It's a major Hoff to get to Mountjoy, but worth it to see that Ronan and the old man are thick as thieves - though not as thick as, like, their plans for the place
There are some things that I would never tire of seeing. Like a French team literally kacking itself under pressure. Or that little flash of knicker you get when the bird in front of you on the bus sits forward and your eyes won't leave it alone, whether the bird looks like Billie Piper or Billy from EastEnders.
And then there's this - seeing them together, thick as, well, literally thieves.
I stand at the door of the visiting room but it's, like, ages before I even approach the table because, well, it's too much of a buzz just watching them, engrossed, I suppose, in each other's company, tears of laughter rolling down their faces.
It's the old man who cops me first. He's like, "Uh-oh - banter alert", at the top of his voice. "I'll wager there's joshing on the way, with side helpings of ribbing and repartee. And, for dessert, badinage and raillery, no doubt . . . " Just as I'm about to tell him to shut his big Von Trapp, Ronan goes, "Rosser, you bender!", and the entire visiting room just, like, erupts in laughter.
"You lot think it's okay for a 10-year-old kid to talk to his old man like that?," I'm suddenly going, to no one in particular, as I make my way over to where they're sitting. Of course they think it's okay - it's Mountjoy, not Mount Anville.
They're both delighted to see me, of course. "Haven't seen you since Christmas," he goes, like he's been chalking off the days on the wall of his cell.
I'm like, "What the fock do you expect? It's a major Hoff getting here, you know. I hate using the so-say and I wouldn't bring my cor out here unless I was pulling some kind of insurance job." "Well," the old man goes, looking happier than I've seen him since the famous Sheridans Cheesemongers sale of 1999, "it doesn't look like it'll be an issue for much longer - exclamation mark, new par," and when he's finished, like, punctuating, he turns to Ronan and goes, "Do you want to tell him, little chap?" Ronan sits up, proud as you like. "I've just been filling me granda in on the ins and outs of TR," he goes, waving a piece of paper at me.
Whatever TR is, I'm praying it's serious. Terminal something or other.
Rheumatism? Nah. Rickets? Too good for the focker.
"Temporary release!" the old man goes, loving the sound of his own voice echoing back at him in this room. "Full temporary release! Been told I should apply. Tipped the nod, quote-unquote. I've been a mostly exemplary prisoner, you see. I'll probably get it in lieu of remission," and he says it like he's expecting me to, like, jump for joy or some shit? "Mostly exemplary?" I go. "What about your stint up on the roof?" He laughs. "Well, I wasn't in possession of my full faculties. I think that rugby at Croke Park business must have gotten to me. Anyway, the powers that be, quote-unquote, were prepared to write it off as a temporary mental aberration, on account of the leadership role I've played here in the prison and my general attitude towards rehabilitation. Ronan here's been explaining the terms of this TR to me. Tell Ross the last one you told me, Ronan - we've been laughing . . . " Ro goes, "Temporary release is granted subject to certain conditions, including - the requirement that you do not consort or otherwise associate with known criminals . . . " "I said, that's my friendship with Hennessy down the pan," the old man goes. "Good Lord, walking through the door of Shanahan's could be a parole violation by itself." I'm looking around me, thinking, it's a focking miracle this goy hasn't ended up in an isolation unit.
"Alreet, Charlie," Ronan goes then, "here's another one for you. You'll love this - the requirement to maintain sober habits . . . " The old man puts his head in his hands. "No Shelbourne Bar!" he goes. "I'm beginning to think I'd be better off in here, drinking Lex's awful hooch . . . "
"Number three - the requirement not to publish or communicate anything to the media . . . " "What?" he goes, but actually serious this time. "They expect me to retire the old Mont Blanc for the duration? No more of my world famous letters to the paper of record? No more of my robust opinions on the big issues of the day or my witty observations written in short, staccato sentences? It won't wash. Mark my words - there'll be editorials about this . . . "
I can't believe I took my life in my hands to come here to find out that they're actually considering letting the dickhead out. Then I'm thinking, I'll have to, like, ransack his study over the weekend, see can I give the Feds any more goods on him - get him banged up for another few years.
The conversation suddenly flags and I mention that it said on the radio this morning that this place might be turned into a hotel when they open that new super prison out in Moccasin County.
Suddenly, I see something pass between Ronan and the old man - a look.
"Are you telling me you're behind it!" I suddenly go.
He's like, "Well, right now, it's only a proposal. Something Hennessy and I have been putting together . . . " Ronan's there, "Breathe a word of it to anyone, Rosser, and you'll be propping up the fooken foundations." "Makes good business sense," the old man goes. "The Berkeley's gone. Jurys with it. And the Burlington. The city's crying out for more hotel beds. This place," he goes, looking up, "gets a bad rap - but the structure is sound. They knew how to build, the Victorians."
I'm there, "So, what happens? They move all the poor people out and you move a load of rich people in? That's it?"
"Well," he goes, "it'll need a lick of paint, of course. More than that. Hennessy and I, we got a surveyor in. Well, misappropriation of funds got him in, if you want to be a pedant. But he's given the place the full NCT. No more than five million to renovate it." I'm there, "Five million sheets? You're forgetting one thing - you're Keith Flint." He doesn't answer.
I'm like, "Because you remember you told me that the Revenue and the Criminal Assets crowd took everything we owned - you do remember telling me that, don't you? Just before I had to stort using public transport . . . " He doesn't say a Charlie Bird, just carries on staring at the wall.
I'm like, "Well? Did they?"