Can't a dude pretend to paint in peace? First a text maniac, now a bogger cop who got a tip-off about my little scam. I knew I shouldn't have made that wisecrack about Munster, writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly
Erin Ferris is a bird we all knew back in the day, who got the nickname Erin Go Braless for reasons that can't be properly explained in a quality family newspaper. Met her for the first time in ages last Sunday night, in the Club of Love of all places, dressed to spill, as usual, in a low-cut chiffon dress. Hit her with a few killer one-liners and, needless to say, chormed her horizontal.
Even gave her my mobile number - as in my actual number? - which is probably a sign that I'm finally growing up.
Turns out to be a major mistake. Eleven o'clock Monday morning, I'm back at the easel, pretending to paint Dalkey quarry, when Erin storts being a total text maniac. You know one of those last-word freaks who can't accept that the conversation's over? So I'm, like, trying to be subtle? I'm all, "NEway, gr8 nite, ring u soon x," but pretty much immediately one comes back, going, "Cool but dont make it a tues or thurs cos i have music, did i tell u im back playing the sackbut?" which of course requires another response from me, as in what the fock is a sackbut.
It's the worst case of reply-arrhoea I've ever seen and it'll be a focking miracle if I get any pretend-work done today. So eventually I have to turn the phone off.
Anyway, it was ruining my whole tortured artist act, which passing girls seem to love so much.
A couple of Septic tanks, one a ringer for Blake Lively, stop and ask me about the history of the quarry but in, like, a seriously flirty way? I give them my stock answer, which is that no one really knows who built it, or even why, though it's commonly believed to have been, I don't know, de Valera or Daniel O'Connell or one of that whole crew, giving them serious vibes back.
"Sure, 'tis very interesting," another voice goes, a man's voice, over my other shoulder. I whip around, roysh, and there - standing no more than six feet away - is a Gord, in full uniform. Deep down I've been expecting this but it's still, like, oh fock! He asks the two American birds to leave us alone, then he walks around the front of my easel and I notice that it's the same Gord who arrested Sorcha after the Idlewild Riots of two weeks ago.
"Hello again," he goes.
I'm just like, "Hey." "An allegation has been made agin you," he goes. "A very serious allegation." I decide to play it like Coolio, find out what he knows first. I put one hand over my chin, like I've seen ortists do on TV, and keep staring at the quarry over his shoulder.
"A woman who knew your grandmother," he goes, picking up one of my brushes, "a psychiatric norse, would you believe, says you didn't paint this at all. Says you've been passing off your grandmother's work as your own, begorrah and be-to-hokey." I just let my jaw hang loose, like it's the most outrageous thing I've ever heard, and I turn my head slowly to look at him. At the same time, roysh, the old hort is beating so hord I think it's going to come out of my chest.
"That's fraud," he goes, dabbing a bit of white paint onto the canvas, making - it has to be said - quite a good cloud. "Fraud is a very serious offince. Do you know how long you could go to prison for?" He paints a little V in the sky next to the cloud. A bird. It's also pretty good. But I can't answer him. I'm just sat there thinking, no. I'm too good-looking to go to prison.
Then I'm suddenly remembering something. A crack I made to this dude while Sorcha was waiting to get back the laces from her Dubes. He's got Ross O'Carroll-Kelly in front of him so obviously the whole rugby thing came up. He was banging on about Munster and especially Ronan O'Gara.
For some reason I storted thinking about those Newbridge ads and I said how hilarious it was to see a Munster man advertising knives and forks. He didn't like it, roysh, so you can imagine how much he's loving this.
"You know what I loved when I was at school?" he goes. Crisp sandwiches, I think. Boggers love crisp sandwiches, pool and Bruce Springsteen. I don't say that, though. I go, "What?" He's like, "Art," and he puts in another bird. "My favourite subject. Still is, begorrah. Do you ever go into the National Gallery at all?" I shrug. "Just the restaurant," I go. "Picking the old dear up when she's too skulled to drive."
He looks at me, surprised. "Would have thought now, a fella like you, a painter, begod, you'd be spending half your life in there. Me, now, I'm always in there. You could say I've an eye for art." He paints in another bird. It's beginning to look like a focking Hitchcock movie, this. I think about telling him, basically, enough with the birds already? In the end I don't.
"Of course," he goes, "this isn't a metter for us. Naw, naw, the Fraud Squad - this is their area. But, knowing what I do about art, I wanted to throw my eyes over your work before I called them in. Do you mind me saying, first your wife, now you - you're some femily, aren't ye?"
I take off my beret. "Look," I go, trying to reason with the dude, "cords on the table time, I'm a huge fan of Rog. In fact, he's, like, a personal friend of mine? Mention my name to him and he'll tell you. And yes, I'm a Leinster season ticket holder but do you think I wasn't cheering when Munster won the Heineken Cup?" I wasn't, just for the record.
"Dude," I go, "I can't go to jail. Imagine the fun they'd have in there with this bod."
He laughs and hands me back my brush. "She's mintal," he goes. I'm like, "What?" "Theresa," he goes. "She's not a psychiatric norse. She's a psychiatric patient. Ah, we know her years. Nutty as squirrel shite. But I saw you when I was passing in the car and I thought I'd have a bit of creck with you," then he walks back to his cor, cracking his hole laughing.
I have to say, roysh, I've nothing against the cops per se, but sometimes I have to agree with those four words that Ronan has tattooed across his right orm.
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Some goy called Toby goes, "Have to laugh at those eircom phonewatch ads on the radio, supposed to be like a burglar who ended up in jail cos he picked on a house that was covered, big middle class accent on him, since when did people like that start robbing gaffs?"Maybe there's more to this credit crunch than my old man told me.
Some dude who doesn't give his name is there, " Abercrombie hav opened belfast shop. Hope dublin enjoyed time as irelands first city b4 return to natural order."From Abercombats to Abercrombie in ten years. I hope it stays well for you.
Dude called Jarlath goes, " Am thinking of biting the bullet leaving d euphemistically called galway 'city'. What part of south dublin is best to live in. ps im loaded."
Bray is technically in Wicklow but given its love of GAA, its high number of unemployables and the tendency of the locals to reach for a bodhrán at the drop of a hat, it has been nicknamed the Galway of the East.