “Are you saying you’re going to stand for George Lee’s seat?”
“No,” he goes, “I’m going to stand to become Dublin’s first directly elected Mayor.”
I end up having to laugh? “I suppose it’d be handy to have a place on Dawson Street to crash every time you fall out of this place.” He doesn’t even acknowledge it. It’s, like, so difficult to hurt the focker sometimes.
“This was once a great city,” he goes, suddenly all misty-eyed. “But look around you, Ross.
Look at the degeneration.
The Berkeley Court, gone. Restaurants – finerestaurants – doing grill menus and early
birds, attracting all sorts. We used to be the Singapore of Western Europe, for heaven’s sake. What happened? All I see when I look around this city I love – the southern part, at least – are the signs of defeat, of surrender . . .”
Hennessy throws his drunken tupennies in then.
“This city needs to start believing in itself again. Charlie, tell him about the poster we thought up.”
“Yes, my election poster,” the old man goes. “It’s going to be one of these split-screen affairs. On one side, a picture of Grafton Street, as it is now, the full horror – the head shops, the tattoo parlours, the 50 per cent off signs.
“On the other side – your correspondent here, wearing the chains of office, with a yonderly look in my eye, as if spotting the happier times on the horizon. And underneath – this is the masterstroke, Ross – the slogan. A Total Mare . . . A Total Mayor!”
Hennessy goes, "You're giving me goosebumps, Charlie. No, you're giving me goosebumps onmy goosebumps."
That’s enough for the old man.
“Give me the phone,” he just goes. He takes it, then hits redial. He’s like, “Hello,” putting on a squeaky voice too. “Is that George Lee? Yes, my wife and I are trying to find out are we entitled to a medical card . . .”
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