'I'm the one living next door to Skobie O'Gill and the Lidl People'

Turns out the old man and the New Westies are mates from the Gladiator Academy days

THERE'S ALL OF this – all of a sudden – blah-blah out in the hallway outside? I immediately recognise hisvoice – he could shout down a focking airbus – and then theirs, as in Terry and Johnny's, giving it, "Cheerles! O'Cattle! Keddy!"

He'sthere giving it, "How wonderful to see you again!" and I'm obviously thinking, er, how does he even know them? And then I cop it – must be from the old Gladiator Academy.

I’m standing listening with my ear to the door, as he introduces them to Helen and Erika.

"My future intended," he gives it, "and my beautiful daughter," and I can only imagine the way the two boys are, like, leering at her.

“Terry and I worked in the kitchen together, Helen. And as for Johnny, don’t ever play him at table tennis is the only advice I can give you . . .” Table tennis – it’s definitely prison, then.

“Chap’s got a push-block that’d take your bloody head clean off your shoulders.”

Johnny’s there, “Ah, you’re veddy koyunt, so y’are, Cheerlie. In anyhow, what has ya in dees peerts?”

He has to go and say it then.

“The chap who lives behind this door – he’s my son! We’re just calling in to see if he doesn’t fancy joining us for Sunday lunch. Talavera, if you don’t mind!” He has a mouth like the focking port tunnel.

"Your suddon?" Terry goes, like it's the most difficult thing in the world to believe. "I caddent believe he's even relayred to you, so I caddent . . ."

“Hee-er,” Johnny goes then, “you moigh astum to keep the noyiz down, would ye? He does have a diffordent boord in dare every utter night. The roars out of dum!” Then it’s, like, knowing chuckles all round. I suddenly reef open the door, going, “Okay, okay, that’s enough . . .”

"Ross!" the old man goes, obviously delighted to see me. "It only turns out I know them – yourneighbours, if you don't mind!"

I’m there, “Just get in here, will you?” They all say their goodbyes, then. It’s all, like, handshakes and hugs and must come over for a thrink some night – you and your bayooriful lady.

“What a surprise!” the old man goes the second we’re inside.

"From your dispatches, Ross, you had Helen and I believing you were living next door to a couple of hard chaws, if you'll excuse the vernacular . . ."

"They doseem very nice," Helen goes.

Erika even agrees. She looks fantastic by the way, even though she's my sister these days and I'm not supposed to, like, notice these things? I'm like, "Er, hello? They're in, like, a gang?" The old man turns to Helen, a big smile on his boat. "Oh, yes! The New Westies, if you don't mind! This was allthe talk when you were inside, you see. Can you imagine? Wonderful fun!"

I’m there, “Dude, it’s not the focking T Birds and the Pink Ladies, you know. These boys are into, like, drugs and shit?”

The old man just nods, like I’ve just told him they’re into, I don’t know, commercial property.

"Well," he goes, "these areunhappy times, Ross. There's no end of money to be made from other people's misery.

Have you seen these ads they're bombarding us with now – pop your wedding ring in a bag and we'll send you the money to put the electric back on. And they usedto call us the Singapore of Europe . . ."

He just shakes his head – it's possibly not a word – but nostalgiaishly?

I'm there, "Er, you don't have to tell mehow the country's gone to shit under our feet. I'mthe one living next door to, I don't know, Skobie O'Gill and the Lidl People."

“They do have lovely manners,” Helen tries to go.

I’m like, “Well, I’m sure they said the same about Tony Montana back in his day. But they also have semi-automatic weapons, which I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

What is it about these two that everyone so loves? Because it’s Erika who then goes, “I think you’ve just got a bee in your bonnet, Ross, because your apartment is suddenly worth a quarter of what you’re going to eventually pay for it.”

This is Erika! Erika who refused to use buses from the time she was, like, eight years old, in case she ended up with a Dublin accent.

The old man slaps his hands together then.

“Anyway, just wondered, Kicker, if you didn’t fancy a spot of lunch. And no Six Nations talk, by the way – we’re under instructions!”

“Just us, is it?”

"No, no – we're meeting your mother there." So it's me, my old man, his stillwife, his new squeeze and the daughter he ignored for the first 28 years of her life, all heading out for a pleasant Sunday roast. That's South Dublin for you. We have our own ways.

Still weirds me out a bit that Helen and the old dear are, like, bezzy mates.

In fact, roysh, she tells me on the way to the cor that she’s offered to help with the Foxrock Food Bank, the initiative that the old dear storted with JP, to help feed the area’s struggling rich.

"I'm volunteering with the distribution three nights a week," she goes. "It's a wonderful thing they're doing. You know, at times like this, you could forgive people for being wrapped up in their own selfish concerns. But there theyare, forgetting about themselves to offer a helping hand to people who would ordinarily be too proud to ask for help . . ."

“The ones who’ve slipped through the cracks,” the old man goes, gunning the engine.

"And let me tell you this, she's inspired me, Ross – no doubt about it. Inspired meto make this sacrifice for the common good that I've been considering. So, just to let you know, I've booked the Arnold Palmer room in the

K Club, where, next week, I’m going to formally announce my candidacy to be Dublin’s first directly elected Lord Mayor! What do you say to that?”

“I say drop me to the airport. You’ve just given me another reason to emigrate.”

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