This Economic Blahdy Blah is getting ridiculous – how can I possibly give up essentials like a new surfboard?
THOSE OF YOU who picked up a copy of the Irish Times-sponsored South Dublin Yummy Mummy Calendar back in 2003 – supporting the campaign to provide Sony Vaios to children in the Developing World – won't need me to tell you how hord on the eye my old dear actually is, with or without her clothes.
She’s even worse, I can tell you, with a bit of sun on her face. The woman’s been playing golf pretty much every day this week and she looks like she’s been bobbing for apples in a deep-fat fryer.
Friday afternoon, I fall out of bed, then tip downstairs to grab a can of Coke, no intention whatsoever of, like, talking to her? But I walk into the kitchen, roysh, and he'sin there – as in, the old man – and they're chatting away like bezzy mates, while horsing into the Fair Trade Stem Ginger Cookies, I can't help but notice.
"Well, Kicker," hegoes – and bear in mind that this is his opening line to me – "what's your instinct re Lisbon? Will it be carried this time?" I stare straight through him, which he somehow takes as an invitation to continue.
"I said to your godfather last night, I said, 'That bloody EU crowd, Hennessy, they could have taken Robert Mugabe's correspondence course. Yes, we fully respect the decision of the electorate, but we're going to ask them nicely, one more time. . . Lisbon Two – or the Ah Come On, Fellas, Stop Acting The Bollocks referendum, as himselfcalls it. He can be terribly blue with his language, can Hennessy . . ."
The old dear laughs. I’m there, “What is it with you two?” meaning him and the old dear. “Er, am I the only one who thinks it’s weird the way you still get on with each other? Why can’t you behave like any normal separated couple?”
“Oh, like you and Sorcha?” the old dear goes, seeing her opportunity. She obviously heard us arguing on the phone last night. It was actually over nothing, really? It’s just that Sorcha’s thinking of entering the competition to become the next TV3 Xposé girl. Crap as her shop is doing at the moment, I warned her not to, like, rush into it? Of course she then accused me of trying to, like, drag her back, though what I was actually trying to do was protect her from the disappointment of falling flat on her face.
Don’t get me wrong, roysh, Sorcha’s an alright-looking bird – she used to look like Jennie Garth, in fairness to her – but, as I pointed out, just seconds before she put the phone down on me, she’s no Glenda.
“I don’t have the energy for this,” I tell the old pair. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Not so fast,” the old man goes, stealing a quick look at the old dear. “Your mother and I would like to talk to you about something.” I shrug. I’m there, “As in what?” He goes, “As in, this?” and he holds up what I can only presume – having never seen one before – is a credit cord bill.
I'm there, "Errr, continue . . ." waiting for one or either of them to get to the actual point. "Nine hundred euros," he eventually goes, "in Ocean Wave, Monkstown. Do you mind me asking what that was for?" I'm like, "A new surfboard – have you got a problem with that?" He's there, "It's just, well, it doesn't seem all that long ago since you bought the last one." "It happens to be a year," I go. "And it's out of date. What are you, Eddie Hobbs all of a sudden?" He's actually about to back down, roysh, when shethrows in her two euros worth. They were always horder to get around as an actual couple.
“There’s a chorge here,” she goes, “for seven hundreds euros from the Merrion Hotel,” and she leaves it, like, hanging there? I’m there, “Yeah, I stayed there the night we beat Munster. I was celebrating. The minibor shipped some damage. End of.” I go to walk away. “Sixteen hundred euros,” the old man goes, “to a company called Car Sounds Ireland.” I shrug. “Er, the new Eminem album?” I go, again having to justify myself. “Couldn’t listen to it on that old heap of junk. Be too much like dissing the man.”
It's the old dear's next line that knocks me pretty much sideways. "Ross," she goes, "we can't go on subsidising this . . . dilettantelifestyle of yours." "Oh, nice word," he has the actual balls to go. "Yes, Kicker, you may have heard – although, God knows, we've tried to shield you from the worst of it – that the country's in something of an economic pickle. Your mother and I can't claim to be impervious to the cruel vicissitudes of marketplace. As you know, my plan to convert Mountjoy Prison into Ireland's first six-star hotel and casino has had to be parked indefinitely . . ."
"And one or two of myinvestments," the old dear goes, "have been completely wiped out." "The upshot of all this," hegoes, "is that we're – all of us – going to have to tighten our belts."
I'm there, "And that allof us includes me – that's what you're trying to say here."
"Not only that," the old dear goes. "As you may or may not have read in VIPrecently, it's my plan this summer to make a serious effort to crack America . . ." I'm there, "Just try looking at it," which she decides to ignore.
“As you know, we’ve put the house up for sale.” I laugh. “No one’s going to buy it in the Current Economic Blahdy Blah.”
“Well, that’s why,” the old man goes, “we’ve decided to accept what would have to be described as an insultingly low offer for the property.” I’m there, “How insultingly low are we talking?” He goes, “Positively offensive, Ross. Yes, it was almost as if the chap knew how desperate we were to sell. And, oh, he took advantage.”
I’m there, “So who bought it?” “Well,” he goes, “as it happens, it’s Hennessy.” I laugh in their actual faces. “Hennessy?” I go. “He’s your so-called best friend.” He’s there, “But a shark when it comes to business.”
“I don’t know why you think it’s so funny,” the old dear goes to me. “You have four weeks to find somewhere else to live.”
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