Ronan is in cracking form. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s 21 years old, he’s just finished his final law exams and he’s driving around town in a fire-engine-red Lamborghini that once belonged to Fat Frankie Maher, one of his all-time favourite Dublin gangland criminals.
It's no wonder he can't take the smile off his face. I ask him if he's decided what he's going to do yet – in terms of, like, the future? Yeah, no, Hennessy Coghlan-O'Hara has offered him an apprenticeship – promised to put him through Blackhall Place and blah, blah, blah. But the last thing I want is for my son to end up working as Hennessy's bagman.
"Ine arthur turdening down Heddessy's offer," he goes – and suddenly I'm the one who's smiling?
I’m there, “Ro, that’s great news!”
“Ina godda spent the year woorking in the Free Legal Advice centhor above the vape shop on Stanislaus Road.”
“Free legal aid?” I go, somehow resisting the temptation to call him a mug. “I’m sure that’s going to be, em, very rewarding for you – although obviously not financially.”
All of a sudden the cor storts wobbling all over the road and Ronan goes, “Ah, boddicks!”
I’m like, “What’s wrong?”
“Ine arthur getting a flat tyre.”
He pulls over. We’re on, like, George’s Street in Dún Laoghaire.
I’m there, “I’ll ring the AA”
Ronan laughs. “The AA?” he goes. “Are you habbon me on? It’s oatenly a tyre, Rosser.”
“Well, what are we going to do then?”
“We’re godda change it.”
I nod, trying to look convinced. I’m like, “I’ll see if there’s a video of how to do it on YouTube.”
Usually? I just rang my old man and told him the cor was broke and I needed a new one
He goes, “Rosser, are you tedding me you’ve nebber changed a tyre before?”
I’m there, “I’m going to be honest with you, Ro, it’s never really come up as an issue.”
“You’ve had flats, but.”
“Yeah, no, loads of times.”
“So what did you do?”
“Usually? I just rang my old man and told him the cor was broke and I needed a new one.”
He just shakes his head. I forget sometimes that people like me must be a complete wonder to people like Ronan, just as people like him are to us.
“Mon, get out,” he goes. “Ine godda show you how to do it.”
I’m there, “I’m not sure that I’m interested enough, Ro.”
“Get out, Rosser. Man of your age – should be ashamed of yisser self.”
So I get out and I watch Ronan walk to the front of the cor. He pops the – I want to say – bonnet?
I look inside.
“Oh my God!” I go, hearing the excitement in my own voice. “There’s an extra wheel in there!”
He’s like, “Yeah, it’s called a spare tyre, Rosser.”
“Yeah, no, I’ve heard that phrase before. It’s just I’ve never linked it with –. Okay, makes sense now. Continue.”
He reaches into the – again – bonnet and he tries to pull the thing out, except it ends up being too heavy for him?
He’s like, “Moy, Jaysus – gib us a hand there, Rosser, will you?”
I hesitate. I’ve always shied away from manual labour in fear of the precedent it might set – and me and Honor had a father-daughter manny-peddy in Mink in Ballsbridge this morning.
“What are you woodied about?” he goes. “Your bleaten nails, is it?”
I’m like, “No, I’m not worried about my nails!”
My hands still smell of mandarin and patchouli. Still, I help him take out the famous spare tyre. And he’s right, it’s unbelievably heavy – and I’m saying that as someone who recently lifted Simon Zebo above his head when we did the Dirty Dancing swan lift at a charity Stors in Their Eyes event in Bective Rugby Club.
I'm like, " <em>Us?</em> Do I look like Walter White to you?" and I stort gathering up the bags
“There’s something inside it,” Ronan goes.
I’m like, “What are you talking about?”
He's there, "A tyre shouldn't be that hebby," and he grabs a sort of metally stick – which, it turns out, is called a tyre iron – and he storts to take the rubbery bit of the tyre off the roundy, metally bit in the middle. Yeah, no, I'm not au fait with all the terminology?
“Moy Jaysus!” he goes.
And I’m like, “Holy! Fock!”
Because there, stuffed inside the tyre, are 10 lorge cellophane bags full of white powder. I was at enough dinner porties in Ranelagh back in the day to know immediately what it is.
Ro goes, “It’s coke, Rosser.”
I’m there, “Well, I knew it wasn’t Shake n’Vac, Ro. What are we gonna do with it?”
Without missing a beat, he goes, “I know one or two heads who might be able to sell a bit for us.”
I'm like, "Us? Do I look like Walter White to you?" and I stort gathering up the bags.
He’s there, “What are you doing, Rosser?”
And I’m like, “What do you think I’m doing? I’m bringing it to the Gords.”
Five minutes later, I walk into Dún Laoghaire Gorda Station and I drop the bags of powder on the front desk. I go, “My old man bought a cor from your crowd a few weeks ago and it’s like a focking snow globe.”
The dude behind the desk is obviously a bit thrown by this. He’s like, “I beg your pardon?”
I’m there, “Er, my old man? He bought a Lambo at a Cab auction – you might tell your mates in there to give the cors a proper valet in future. That lot was in the – quite literally – spare wheel.”
There ends up being quite a bit of paperwork for me to fill out – as you’d probably expect. Twenty minutes later, I walk out of the Gorda station and head back to the cor.
From, like, 50 yords away, I can see that Ronan is talking to someone – some random dude with biceps like Galia melons. It's only as I get closer that I notice there's, like, an atmosphere between them?
I’m like, “What’s going on?”
And Ronan’s there, “This fedda says he’s an associate of Fat Frankie Maher. He says he dudn’t mind me habbon the car. It’s just there’s something belonging to him in the spare tyre.”
