'A flatbed truck and a Hiace van on Shrewsbury Road'

So I’m heartless, cold, dead inside? If JP’s dad is trying to flatter me . . .

‘STOP!” I suddenly shout. For a few seconds, the old man hasn’t a clue what I’m even talking about. I mean, there I am, one second, trying to tap him for five hundred snots for Toulouse this weekend; the next, I’m screaming at him to pull the van over.

He’s there, “It wasn’t because of what I said about young Sexton, was it? Because I still believe, all things being equal and whatnot, that you were once twice the player that he is now.”

I tell him to just shut up and pull in, the reason being that I’ve just copped JP’s old man’s famous flatbed truck porked on Shrewsbury Road.

The old man kills the engine and finally gets what I'm talking about. He goes, "This is Oisinn's place, isn't it?" I'm like, " Was. Or is. I don't know anymore – but basically yeah." No one's seen or heard from the dude since he left his cor at Dublin Airport, pushing on for, like, two years ago now, leaving behind a mother who's worried sick about him and some banks who are keen to talk to him about the 75 million he supposedlyowes? Oisinn was one of, like, the major success stories of the whole Celtic Tiger thing. Now he's just another Park and Hide statistic.

The old man’s there, “What are the Conroys doing parked outside?” and as he finishes the sentence, you can hear the – I suppose – realisation in his voice? JP and his old man have been doing basically repossessions since Hook, Lyon and Sinker went belly-up.

We both get out, then approach the truck, the old man on the driver’s side, me on the passenger’s. They’re, like, sat in the front, the two of them, JP’s old man behind the wheel. And they’ve obviously seen us coming, roysh, because JP already has the window wound down.

Without even looking at me, he goes, “I honestly didn’t know, Ross. The order just had the house number on it. There was no mention of Perineum Manor.” Oisinn named the house that because he’d a dick on one side of him and an orsehole on the other. You can see now why the neighbours are delighted he’s gone.

I just shrug like it’s no major deal. I’m there, “So what are you actually here for?” and he gives the paperwork the old left to right – not that he even needs to.

“Just electrical,” he goes. “His music system, TVs, the home cinema,” meaning the home cinema where we used to watch the DVD of the 1999 Leinster Schools Senior Cup final – we’re talking pretty much every Paddy’s Day without fail. The poor goy’s struggling with his conscience – you can see it.

"It's just another job," his old man tries to tell him. "If wedon't do it, someone else will." I find myself suddenly backing him up. I'm there, "They're the times in which we're unfortunately living, Dude."

"Listen to your friend," JP's old man goes. "Someone who knowswhat he's talking about." This was, like, a tactic of his back in the days when we worked together – he'd, like, play us off each other?

He goes, “Do you want to know what I like about you, Ross?” I’m there, “You think I’ve no conscience. You told me that when I was selling gaffs for you.”

“Well,” he goes, “I wasn’t blowing smoke up your hole either. I meant every word of it. You’re cold. Dead inside. Hey, you want to join us?”

“What?”

“Ireland’s newest and fastest-growing repossessions firm. The team that helped build the Celtic Tiger – reformed and taking it back.” My old man suddenly throws his two cents in then.

“I’ll thank you not to try to poach my staff,” he goes, through the other window. “This chap here’s future is in shredding,” and the two of them end up having a good chuckle about that.

JP’s old man stares off into the distance then. “A flatbed truck and a Hiace van on Shrewsbury Road,” he goes. “One with Last Resort Asset Reclaim on it, the other with Shred Focking Everything. Ever think you’d see the day, Charles?” The old man looks pretty misty-eyed himself.

“Maybe not on this road. Still, it’s the way of things, is it not? We build our fancy palaces, then the tides of time come and wash them away. From Babel to Ballsbridge, it was ever thus.”

I look at JP and try to find some words of, I suppose, comfortfor the dude? I'm like, "Oisinn's gone. Even if he's still alive . . ."

“Don’t say that, Ross.”

"Even ifhe's still alive, we're possibly never going to see him again. He's already said goodbye to this port of his life."

JP’s there, “Still doesn’t feel right.” I must have actually learned a fair few things since this whole recession storted, roysh, because suddenly I’m having deeper thoughts than I’ve possibly ever had? “Look,” I go, “it’s like the whole, I don’t know, Michael Jackson being dead thing? As in, look at all the stuff he had. All sorts of shit – a lot of it really cool, in fairness to him. But what happened when he died? It all still went into a focking skip, didn’t it? It’s going to be the same for all of us, Dude.”

He looks at me, roysh, like he’s surprised by my sudden wisdom. I suppose I even am?

"This," he goes, "coming from the most materialistic person I know." I'm there, "Exactly – which provesit must be true."

JP takes, like, a deep breath, then just nods. He suddenly unclips his seatbelt, then his old man does the same. I take an instant step backwards, then JP opens the door and walks around the back of the truck to, I suppose, retrievehis sledgehammer? I tell him not to sweat it. We both know how cool Oisinn is – there's, like, no way he'd even blame him. He high-fives me then, as if to say, you're actually a really, really incredible friend.

"Come on, Ross," myold man goes, "this country's dirty little secrets aren't going to shred themselves."

I remind JP that we’ve a cracking weekend ahead of us. I’ve got the Lemonys for the match on Saturday and I’ve a good feeling about the Heineken Cup this year – pretty much the same one I had last year and look what happened then.

“You called it,” he goes, smiling for the first time.

I give him the guns and go, “I always do, my friend. I always do.”

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