So I’m writing my player ratings from Ireland versus the All Blacks into my famous Rugby Tactics Book when my phone rings? I check the screen and it ends up being Delma, a friend of my old dear’s, who soldiered alongside her in her efforts to stop various things – mostly forms of public transport – from coming to Foxrock.
“Delma,” I go, using my sexy voice, “how the hell are you?” because – yeah, no – we have a bit of a history from the time she was coming out of her marriage to what’s-his-face.
She’s like, “Ross, I was wondering if you were free for lunch?”
I’m there, “Lunch, is it? Look, I’m very flattered, Delma, but I was on a break from Sorcha when we did the deed and I’m staying, hopefully, loyal to her these days.”
‘Fionnuala had a far more significant impact on Foxrock than Samuel Beckett’
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: The old man has a Tesco Clubcord. Jesus, it’s worse than I thought
He holds up a balaclava, or as it’s known on my side of town, a ski mask
‘Charles has changed since moving to Bray. He turned up in Portmornock Golf Club yesterday – wearing a Dryrobe’
It turns out I’ve got the wrong end of the stick.
She’s like, “It’s Fionnuala’s anniversary today, as you know–”
Fock, I didn’t know.
“Yeah, no, I know,” I go. “Two years, huh? That time flew.”
She’s there, “It’s, em, only one year, Ross.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I realise that, Delma. What can I do for you?”
She goes, “A few of us – mostly friends to whom Fionnuala meant the world – are meeting up in The Gables.”
I’m like, “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Just to mork the day.”
“Like I said – go mad.”
“And we’d really love to see you there.”
I laugh.
I’m there, “I’d say you would.”
She goes, “I beg your pordon?”
I’m there, “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m actually working at the moment?”
She sort of, like, tuts down the phone. People like Delma are used to getting their own way.
“Ross,” she goes, lowering her voice to a whisper, “I have a surprise for you.”
I’m like, “What kind of surprise – as in, what are we talking in terms of?”
She goes, “Something that will hopefully put a smile on your face. I’ll see you at The Gables at one o’clock.”
I notice then that all of my old dear’s mates are staring at me and that I may be coming across as a little ungrateful
She hangs up and I’m left thinking, could it be that? I end up sitting there for an hour, debating (a) whether to go, and (b) whether to throw on clean boxer shorts, maybe the ones with “Release the Cracken” on the front, which have always been a genuine ice-breaker.
I end up being late. The entire crew – we’re talking Delma, we’re talking Angela and Dermot, we’re talking Ide and Clem, we’re talking Lucy and Aednat – are standing outside The Gables. The old man is there with them, in his, believe it or not, Dryrobe.
He goes, “I say, Ross, this is all rather intriguing, isn’t it?”
I’m there, “What’s it even about?”
“Come with us,” Delma goes, then she leads the entire posse across the road to the little pork dedicated to – don’t ask me – but Samuel Beckett?
We all gather around, I don’t know, something that’s covered with a white sheet, then – without any prior warning – Ide tugs on the sheet, and the thing falls away, and I hear a sudden scream, which, I’m surprised to discover, has actually come from me. I put my hand over my eyes and I turn away, going, “My eyes! My eyes! I can’t unsee it!”
“It’s a statue of Fionnuala!” the old man goes.
I’m there, “Yeah, I realise that?”
He goes, “Good Lord, it’s very like her, isn’t it?”
I’m there, “Terrifyingly so.”
I notice then that all of my old dear’s mates are staring at me and that I may be coming across as a little ungrateful, so I force myself to look at the thing. If we hadn’t had the woman cremated, I’d swear she was about to step down off that little podium and suggest a round of morgaritas.
I’m there, “God, it’s hideous.”
As Fionnuala once said to the minister for transport, I am going to rain shit down on your head
— Delma
The old man goes, “I love it! It captures the absolute essence of the woman!”
It does. And that’s the problem. There are children living in this area.
Ide is like, “We thought it was a fitting tribute to her – as Foxrock’s most famous resident, after Sam Beckett, of course.”
I’m definitely going to google the dude.
Angela’s there, “She had a far more significant impact on Foxrock than Samuel Beckett. She stopped that ghastly tram from coming here.”
I look at the statue again. Yeah, no, the old dear is wearing a T-shirt with “The Biggest Luaser Is Us!” on it.
The old man goes, “Fionnuala would have loved it! I can’t thank you enough for this wonderful tribute to my late wife.”
He’s warming up to make a speech when, all of a sudden, a cor screeches to a halt a few feet away. It ends up being Deirdre Dolan, an old enemy of my old dear’s ever since the woman reported her for improving the lie of her ball when she won the Foxrock Golf Club Lady Captain’s Prize in 1995.
Deirdre’s like, “What the hell is that eyesore of a thing?”
“How dare you!” the old man tries to go. “That’s my wife!”
Deirdre goes, “There are children living in this area.”
“Yes, we’re well aware,” Ide goes. “We live here too.”
Deirdre’s like, “That’s Samuel Beckett Pork.”
Lucy goes, “We see it more as a literary pork?”
Deirdre’s there, “You can’t put Fionnaula O’Carroll-Kelly on the same por as Samuel Beckett.”
I decide to take her word for it.
“She put Foxrock on the map,” Ide tries to go.
Deirdre’s there, “We don’t want Foxrock on the map. Then outsiders will want to come here. Isn’t that what Fionnuala was against?”
She has a definite point.
“Anyway,” the woman goes, “do you have planning permission to put that monstrosity there?”
The old man’s like, “You don’t need planning permission to put up a statue.”
He’s the only one here who’s served actual jail time for planning corruption. I think we can take whatever he says with a pinch of salt.
“I think it’s a wonderful enhancement to the village!” the dude goes.
Deirdre’s like, “If you think that ghastly thing is staying there, you are going to have one hell of a fight on your hands.”
“Bring it on,” Delma goes. “As Fionnuala once said to the minister for transport, I am going to rain shit down on your head.”
I decide to hit the road. I’ve heard enough for one day. And – yeah, no – my “Release the Cracken” boxer shorts are cutting into my waist.
