The old man calls the meeting in the Great Room of the Shelbourne Hotel to order.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he goes, silencing the crowd with his piano-crashing-down-a-stairwell voice, “I think we all know why we’re here today! Two weeks ago, whilst standing outside the walls of this most famous of Dublin boarding houses, in the absence of both provocation and forewarning, I was viciously set upon by a member of the family Larus argentatus, who was happy to kill me for nothing more than the Montecristo White Churchill burning between my lips!”
There’s booing and hissing in the room of a kind I haven’t heard from the old man’s crew since Portmornock Golf Club allowed women to become members.
“We are no longer safe!” goes Gordon Greenhalgh, the New Republic spokesman for Housing, Planning and Local Government. “We can no longer relax!” which is pretty much the same thing he said when Portmornock let the old deadlier of the species through its doors.
‘When they see the copper, the triplets think it’s about them gobbing on the cauliflower and turmeric latte crowd - which I’m not even sure is a crime’
‘We’ve no idea what caused the fire. And we’re sticking to that story’
‘People in the crowd are staring at Honor like she’s a cold sore on debs night’
‘The thought of booking a table for one at Shanahan’s on the Green got me through my prison sentence’
Odhran Blake – a drinking buddy of my old man’s from Fitzwilliam – goes, “I predicted this! Thin end of the wedge and so forth! Did you get a good look at the chap, Chorles?”
The old man’s there, “A good look at him?”
Odhran’s there, “Yes, could you offer a description of him to an officer of the law?”
“Er, I don’t think so,” the old man goes, “beyond saying that he was, well, white, and a rather lorge chap, and – yes – it looked like he was wearing lipstick.”
“Lipstick!” Odhran goes. “Jesus Christ!”
“The Borbarians are at the gates!” Gordon Greenhalgh goes – like he did when the ladies of Portmornock were given voting rights. “Mors certa, hora incerta!”
“Well, let us not surrender to these modern day Visigoths!” the old man goes. “Come on, let’s put our heads together and see if we can’t come up with some solutions to this ghastly menace! Remember, there’s no such thing as a bad idea!”
They’re becoming land scavengers but they still like living near the coast! I suppose they’re no different from us in that respect!
True to form, Marianna McEntee, a mate of my old dear’s from the Move Funderland to the Northside campaign, goes, “Can’t we just offer them some money to – well, you know – fock off somewhere else?”
The old man’s like, “In normal circumstance, that would have been my first thought! But these chaps have no use for money! Causing bloody mayhem seems to be their whole point of being!”
“What about a solicitor’s letter then?” Morcus Neale, a former Senior Counsel from Sandymount, goes.
The old man looks sideways at Hennessy. He’s like, “Would there be any point, Hennessy? I mean, you know me, I’m always in favour of a good old-fashioned solicitor’s letter – especially one of yours, m’learned friend, with words in it this bloody long! – but these chaps can’t even read, can they?”
Hennessy shakes his head to confirm that, no, they can’t read.
“I’m not suggesting we send a solicitor’s letter to them!” Morcus goes. “I’m talking about sending one to Dublin City Council! Surely it’s their responsibility to deal with this menace! Whatever happened to accountability?”
“Good point, well made!” the old man goes. “Do your worst, Hennessy! Lots of de factos and inter alias and what-have-you! That’ll soon put the wind up them!”
“What I don’t understand,” Marianna goes, “is where are they all coming from?”
Amanda Manson, another mate of my old dear’s, is like, “Scotland is what I’ve heard!”
“Scotland,” Gordon goes, “and ports of Scandinavia and the Faroe Islands!”
“Are they even being vetted?” Odhran goes. “Or are we just allowing them in here without knowing the slightest thing about them?”
There’s, like, silence in the room.
The old man’s there, “Yes, I rather think that you may be at the wrong meeting, Odhran! We’re talking about herring gulls!”
The dude is like, “Ah! I’m so sorry!” then he stands up and off he jolly well focks.
Carolina Wakeley, who played tennis with Sorcha’s old dear in Glenageary – and who I sort of fancy? – goes, “You’re wasting your time sending them a letter! They’ll do absolutely nothing about it! Just like Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council did nothing after my own awful experience! They’re protected is what I was told!”
Gordon’s there, “They’re giving up their seafaring ways, you see, and becoming creatures of the land! The reason they’re here, according to my own research, is because we’ve emptied the sea of fish!”
“Well, that would make total sense,” Carolina goes, “because the one I was unfortunate enough to run into stole two lobsters and a John Dory from me after I came out of Caviston’s! I swear he was waiting for me in the doorway of Mitchell’s and his attitude seemed to be, ‘Those don’t belong to you,’ even though I had the receipt. ‘Hand them over or there’ll be trouble!’”
“In Glasthule?” the old man goes. “The bloody nerve of these things!”
“But why do they have to be here?” Marianna goes. “If, as Gordon’s research suggests, they’re becoming creatures of the land, wouldn’t they be happier in, I don’t know, the midlands?”
“Oh, they do like to be beside the seaside!” Gordon goes. “I forgot to mention that fact! They’re becoming land scavengers but they still like living near the coast! I suppose they’re no different from us in that respect!”
“But we’ve earned the right to live near the coast!” the old man goes. “Or rather we’ve paid for it! And I’ve earned the right to enjoy one of my cigors outside the famous Shelly without being assailed by these hyenas of the sea!”
“Quite right!” everyone goes.
He’s there, “As my wife Fionnuala pointed out this morning, back in Easter 1916 – when all that silly nonsense was going on – the windows of the Lord Mayor’s Lounge were shot out! And do you know what they did, the good denizens of this hotel? Oh, they didn’t willingly hand over their sandwiches! Or their lapsang souchong! No, they said, this is our space! We are going to finish our afternoon tea and you can shove your Irish Republic up your bloody well orses!”
A humungous cheer goes up.
He’s there, “We need to rediscover something of that defiance! We cannot stand idly by and let these so-called birds lay claim to our streets! If the powers that be will not help us to rid the country of this scourge, then we have no choice but to take the law,” and then he pauses for dramatic effect, before going, “into our own hands! And God save us all!”
