‘CHRISTMAS DAY, God and St Peter are playing golf,” he goes. “First hole’s a par three. So St Peter steps up, hits an unbelievable shot. Straight on to the green.” This is Hennessy – in case you hadn’t already guessed – holding court in the Merrion Inn.
"God says, 'Hey, nice shot, Pete. Yeah, realnice.' Then He steps up Himself. Slices the thing. Ball clears the fence and bounces out on to Nutley Lane. Stops there, dead, for maybe 10 seconds. Articulated lorry comes along – wheel clips the side of the thing, sends it shooting, like a bullet, in the air, back over the fence, on to the course but into the water. A frog catches it. He's sitting there with the thing in his mouth, happy, when all of a sudden an eagle swoops down and pulls him out of the water. The eagle's flying over the green when the frog croaks and drops the ball. It hits the ground and bounces straight into the hole.
"So St Peter turns to God and he says, 'Hey, I don't careif it's your birthday. Are you gonna play golf or are you gonna just rip the piss?'"
Everyone laughs. Including the old man. Lot of drink on board. That’d be Christmas, see.
I decide to give Ronan a bell. It’s been, like, a week. I think, surely he’s forgiven me by now. I step out on to Merrion Road. The snow’s coming down pretty heavily. It’s minus something ridiculous and welders are back in huge demand among the brass-monkey community.
It goes straight to his voicemail and I leave a message going, “Hey, Ro, it’s your, er, old man here. Er, in other words, Ross, Rosser, whatever you want to call me . . . Er, yeah, un-focking-believable what happened the night of the school musical, wasn’t it? I, er, hope you’re okay. Either way, maybe give me shout back. Am I still going out to your gaff for Christmas Day, by the way?”
I step back inside. JP’s old man is telling mine that he just spent 30,000 snots on a suit.
"Good for you," my old man goes. "I'm very much of the view that, as a nation, we need to spendour way out of this current economic nonsense."
JP’s old man laughs – one of his dirty laughs as well. “Yeah,” he goes, “but this was a sexual-harassment suit!” There’s more laughter, even though my old man probably doesn’t even get it.
I wander over to the bor. JP and One F remind me that it’s my round. “Four pints of something sensible,” I tell the borman.
“So,” One F goes, “what are you doing for Christmas, Ross?”
I’m just like, “Yeah, no, I’ve got one or two things on the bubble. I’m invited out to Ronan’s for Christmas dinner. You know, out in Pram Springs.”
“Is he still talking to you?”
I’m there, “Excuse me?” because I wasn’t sure how many people actually knew.
He laughs. “I heard you encouraged him to get off with all seven brides in the school musical.”
“Yeah, it’s called going through the cord – what’s the major deal?”
“And that they all got together and ripped his clothes off on the stage in front of 300 cheering parents. The story’s all over town, Ross.”
I end up just shaking my head. “People must have little enough going on in their lives if that’s suddenly considered a point of conversation.”
I tip over to Sorcha, who’s deep in conversation with Sophie and Amie with an ie about, of all things, the IMF bailout. I listen to one or two of the points being made, nodding like I understand what’s being said, and at the same time looking for a way in.
“Our great-grandchildren,” Sorcha goes, “are going to be paying the price for our folly.”
I’m there, “Well, thank fock for that.”
She looks at me, roysh, in total disgust. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I end up just shrugging. “All I’m saying, I suppose, is that at least it’s not going to be us.”
Sophie shakes her head while Amie with an ie just smiles at me and says that I am – oh my God – so uninformed, like that’s suddenly a bad thing?
“Anyway,” I go, turning back to Sorcha, “we could stand around here debating the big issues all night. What I’m wondering is what are you and Honor doing for Christmas dinner?”
She’s like, “We’re going to my mum and dad’s.” I nod, trying to remember whether I’m in their good or bad books these days.
“I don’t suppose there’s a spare seat going at the table?”
She smiles. “Considering you ruined my sister’s wedding day this year, and that my dad said he’d throttle you with his own hands if he ever laid eyes on you again . . .”
“Okay – thought I’d ask anyway.”
“Ross, this happens every Christmas – you, wandering around like some vagrant, looking for somewhere to spend it.”
“Er, I can’t help it if my son’s not speaking to me.”
"Oh my God, I read about that on the Mount Anville Past Pupils Facebook site. You're an actualdisgrace, Ross. Why don't you go to your dad's?"
“Yeah – and watch him and Helen, and Fionn and Erika, being all lovey-dovey? Spare me.”
“Well, what about your mum? Isn’t she doing a huge Christmas for all her friends to celebrate the success of her misery-lit novel?”
I look at her over the far side of the bor. She arrived a minute ago, Botoxed to within an inch of her life. The snow will have melted by the time her face moves again. And she's full of herself, of course, because Ma, They Said They'd Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoesis number one for Christmas.
Still, she can cook. I’ll say that for the scabrous wound. She sure can cook.
I stort making my way over. She's telling Delma and Angela about her performance last week on Tonight with Vincent Browne, even though they both saw it.
“I said to him, ‘It’s people like me who paid for their extravagances with cash, Vincent – not credit cards, not HP – who are being asked to pay for the recklessness of lower- and middle-income arrivistes.’”
Oh, well. It’s her place or the Iveagh hostel. I’m about to open my mouth when my phone suddenly rings in my pocket. I check caller ID and it’s, like, Ro. I answer, roysh, going into instant verbal-diarrhoea mode.
"Look," I go, "I know I've ruined your life. But you'll bounce back from this, Ro. You will. Take it from someone who lived through a thousand similar, I suppose, humiliations. Well, none that bad, but you take my point. And anyway, Mount Anville's only, like, oneschool? There's the Loretos – Dalkey, Foxrock, the Green. You haven't even storted on them. Then there's Holy Child Killiney – even though they're a bit, you know . . . And Muckross.
I mean, don’t knock Muckross.”
“Rosser,” he just goes, “shut the fook up. I’ll see ye Christmas morden.”
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