The old man is sitting in the corner of what was once Shanahan’s on the Green, sucking on a Cohiba the size of a Daihatsu exhaust.
“Kicker!” he goes.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, don’t get excited. This isn’t a social call. It’s an intervention.”
He’s like, “An intervention?” his mind obviously going back to the twice-yearly family get-togethers that we used to have for my old dear.
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I’m there, “Yes, Dude, one of those.”
He goes, “But it’s only my second of the morning, Ross,” holding up a brandy glass lorge enough to accommodate an entire family of goldfish.
I’m like, “It’s not about your drinking. It’s about the – yeah, no – woman you’re suddenly shacked up with?”
He goes, “Bernie? What about her?”
I’m there, “Er, she’s from Bray? Need I go on?”
He’s like, “There’s nothing wrong with Bray, Ross.”
He says that. Literally. Word for word.
I’m there, “That’s not what you said on September 4th, 2001.”
He’s like, “I beg your pordon?”
Yeah, no, Honor is pulling together all of his best letters to The Irish Times for a book and I had a look through it on her laptop.
If the sea wants Bray that badly, let it have it. I’m sure no one would miss it
— Charles
He’s like, “What are you talking about, Kicker?”
So I read what he wrote off my phone.
I’m like, “Bray, the sound, is what comes out of the mouth of a donkey. Bray, the town, looks like something that came out of the other end! Yours etc, Charles O’Carroll-Kelly, Brighton Road, Foxrock.”
He’s there, “Oh, that was just a bit of fun. It wasn’t even my joke. Hennessy came up with it. We were in Nesbitt’s at the time. Good old Hennessy. He’d humour a dying man, that one.”
I’m there, “What about this one?” scrolling down the page. “I read with interest the proposal to build a sea wall to prevent winter flooding in Bray. I have a far less costly solution. If the sea wants Bray that badly, let it have it. I’m sure no one would miss it. The only fear is that it would spit it back out.”
He goes, “Yes, I’d thank you, Ross, not to share any of these with Bernie. We’re at a rather delicate stage in our burgeoning – inverted commas – relationship.”
I’m there, “Or what about this one? From 1991? I read with great excitement that a brand-new motorway will soon link the Loughlinstown dual-carriageway with Kilcroney, Co Wicklow, reminding me that the last time Bray was ‘bypassed’ was when the Luftwaffe flew over it on their way to bombing Campile. And more’s the bloody pity!”
The old man has a good chuckle to himself.
“There were lots of angry replies to that one,” he said. “Oh, it went on for weeks before the Editor announced that correspondence on this subject was now – quote-unquote – closed!”
I’m there, “Maybe I will show them to Bernie.”
He goes, “Please don’t, Ross. Like I said, the timing couldn’t be worse. You see, the whole cohabiting experiment, well, it’s not quite working out.”
I’m there, “What do you mean?”
He goes, “She’s not exactly gone on Foxrock.”
I laugh.
I’m there, “What, too much of a culture shock, is it? She misses the sound of the one-ormed bandits and the smell of shite off the Dorgle?”
He goes, “She just thinks the neighbours are a little, well – up themselves, was how she put it.”
I’m there, “They’re entitled to be up themselves. They paid seven million snots for their gaffs. Who the fock did she think she was going to be living next-door to? Bren Kinsella out of Kin?”
He’s like, “I think someone may have made a comment about her wearing her Dryrobe into The Gables.”
I’m there, “Do you know who’d be the first one to do that if she was alive today?”
He’s like, “Don’t say it, Ross.”
I’m there, “I’m going to say it. My old dear. She called the cops once when someone walked in there wearing tracksuit bottoms.”
He goes, “Your mother would be happy to see me moving on, Ross.”
[ ‘I’ve never said a word about Bray that wasn’t 100% warranted’Opens in new window ]
I’m like, “She wouldn’t. If she’s in heaven now – which I seriously doubt, by the way – she’s looking down on you, going, ‘Is that really the best you can do, Chorles?’”
He goes, “Well, if you must know, Ross, Bernie is moving out.”
I’m there, “Thanks be to God! I hope this is a lesson to you to stay off the dating apps. No good can come of it. A man of your age should know better.”
He’s like, “Oh, no, we’re not breaking up, Ross. Bernie and I are very compatible – in every way. And that includes sexual.”
“Dude – do you have to?”
“She’s a very sensuous person, Ross – and she’s brought out the sensuous person in me.”
“Okay, you and I do not have this kind of relationship, okay? Where we can talk to each other about anything – other than obviously rugby. And I think your opinions on that are poor anyway.”
“Bernie and I fully intend to continue with our union libre – if you’ll pordon the French. It’s just that–”
“What?”
“Well, I’m ... going to be moving in ... with her.”
“You–?”
“That’s right.”
“–are moving to Bray?”
“Ordmore Pork, here I come!”
“Oh! My literally! To quote my wife. God!”
“So you see, Ross, I would rather if Bernie didn’t find out about those letters. Funny as they were. I must tell Honor to remove them from the manuscript.”
“Don’t worry, Dude.”
He chuckles to himself.
“The one about Campile,” he goes, “it nearly kicked off World War bloody well III. I haven’t set foot in Wexford since. Your mother used to have to go to the opera festival on her own.”
I’m like, “Dude, I promise I won’t say a word.”
He reaches into his pocket for his wallet.
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “And what would you consider is an appropriate price for your discretion in this matter?”
I’m there, “Seriously? Is that what you think of me?”
He’s like, “Well, yes. I presumed there would be some kind of fee for your silence. There usually is.”
I’m like, “Dude, I’ve actually changed my mind about you and her. Because you living in Bray is going to be the funniest thing – and we’re talking, like, ever?”
