Monthly Archive for February, 2009

Propped against a brass statue of Oliver ‘sin-gin’ Gogarty it’s nearing one o’clock. My brother, who I’ll name Jack for this purpose, because Jack is his name, has the soap box out and is blasting away on the current economic state of affairs while dad steadies himself on his feet and mutters something about Robbie Keane with a blast of ‘come on Ireland’.

‘How much for a pint? six fuckin sixty???….’

‘It is not!’

‘It pure fuckin’ is….’

There’s a bird in the corner of the room, everyone knows the type loud, giggly and outrageously flirty with anything within arm shot. Goes out on a Wednesday night wearing a mini skirt, strappy top that she is falling out of, Ugg boots (‘because I’m NOT trying to pull’) with the token frumpy friend who really is just out to get pissed because the world is against her. Men are flocking around the peroxide beaut’ with bigger roots than a grand oak….

‘see what you have to realise is, it’s these spoiled brats, the silver spoon brigade that are gonna have to wake up and realise… are are you listening to me….’

‘…wha? No. Here look at this piece over in the corner…..’

‘…ten a penny…’

Dad just wants to talk about football. He senses there will be blood spilled if Jack continues the way he’s going. Probably mine.

‘isn’t it amazing how a girl like THAT can look half decent if you stick her in a place like THIS surrounded by 60 blokes and after 5 pints….’ The mouth of experience exclaims

‘COME ON IRELAND’

‘would ya pipe down dad’

I’m already regretting taking so much whiskey out of the hip flask at the game. I’m not a whiskey drinker.

‘would ya put away that phone…’

You can see the old boy is workin his way up to telling a joke we’ve already heard.

‘…did you hear about the two Dublin rats called Whacker and Stinky…’

‘oh for Christ sakes I’m after betting Jack a score you’d try tell that one again tonight…’

Oliver is propping me up more now that the ratio of blood to alcohol is nearing the same. I am enjoying annoying Jack for the hell of it, had this been a stranger, one of us would be laying flat out, probably me.

I must be pissed. I just text Jack by accident.

Fresh air seems to have made me worse. Jack has put his arm around me in a headlock and is pointing over to Abrakebabra as if the star of David is shining like a beacon above it…

‘she’s open!’

Jack is trying to convert dad to the world of Taco-Fries but he’s decided against it. Granted it took him half the box to realise he didn’t want them.

‘Granted I will give you they LOOK like pure dog-shit but what a feast!’ Jack has thrown 2 boxes into his face.

I’ve eaten one of the dodgiest kebabs of a lifetime. There’s a girl beside us in floods of tears with her friend. All dolled up with black running down her face and her shoes sat on the table beside her extra value quarter pounder meal with portion of barbeque sauce. It’s about a fella.

I’m on my way out the door and I say in a nice gentle tone:

‘ah lads don’t be so upset over a bloke, not when you have such lovely shoes…’

‘would you ever just go and fuck off and fuck yourself’ – she wails like the banshee Quasimodo lookalike that the silly tart is….

‘It just goes to show ya …’ says dad

‘….ten a penny….’ Jack says as he clips me around the back of the head thoroughly enjoying what just happened.

We’re at the taxi rank and Jack is showing me his recession trick where he waves a twenty note under the nose of a driver who’s been waiting at the rank for the past 14 hours and says

‘for the three of us to Swords…wha??’

We bail into a taxi with a lovely man from Nigeria. Jack is as smug as a pup who just ate two king size taco fries and doesn’t have to get up for work in the morning.

I’m smugger and have the last laugh cause I know for fact that it’s only 13 quid back to Swords. I say nothing. The dick.

Oh and there was a football game as well. Ireland beat Georgia 2- 1.

‘Do you want to go upstairs and I can show you the bedroom…’ I said sheepishly as if I hadn’t said those words before, in fact it would be the second time I’ve uttered those words in the past week, far be it from me to brag,  but I’ve changed the sheets and I’m just going through the motions now at this stage, idle small talk has been made, a light beverage has been offered but refused, I suppose it turns out they’re more nervous than I am.

I kick off my shoes and playfully push them aside, mostly to make you feel comfortable, I want to seem relaxed but not too eager. It’s impossible to not feel like a proper seductress when you walk on front of a stranger up a stairs leading them to the bedroom, you can feel the eyes burning into your arse and you’re glad you wore the Diesel jeans, you don’t want them thinking your cheap or desperate for cash. They stumble on one of the steps behind you and I grin quietly to myself. The landing light is one of those new power saving jobbies and hasn’t lit up fully and it’s eerily dark and you hope it’s not a deal breaker because the place now looks like the basement of Miss Fantasias. But to be honest, after meeting face to face now after talking over the phone a few times, maybe the soft lighting is doing them a few favours…

‘You don’t smoke do you?’ I ask

‘No no, eh I used to smoke but I’m really into the gym now and eh…’

God why are they so nervous? This is like second nature to me. Hell I even scrubbed the bathroom and I’m happy with the alpine fresh smell wafting into the landing. They will never know the effort I’ve gone through just for them, but to be honest the bit of spring cleaning I did in a hurry when I got home from work might even be good for another visitor at the weekend. I’m hoping they don’t spot the unfortunate and badly placed bleach stain on the crotch of my jeans. I hadn’t used it in a long time and forgot how powerful the spray nozzle was.

I walk into the room and we seem to have done it at the same time which leads to an awkward moment in the doorway,

‘oh eh no you eh you go on in….’

I make my way into the room and over to turn the telly on, for whatever reason I don’t know. I turn around and you’ve sat down on the edge of the bed as a matter of instinct. Your eyes are darting around the room, taking in the new surroundings thinking of questions you want to ask. It’s then that your expression changes to that embarrassed look and right now you look like Richard Whitely in the fifth season of Countdown and I might be beginning to regret this and thinking of excuses to try and get you out as soon as possible. I know what you are going to ask, but I’m feeling cocky so I let you struggle with the words,

‘Eh how much are eh we like talkin’ …..for ..ya know….?’

I lean nonchalantly against the wall, I’m nearly sure I have crossed my legs too and unconsciously replicate the album sleeve off a late 1970’s Foster and Allen EP. I fold my arms and give an extra moment to add to the tension.

One more moment.

‘Well, Dave…’

‘Oh it’s actually Paul….’

Like I give a brass farthing fuck

‘Sorry, sorry Paul yes of course, well Paul we’re talking four fifty a month, and then an equal share of the bills as they come in, ya know yourself….’