There used to be a standard test to discover whether or not you lived in a good area. First you rang the Gords to tell them that a man with a balaclava and a crowbar was climbing in your living room window. Then you rang Domino's to order a 12-inch pizza with everything on it. If the Gords arrived before the pizza, you could describe the area in which you lived as "desirable". If the Gords arrived after the pizza, well, you could rest assured that your gaff was never going to be the subject of an 800-word piece in the property supplement of, say, this newspaper?
They were simpler times, of course. But then people like JP's old man discovered something. There would be far more money for estates agents if we all just pretended that everywhere was a desirable area. It was this discovery, during the good old days of the Celtic Tiger, that led to Sean McDermott Street being described as "Dublin's Notting Hill" and Bray being called "Wicklow's very own Hamptons", both, as it happens, by JP's old man, my new employer and former mentor – Barry Conroy of Hook, Lyon and Sinker.
There’s so much about selling gaffs that I thought I’d forgotten, but after a week back in the office, it’s all suddenly tripping off my tongue again. “A fully-fitted kitchen” means a kitchen. “Within commutable distance of Dublin” means it’s not on an island in the Atlantic. And “deceptively spacious” means that they counted the space in the cavity walls and the width of the building bricks when they measured up.
“Neoclassical”, “art deco” and “well-appointed” mean literally nothing, but prospective buyers seem more comfortable when they’re mentioned than when they’re not.
Yes, you’d be surprised at how quickly it’s come back to me – but then I know I’m not alone in that.
JP’s old man is convinced that the coming boom is going to be even bigger than the last one, which is why he wants to make sure that everyone at Hook, Lyon and Sinker is on top of their game. Monday mornings are given over to, like, staff training – or staff re-conditioning, as the man himself calls it. Most of us have been out of the game for the past five years. We’re all a bit rusty. That’s why we’re here.
“Okay,” he goes, “we’re going to play a little game called Accentuating the Positive.”
He’s standing at the top of the room like an actual teacher and there’s, like, fourteen of us sitting behind our desks, listening to this morning’s lesson. It’s literally like being back at school, except obviously I can’t use the fact that I play rugby as an excuse for refusing to answer questions. I’m living in the real world now.
A photograph of a gaff fills the projector screen behind him.
“This dilapidated grief hole is on the North Circular Road,” he goes. “Frankly, I wouldn’t let my mother-in-law live in it – and I really dislike my mother-in-law. I’m going to give you the bad news about this house and I want you to spin it as good news. You ready?”
We all nod. I seriously love this.
“Firstly, it’s in shite order,” he goes. “The roof won’t survive one more bad winter. It’s 50 yards from Mountjoy Jail and if you want to take a dump, you have to do it outdoors. I’m a prospective buyer. Sell me this house.”
One or two dudes jump in straight away, keen to impress.
“It’s, em, a good fixer-upper,” one of them goes, “with plenty of potential.”
JP’s old man remains stony-faced – not impressed.
Some other dude has a crack at it then. He’s like, “An exciting opportunity has arisen in an increasingly popular area.”
JP’s old man just shakes his head. “Come on,” he goes, “you’re just giving me the old spiel. Give me something new. Excite me.”
That’s when I hear my voice automatically go, “Early viewing is recommended for this exceptional period residence, situated in the hort of one of Dublin’s most vibrant urban communities.”
A smile erupts across his face. “Okay,” he goes, “you’ve got my attention. But the place is falling down.”
I’m there, “It’s a mature property with a strong history, whose character is only enhanced by its gentle state of decline.”
“There’s ivy growing on the inside walls of two of the bedrooms.”
“It has an authentic rustic feel.”
“There’s no natural light in the place.”
“Privacy and seclusion are amongst its myriad chorms.”
“The walls are so thin, you’ll be finishing your neighbour’s sentences.”
“A strong sense of community is just one of its unique selling points.”
“No indoor toilet.”
“Adding to the personality of this property is its strong Georgian Dublin feel.”
“The bedrooms. Jesus, you’d have more space if you lived in The Joy.”
“The rooms are sensibly proportioned to offer ease of maintenance.”
“And there’s a hideous lean-to at the back of the house with a corrugated plastic roof.”
“One of the property’s stand-out features is an atrium that serves as an exciting entertainment space.”
“I’ve been trying to shift this eyesore since 2007.”
“This superbly presented property that has retained its value through the recession. We would recommend availing early of the opportunity to view. And can I randomly throw in the word Bauhaus and possibly even rococo?”
“Yes, you can,” he goes. “And then you can stand up.”
Which is what I end up just doing, while the rest of the staff burst into a spontaneous round of applause.
“Because that,” he goes, “was an absolute master class in how to sell houses.”