The old dear’s on Oprah, and my aportment building has turned into an episode of ‘The Bill’
‘HOW ARE YOU feeling?” he goes. “I hope you’re not coming down with a dose of that, quote-unquote, swine flu.” I’m like, “Get over yourself, will you? There’s fock-all wrong with me,” and all he can say is, “Oh,” because he still hasn’t worked out why I’m at home making bed angels in the middle of the day and not out shredding documents with him.
“I pulled a sicky,” I go. Then I laugh. “I can’t believe you’ve survived in business as long as you have, not knowing the difference between someone who’s genuinely Moby and someone who rings straight into your message-minder at ten o’clock in the morning putting on a croaky voice.” That pretty much softens his cough.
I’m like, “Anyway, I didn’t ring to exchange pleasantries with you. Just answer me this – what is she doing on Oprah?” He has the Davina McCalls to go, “Who?” I’m there, “Who do you think? That cocktail-crazed good-time girl you’re still technically married to.”
He laughs. “Oh, your mother. Yes, the word on the transatlantic grapevine is that America has taken her to its literary bosom.” I’m there, “Okay, that’s a picture I’d rather not have in my head? Anyway, I’ve got to go – here she comes.” He’s there, “Will I see you tomorrow?” and I’m like, “As I used to tell the teachers when they asked me that question back in the day, hope is a wonderful thing.” Then I hang up on him.
"Now," Oprah goes, "today, we are going to be talken durdy. . ." You know the way she goes on. The audience storts whistling and cheering.
"That's right, sisters. Rrruuul durdy. . . My next guest has been described by the New York Timesas the new Catherine Millet. Her previous books, all of them bestsellers in her native Eye Are Land, have been praised for their courageous and graphic descriptions of female sexuality. Her new book, Karma Suits Ya, stars 50-something divorcee Valerie Amburn-James, who, without giving away too much of the plot, comes to America and has relationships with 50 men in 50 states and in 50 different positions. Ladies and gentlemen, let me hear it for Finn Ualah O'Carroll-Kelly . . ." Out she comes, botoxed to within an inch of her life. She looks like a basketball with eyes.
Of course, the audience goes Budget Car Rental – they do say Septics have no taste, don’t they? Oprah’s all over her as well, we’re talking air-kisses, the whole bit.
I have to say, I’m, like, disappointed with her? They eventuallly sit down. “Get a hold of yourselves!” Oprah ends up having to tell the audience.
I’m just, like, staring at the old dear, bet into that Michael Kors pant-suit, like a boiler too big for its lagging jacket.
"So," Oprah goes, "Catherine Millet, Gloria Vanderbilt . . . How does it feel to be compared to these very strong, very articulate, women?" "Well, of course, it's wonderful," she goes, putting on that accent she used to do on The Afternoon Show. "I think if we have anything in common, it's that we're all libertines. We all believe in free and total expression, especially in matters sexual.
“I have to say that one of my issues with writers of contemporary women’s fiction – and a lot of these girls, remember, are dear, dear friends of mine – is that you never read anything in their books about whips, hot oil or golden nipple clamps . . .” That’s the old man’s question about tomorrow answered. I won’t be leaving this room until I’m 40.
It’s just as I’m putting the gruffalo on mute that I hear voices in the hallway outside. Noise is one thing you end up having to put up with when you live in, like, an aportment.
But I suppose what sets the alorm bells ringing is that they’re not the kind of voices you’d expect to hear in a place like Rosa Parks. As it said in the brochure – Courteous Living Is a Civil Right.
I tip over to the door and have a look through the, I suppose, spyhole? There’s two – as Ro would call them – shams, standing outside the aportment next door.
They’ve got that whole Joyrider Chic thing going on – sweatshirts, tight jeans, runners that cost more than a mid-size family cor.
Of course I immediately phone the Gords, who are useless as it turns out. No crime has been committed, blahdy blahdy blah. I’m there, “If I said the words ‘baseball caps’ would it make any difference?” but of course it doesn’t.
“Where are you living again?” he goes – a carrot-cruncher, needless to say. I tell him the address and he actually laughs. “I know the place,” he goes. “The Spirit of Negative Equity!” and he’s still laughing when I hang up on him.
I end up having to take the law into my own hands. I grab the old four-iron and reef open the front door. Of course they don’t even flinch. I use the club to point at their runners.
I'm there, "I suggest you take thosefor a very quick test drive." I've always been one for the one-liners.
They look at each other, totally scoobied. Then one of them goes, "Ah, he thinks we're trying to break in, so he does." The other dude laughs. "We live here," he goes. "I'm looking for me key." At first I think I must have, like, misheard him – the whole language barrier thing? I'm there, "Er, livehere? This is South Dublin's Ultimate Address! No offence but how could you possibly afford . . ."
"Because we'renot paying for it," the other one goes. "It's the social."
I’m there, “Social? What social?” He’s like, “There’s two-hundrit-n-odd vacant apeertmints in these blocks. Sure they’re renting them out for a song.” They find their key. One of them sticks out his hand. “I’m Teddy,” he goes, though what he obviously means is Terry. I shake it, in a sudden daze. “And this is Johnny, the brutter.”
“Nice meeting you,” Johnny goes. “Neighbour.”
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