All of Ronan’s old mates are there. We’re talking Buckets of Blood. We’re talking Stacks of Money. We’re talking Nudger. We’re talking Gull.
It’s actually Stacks of Money who sidles up to me as I’m watching Ronan across the room, chatting to Paul Reynolds from RTÉ.
“You must be veddy proud of him,” he goes.
Yeah, no, it’s the opening night of Ronan’s new Irish Gangland Museum on Capel Street and the place is packed to the literally rafters.
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I’m there, “It’s not what any father wants for his son, Stacks. What are you doing here anyway? Ronan said you weren’t allowed to associate with known criminals under the terms of your temporary release. This entire event is a parole violation.”
He laughs at that one, in fairness to him. Then a minute later, after he’s focked off, I hear him quoting the line to some random dude with an ear missing: “See the fedda who’s dressed like he sailed here on a bleaten boat? That’s Ronan’s auld fedda. Says he to me, ‘This entire event is a parole violation!’ And the fooken posh voice on him as he’s saying it!”
I spot Kennet, Ronan’s father-in-law, arriving late. I try to avoid eye contact with him, except he’s straight over. He goes, “How’s things, Rosser? You must be veddy proud.”
I’m there, “I wish people would stop saying that to me. My son has opened a museum celebrating the kind of criminality that I’ve spent the last 20 years trying to steer him away from. Speaking of criminality, how’s your family?”
He goes, “They’re all super-dooper, Rosser. Shadden and her mutter are over there if you want to cub oaber and say hello.”
I’m there, “Not really, no.”
There’s something different about the dude that I can’t quite put my finger on? Then I suddenly cop it. It’s his Taylor Keith. They’re like Chiclets. The summer holiday in Turkey makes sudden sense.
I’m there, “That’s some set of piano keys on you.”
He goes, “Thanks veddy much, Rosser.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Here, did you hear Ine arthur getting a new job?”
“What is it, chewing hay for gummy horses?”
“No, Ine a museumt guide – here, Rosser! Cub on oaber and say hello to Dordeen and your granthaughter.”
“Like I said, I’ve zero interest.”
Ronan ends up sparing me the ordeal of meeting the rest of the Tuites because he suddenly has the microphone in his hand and he’s going, “Thank you all for cubbing. This is a proud day for Arelunt. This country punches well above its weight when it cubs to producing criminoddles, both domestic and internationoddle…”
A voice behind me goes, “Howiya, Rosser?”
I turn around. It ends up being Ronan’s old dear.
I’m there, ‘Tina – how the hell are you?’ in my famous sexy voice, because I know it gives her a thrill. Then I notice her boyfriend standing next to her – can’t remember his name – who’s a fireman and built like a portaloo
He goes, “You alright, Rosser?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, all good.”
He’s like, “You’re looking veddy pale. Was he flirting with you, T?”
And Tina goes, “He was putting on the croaky voice.”
The dude just glowers at me.
I’m there, “I wasn’t. I swear it.”
Then he suddenly laughs and gives me a slap on the shoulder that feels like a visit to the chiropractor. He’s like, “We’re only yanking your chain, Rosser.”
The two of them crack up laughing. I’m glad everyone gets such a kick out of me.
“So what about this museumt?” Tina goes. “What do you think?”
I’m there, “I don’t approve.”
She’s like, “One of the tabloids ren a story this morden asking was it right to be monetising the misery of others. It was on the front page and they’re doing a six-peert podcast on it as well.”
I’m like, “Six ports? Fock.”
“We’re veddy woodied about him,” the fireman dude goes. “There’s already been threats.”
I’m like, “Threats? I focking said it was a bad idea – day one.”
Ronan’s up there, going, “We’ve oaber two-hundrit pieces and we’re hoping to add to the collection oaber the cubbing years, as we cebedrate one of Arelunt’s greatest internationoddle financial success stordies.”
As I’m listening to him, Gelly O’Kelly – Ronan’s former safecracking curator – appears at my side.
“Any second now,” he tells me out of the side of his mouth, “there’s going to be a warning.”
I’m there, “What kind of warning?” presuming it’s something to do with pickpockets – Ronan’s in-laws, in other words – working the room.
But then he goes, “Ine arthur finding a suspicious package.”
All of a sudden, I hear what could only be described as a high-pitched scream, which a few seconds later I realise has come from me
“A bomb!” I’m going. “There’s a bomb!”
I make a run for the door – and yeah, no, I’m not proud of this – shoving women and children out of my way to get there.
That’s when the real panic storts. People are going, “A bomb? Did he say a bomb?”
“A bomb!” I’m going at the top of my voice. “Get out of my way! I still have so much to contribute in terms of my rugby knowledge especially once Leo Cullen steps away from the Leinster set-up!”
I’m the first outside – again, not proud – then 20 seconds later the rest of the guests spill out on to Capel Street, looking confused more than worried.
“Who’d want to bomb this place?” Kennet goes.
I’m there, “I can think of quite a few people,” and then I’m like, “Where’s Ronan, by the way? Jesus, my son is still inside there! Someone go in and get him!”
Ten seconds later, Ronan steps out of the building onto Capel Street, carrying what at first looks like a holdall, but what I realise on closer inspection is – yeah, no – my gym bag?
Ronan goes, “Who left this on the floor next to the bar?”
I consider denying it. As a matter of fact, I look around, going, “What kind of a focking idiot–?”
Then Ronan goes, “There’s a rubby ball in it.”
There are literally gasps.
“And a buke with ‘Ross O’Caddle-Keddy’s Rubby Tactics Buke. Quiet – Rubby Genius at Woork!’ writ on the cubber.”
I’m still looking around me, going, “Could be literally anyone’s.”
But Ronan fixes me with a look and goes, “You’re some bleaten tulip, Rosser.”
