The old man asks me if I’ve been boning up on my Spanish ahead of the trip to Bilbao.
I’m like, “Is that where Bilbao is? In Spain?”
I honestly think I learned more from rugby than I ever did at school.
He’s there, “That’s right, Kicker! Viva el Leinster, eh?”
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘I’m not giving that kid the money. Not a focking chance’
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: We filled a skip with all the things Sorcha decided she can live without, until she changed her mind
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘Nobody can say I haven’t put my body on the line for this Leinster team’
‘Ross, it’s a very simple choice. It’s me or it’s Leinster. You decide’
I’m like, “What does that mean?”
And he goes, “Oh, it’s just something we’ll all be shouting in two weeks’ time.”
I’m there, “Your accent has changed, you know that? Since you moved out here?”
Here being – yeah, no – Bray of all places? He’s shacked up with Bernie, the mother of Claire – again, from Bray of all places – in a semi-D in Ordmore Pork.
“My accent?” the dude tries to go. “But it’s only been two weeks, Ross.”
I’m there, “Well, it’s up and down like a culchie discovering escalators for the first time.”
“I haven’t noticed any difference,” Bernie goes.
I’m there, “I’d imagine you get used to it when it’s stuck in your ear the entire time.”
“Oh! As the bishop said to the actress!” Bernie goes, followed by that honking laugh of hers, like a donkey with whooping cough.
We’re in the pub, I should have mentioned, having a few Bank Holiday looseners. I only agreed to it because I wanted to see how my old man was coping with the change of address. He seems to be happy, something I’ve always found annoying, which is why I’m trying to make him paranoid about his accent.
[ ‘The woman is as C as M – as my old dear used to say. Common as muck’Opens in new window ]
“I think you speak lovely,” she goes. “You sound like George Hook.”
And the old man’s like, “Do I?” pretending that no one has ever said it to him before.
They’re actually making me sick. He’s all gooey-eyed and she’s hanging off him like a fisherman’s jumper.
I’m there, “I’m just saying, I’m more likely to notice the difference, because I’m listening to people who are from Not Bray all week. I’m not trying to make you paranoid or anything.”
The old man goes, “I’m not in the least bit paranoid, Ross.”
I’m like, “How can you not hear that? Seriously, it’s up and down like a Portaloo seat at an all-night rave.”
That’s when Bernie goes, “Here! I have a little surprise for you!” and she storts – I shit you not – unbuttoning her shirt.
I’m like, “Whoa!” because I’m convinced she’s about to drop a nork on the table. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon – Bray or no Bray.”
But then she pulls her shirt to one side and she shows it to us. She’s had the word Chorles tattooed on the left side of her chest – right over her, presumably, hort?
I’m like, “What! The actual?”
And she goes, “Do you like it?”
The old man’s there, “Yes, it’s very, em –”
And quick as a flash, I’m like, “Dude, you should get one too.”
He’s like, “I beg your pordon.”
I’m there, “A tattoo. Bernie’s name. On your left pec. You’d be all matchy-matchy.”
The old man storts muttering and sputtering like he’s back on the witness stand in Dublin Castle.
He’s like, “The thing is, well, you know, I think if I was going to be honest –”
“Be a very romantic thing to do,” Bernie goes, guilting him with her eyes.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, Bernie did it for you, Dude. Least you could do is – okay, it’s not a word – but reciprocate?
He’s like, “What I mean is, well, we’re unlikely to find a tattoo studio open at lunchtime on a Bank Holiday Monday now, are we?”
Anyway, long story short, the dude is prepping the equipment and the old man is still giving it loads. He’s going, ‘I’ve always wanted a tattoo! It’ll be a symbol of my love for you… Bernadette!’
I’m there, “Dude, you’re not in Ballsbridge now. This is Las focking Braygas!”
Which is how, 20 minutes later, the three of us find ourselves walking up the stairs of Tatts Entertainment on Quinsboro Road.
The old man is talking to me out of the side of his mouth, going, “Kicker, get me out of this – please! I don’t want a tattoo. I’ve only known the woman a matter of weeks.”
I’m there, “And yet you’re already shacked up with her.”
He’s like, “Please, Ross. Help me out here – your old dad.”
I laugh.
I’m there, “Dude, you didn’t think I was going to let you go through with it, did you?”
He goes, “So you do have a plan?”
I’m like, “Of course I have a plan. So this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to sit in the chair and you’re going to act like you’re John B on the idea. A way of showing your love and bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Then at the very last minute, I’ll go, ‘Hang on. Dude, aren’t you allergic to Indian ink?’”
He’s there, “Brilliant!”
And I’m like, “Then you can act all crushed, saying you really wanted to do it for her and blah, blah, blah.”
“Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant!” he goes.
So – yeah, no – that’s what he ends up doing. He takes off his shirt and goes, “I’m so happy, Bernie, to be doing this for you!” and it’s a good act in fairness. “Matching tattoos! The idea of it!”
The tattoo dude – a man in his 60s with a grey ponytail and a ring through his nose – asks the old man if he wants to look through the design book.
The old man’s like, “No, I want the name of my beloved tattooed across my chest. Bernie!”
“It’s actually Bernadette,” the woman goes. “My full name.”
“Even better!” the old man goes.
The tattoo dude asks him how he is with pain.
The old man’s there, “I don’t mind a little a prick.”
“Oh! As the actress said to the bishop!” Bernie goes.
Anyway, long story short, the dude is prepping the equipment and the old man is still giving it loads. He’s going, “I’ve always wanted a tattoo! It’ll be a symbol of my love for you… Bernadette!”
So what happens is, I end up leaving it until the very last second to open my mouth. And I can see that the old man is storting to sweat.
He’s like, “Everything okay, Ross?” as the tattooist swabs his chest with a disinfectant wipe.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, all good, Dude.”
Then he suddenly hears the buzz of the needle and I can see the fear in his eyes.
He’s like, “Bernadette! How many letters is that?”
And the dude goes, “Just sit back in the chair, Sir.”
Suddenly, the old man is like, “Wait a minute, Ross – aren’t I allergic to Indian ink?”
And I’m there, “Indian ink? No. It’s the first I’m hearing about it.”
