So I'm sitting in front of the TV when the old dear rings and storts literally screaming down the phone at me?
She’s going, “Ross, help me! I don’t know where I am! I don’t know where I am!”
At first I think nothing of it. Monday night is her Morgarita Night and she’s been warned a dozen times about mixing tequila with her androgenic alopecia meds.
"Yeah," I go, "I'm sort of, like, busy here?" because I'm re-watching Leinster versus the Exeter Chiefs and taking a few notes, just for my own records. "Just stick your head under the cold tap for fifteen minutes and stay away from the stairs."
But then she says the most random thing. "Ross," she goes, "you're not listening to me! I've been kidnapped!"
I’m like, “What?”
“Oh, you heard me right, Ross! Kidnapped!”
“Yeah, how much have you had tonight – rounding down to the nearest litre?”
“I haven’t been drinking! Although I won’t deny I need one right now!”
"You're saying kidnapped?"
“Yes, Ross, kidnapped!”
“And why are you ringing me and not the old man?”
“Because I’m going to need you to handle negotiations at your end. Your father will fall to absolute pieces when he finds out.”
“Yeah, no problem. And don’t worry, I won’t go above ten grand for you.”
She goes, "Ross, will please stop making jokes?" and then she suddenly bursts into tears. And that's when I remember that she's not actually at home at the moment. She's in, like, Kosovo, seeing the plastic surgeon slash organ trafficker who I recently heard her describe on Ireland AM as "my rock".
“Hang on,” I go, “you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”
She’s like, “Yes, I’m actually serious.”
“Okay, well, just stay calm.”
"How can I stay calm?" she pretty much roars at me. "I'm being held against my will in this ghastly… ghastly place!"
“Okay,” I go, remembering all the Liam Neeson movies I’ve seen in my time, “is there a window in the room?”
“Yes, there’s a window.”
“Right, make your way over to it.”
“It’s no good, Ross, it’s blacked out.”
“Blacked out?”
“Oh, my mistake – it’s just dork out! God, I can’t tell if it’s day or night in this horrible prison!”
“Are you looking out?”
“Yes, I’m looking out.”
“What do you see?”
“There’s a motorway.”
“Right.”
“With cors on it.”
“Okay, what else do you see?”
“Trees.”
“Describe the trees to me.”
“They’re Sitka spruce.”
"Right, I don't know why I even asked that question. Can you, like, open the window?"
She goes, “Yes, I think so. Hold on. No, it doesn’t open!” and she suddenly storts losing her shit again. “It doesn’t open, Ross! I’m trapped! I’m trapped here like a bloody well rat!”
“Okay, try and keep it together, okay? I need you calm.”
“Wait a minute,” she goes, “there’s someone out there,” and then I can hear her hammering away on the window, going, “Help! Help! Can you hear me? Please help me! I’ve been abducted!” and then there’s, like, more tears. “Why can’t they hear me, Ross? Why can’t they hear me?”
I’m like, “Listen to me! Mom, listen to me!”
She suddenly stops shrieking.
“You never call me Mom,” she goes.
And I’m there, “Well, I’m calling you Mom now. And I’m asking you to keep your shit together, okay?”
“Okay.”
"We're going to solve this like it's a puzzle. I've seen all the Taken movies, bear in mind, and I'm watching the TV series on illegal download."
“Please just get me out of here!”
“Okay, can you describe the room for me?”
“I did – I said it was ghastly.”
"I'm possibly going to need more than that?"
“The walls are – oh, I can’t even find the words. And I’m a writer.”
“Yeah, you’re definitely pushing it now, but I’m going to let that one go, given the circs. Are they, like, dungeon walls?”
“Worse.”
“Worse?”
“They’re...”
“Go on.”
“They’re magnolia.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s the colour they slap on the walls in an asylum. It’s making me think of my mother.”
“What else can you see?”
"There's an LS Lowry painting on the wall. It's not an original either – it's a focking… print ."
“Keep talking – you’re doing great.”
“There’s a bed.”
“Describe it to me.”
"I don't even want to think about who might have slept in it. The top sheet is a sort of garish orange colour. Oh, I can already feel one of my migraines coming on!"
“Keep going. There’s bound to be a clue that tells us something.”
“There’s a kettle.”
“A kettle? What kind of kettle are we talking here?”
“A little plastic one. There’s some little sachets of – good God! – freeze-dried coffee and – Jesus! – individually wrapped tea bags. And this looks like… oh, where is the humanity?”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to touch it!”
“Mom, what is it?”
“It’s UHT, Ross.”
As slow as I am off the mork, I think that's the moment when the penny storts to finally drop?
“There’s some tiny cups here as well,” she goes, “that look like they wouldn’t hold more than a mouthful. And a pack of three biscuits. Bourbon creams, it says on the wrapping, but they don’t taste of bourbon at all.”
I’m there, “When did you arrive back in Ireland?”
“About two hours ago,” she goes. “They’re saying I have to stay here for two weeks, Ross! Two bloody well weeks!”
“Yeah, you knew about the whole quarantine thing before you went away.”
"I just presumed that when it came to it, it wouldn't affect people like us. That's why I'm asking you to handle the negotiations. There must be someone we can give some money to."
“Who?”
"Oh, come on, Ross, there's always someone we can give some money to."
“Not this time. They seem to be taking it seriously.”
“Well, can’t you ask that son of yours to phone in a bomb warning?”
“You want Ronan to ring up and make a fake bomb warning?”
“Yes, like he phoned one to Foxrock Golf Club the night Penelope Mangan challenged my Lady Captaincy over an honest mistake I made on a scorecord.”
I’m there, “I’m hanging up on you now.”
“Ross, please,” she goes, “I can’t stay here for two weeks. These people who have me are sadists! There’s a fridge in this room with no alcohol in it!”
But I’m just like, “Goodbye.”