And then I sing, “Whoooa-oh-ho – young Sexton’s on fire!”, which is what I was singing when the bouncers focked me out of Krystle
HALF-THREE LAST Sunday afternoon and I was thinking about possibly getting up. Or at least sticking on the TV and looking for an old Gilmore Girlsrerun – like to get the old haemoglobin pumping before I face the day. That's when the ring at the door came. Long and – I think it's a word – insistent?
I tipped out to the hall, still in my Leinster jersey from the night before, and checked the little screen. It turned out to be, like, Terry and Larry, the two Dublin gangland criminals who the social-welfare crowd very thoughtfully stuck in the aportment next door to mine. I decided to ignore them and get back in the sack. Except Larry – who obviously knew I was watching them – stuck his face right up to the little CCTV camera and went, “We fooken know you’re in there, Rosser – open it or we’ll just lerr eerselves in.”
They have a key to my gaff, of course. Don't ask me where they got it. But many focking times I've come home from work to find them sprawled out on my sofa, drinking my Ken and watching MUTV, a subscription channel they suggested – well, ordered– me to get? "You'd want to get some decent fooken beer in as well," they'll go and we'll all laugh.
Actually, they’re not too bad once you get to know them. They’d do literally anything for you – even if the payback is that you have to let them hide the occasional holdall full of counterfeit money or stolen jewellery in your airing cupboard. There’s that phrase, isn’t there – fences make great neighbours? With Terry and Larry, you could say it’s a case of neighbours make great fences.
I buzz them in. Terry’s straight on my case, the second he walks through the door. “Hee-er,” he goes, “did you have a boord in here last night?”
I’m like, “Er, no – for once. Why?”
“The fooken screams out of ye, bout tree o’clock tis mornin. I says to Laddy – didn’t I, Laddy? – he’s in dare givin some young one the lengt. The doorty fook.”
I laugh. “Actually, I came home mullered and watched the Leinster v Leicester match again on Sky Plus. That’d explain the, er, let’s just say, screams of ecstasy?
“I said it’d be the rubby,” Larry goes. “Your team won, didn’t thee?”
I’m like, “They certainly did,” and then I sing, “Whoooa-oh-ho – young Sexton’s on fire!”, which is what I was singing when the bouncers focked me out of Krystle.
Of course, the result was, like, a doublecelebration for me? Leinster being in the semis means that Brian and Amy aren't going to be able to go to the royal wedding. Which means I'm going to be the only – I suppose – major Irish celebrity there.
And that reminds me, I'mgoing to need a new suit for the day. I decide to hit Dundrum, the second I get rid of Adam and focking Paul. But that's when I notice the tray of Finkbrau that Larry's carrying and I realise that they're going to be here for the day.
“Hee-er,” Terry goes, docking his orse on the sofa, “what are you doing next Saturdee?”
I laugh. "Probably seeing this bird Rebecca, who I'm stringing along. It's a bit of a use and abuse situation, to be honest. She's actually horrendous-looking, I'm prepared to admit – but she's been invited to, let's just say, a certain weddingthat's coming up at the end of the month? And the Rossmeister General is going to be her plus one."
This seems to go straight over their heads. “We’re arthur organising a protest,” Larry goes, “against the royal visit.”
I’m like, “The what?”
And that’s when the two of them burst into song themselves. “And it’s off to Dubbalin in the green (fook the queen), where the bayonets glisten in the sun (fook the hun), where the rifles slash, the ardinge sash, to the echo of a Thompson gun.”
I’m there, “Are you talking about the queen coming here to actual Ireland?”
“Exactly. We’re arthur organising a meerch on the British embassy.”
“Jesus. Do you mind me asking why?”
“Why do ye tink? It’s the Brits, Rosser – they’re the fooken enemy, man.”
I pull a face. "See, I wouldn't exactly agreewith that? I was drinking with a crowd of them last night. I mean, I always think I've more in common with the English than I do with someone from – no offence – but Ballyfermot. Or even Cork."
The two of them just stare at me for what feels like an hour. Then Terry smiles. He goes, “He’s pullin ear chayin, Laddy. Ah, ye fooken had me thayer, Rosser, so ye did. Ye doorty-looking . . . ”
“It’s at tree o’clock,” Larry goes, throwing me a can of Finkbrau. “Hee-er, ye might even get yisser face on the telly!”
I’m like, “The telly?”
He goes, “There’s tree-hundrit-an-odd people gonna be meerchin, Rosser. It’ll be on the news and all sorts. And you’re gonna be reet up the front with me and Tetty there. Fooken TV steer, man.”
Of course, roysh, you can imagine what straight away goes through my mind. Er, what if Rebecca's watching Six Oneand there I am, stood in between these two tattooed yahoos, shouting shit about the queen – who's about to become mother-in-law to one of her best mates, remember? Yeah, I'd be about as welcome in Westminster Abbey as a turd in a toybox.
So I go, "Look, goys, I'm going to level with you here. I'm honestly not sure if it's my scene?I mean, I know you're into all that – listening to rebel songs, getting all worked up about stuff that happened in, like, the past. Blah, blah, blah . . ."
“Rosser,” Terry goes, switching on the TV and quickly finding the highlights from Manchester United against, I don’t know, whoever else there is, “this discussion is over. It’s Saturday arthur noon. And you’re goin to be thayer.”
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