‘That was the first time I wondered whether the Celtic Tiger thing had gone too far – I might throw McWilliams that line next time I see him in Finnegans’
DON’T KNOW WHY he insists on putting himself through it. Putting me through it as well? The plan was to go to Kielys for a few Sunday lunchtime scoops. Except when I picked him up from his old pair’s, he said he wanted to come here, presumably to see this instead. Although I don’t bother arguing. It’s Oisinn, after all.
“Here,” I go, squinting my eyes, “that’s that painting you bought that time. What was the dude called who did?”
He’s like, “John Kingerlee,” except he doesn’t say it in, like, a defensive way?
I end up just shaking my head. “I’m going to be 100 per cent honest with you, Ois, I never knew what it was actually of?”
“What?”
“Well, obviously a painting’s got to be of something. Either a cow or a house or a – I don’t know – waterfall? Especially one that costs – how much was it again?”
“Fifty Ks.”
“I mean, 50 focking Ks. I used to stare at it sometimes – you know, when you used to throw your famous porties – and I’d think, maybe those white blobs there are actual clouds. Or sheep even. But that was with, like, six or seven cans of Responsibly inside me.”
Oisinn just cracks his hole laughing, which is nice to see. He goes, “it’s a grid composition, Ross”, as if that’s any excuse.
I’m like, “Dude, no offence, but when you first showed it to me, that was the first time I wondered whether the whole Celtic Tiger thing had maybe gone a little bit too far. Pictures that aren’t actually of anything – here, I might even throw McWilliams that line next time I see the focker in Finnegans.”
This is us, by the way, staring through the railings of his old gaff on Shrewsbury Road, while a team of, I suppose, removers strips the place basically bare.
“Do you want to know the hilarious thing?” he goes. “I bought it without even seeing it.”
He doesn’t seem half as upset as I expected him to be. In a funny way, bankruptcy actually suits him?
“I wouldn’t beat yourself up over that,” I go. “That just was the way it was back then. I bought two aportments, remember, in a place called Bulgaria, which I couldn’t even pick off a map at the time. Still couldn’t. That’s if it’s even still there.”
I watch two men carry out a 19th-century mourning bed, then just fock it down, like it came from Horvey focking Norman. I watch Oisinn’s face for a reaction, except there’s none.
“So,” I go, “what’s going to, like, happen to all this shit?”
“It’ll be auctioned off,” he goes, easy breezy, “and the proceeds divided among my creditors.”
“This focking recession!” I go, actually kicking the railing – I don’t know why? Possibly just to offer him a few words of support. “If I ever run into Brian Cowen . . . ”
“It’s fine, Ross.”
“He’ll be decked – and that’s a promise.”
He laughs, then just puts his orm around my shoulder. “Ross, I’m telling you, I’m okay with this.”
“What, with everything you own in the world being sold to . . . Jesus, who even knows who?”
He looks back at the gaff. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t actually care.”
I’m like, “Er, you must do? I mean, why else are we here?”
He shakes his head. “I just wanted to see would I feel something – you know, if I saw it happening with my own eyes.”
“And you’re saying you don’t.”
“I actually don’t?”
“Even though that’s an actual Comtoise longcase they’re just focking in the back of that van there?”
“But I have no attachment to it, Ross. I’ve no attachment to any of this stuff. Most of it I didn’t even buy myself. I focking hired somebody to buy it for me. I mean, I won’t miss any of it.”
“What, even that writing bureau? Like, that was from, I don’t know, some other century – literally ages ago.”
“I couldn’t even tell you what room it was in, Ross.”
“It was in the vestibule.”
“The vestibule,” he goes, suddenly turning his back on me. “Whatever.”
He stares up the road, like he’s taking it in for the last time. I suppose in a way he is.
“Hord to believe,” I go, “that this was, like, the most expensive road in the world to buy a house.”
He’s there, “it was actually the sixth most expensive”, trying to put a positive spin on things.
“Even so,” I go, “they used to complain around here that the billionaires were pushing out the millionaires. Now, it might end up being like one of those actual ghost estates. Who would have ever seen that coming?”
He turns and storts walking back to the cor. He climbs into the front passenger seat and I get in beside him.
I’m like, “Let’s hit the battle cruiser, will we?” Except he pulls a face. He’s there, “I, er, might just go home. Well, back to mum and dad’s.”
Yeah, back living with his old pair. I could literally weep for him.
“Dude,” I go, “there’s some kind of Gaelic match on today. I heard it on the radio. Kerry against someone. Could be Cork. Why don’t we hit Bellamy’s. It’ll be full of muckers.”
“I don’t know.”
“Here,” I go, “open the old glove box and see what’s in there.” He does exactly that and I watch this smile suddenly erupt across his face. He recognises my old universal TV remote.
“I’ll stick it up my sleeve,” I go, “just like we do when they used to put the Munster matches on in Kielys. Every time it looks like it’s about to get interesting, I’ll switch the actual channel.”
He laughs. He actually cracks his hole laughing? I genuinely think I’m one of the main reasons he’s coping so well with the shit-storm that’s blowing through his life right now.
It’s called, like, friendship.
“Okay,” he just goes, “let’s do it.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock