Things are getting tight. I haven’t moved from this bed in days, I feel the walls closing in on me. I have to do something to lift myself from this grim torpor. I know, I’ll make a few calls.
First up is Irish Life & Permanent. I spoke to a lovely girl called Mairead in their customer service department. I explained to Mairead that henceforth I had absolutely no intention of furnishing them with a red cent of the vast amount of money I owe them for my six bedroomed aberration on the edge of Edgeworthstown. Mairead said that was grand, don’t give it a second thought, sure there’s thousands like you. She also told me I was exceedingly charming and had a lovely phone voice. She wondered would I be interested in going for a coffee sometime. I told her I was married and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre fiduciary love triangle. Furthermore I have nothing to offer now apart from butter vouchers, pipe dreams and a rapidly dwindling collection of expensive toiletries.
Next up is Jim Bolger. I explained to Jim that henceforth I had absolutely no intention of furnishing him with a red cent of the fees for the very promising two year old colt by Sadler’s Wells out of an Oaks winning mare that he has in training down there in Carlow for me. Jim said that was grand, don’t give it a second thought, sure there’s thousands like you. He said he’d see me at Tipp v Cork in Semple on Sunday and we’d have a chat about the situation, maybe we could come to some “arrangement”. I felt uncomfortable with the implication and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre equine love triangle. I wished him luck and hung up.
I gave Nedzad over in Croatia a buzz. I told him to down tools immediately and cease work on my four thousand square foot Adriatic beach house. Boy did he sound upset. Jeeeesus. I think he told me to eff off in about eight different dialects. They all sound so aggressive though those people, don’t they? It turns out the poor hoor was actually telling me that’s grand sure there’s thousands like you and that I had a lovely ass and would I like to go out on a day trip to Sarajevo with him sometime. I had to email him later to explain that I was married and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre Balkan love triangle. He replied to say that was cool but he would still be needing the two hundred grand I owe him. (Note to self: prepare budget spreadsheet to get a handle on some of this stuff)
I decided to give Sean Fitzpatrick a ring to vent my anger at him for having deliberately put a bunch of numbers in the wrong column on a report thereby bringing about Armageddon. I asked him could he talk, was this a bad time. He said there’s no such thing as a bad time when you’ve just drawn a sweet three wood to within twenty yards on the tricky par five twelfth. You can sing that I said, I used to get the same feeling when I got a skimcoat mix just right. Ah, those were the days, we thought the sweet music of the mixer would last forever.
I came right out and asked him why he felt the need to ruin my life. He asked me how much I had invested in Anglo. Nothing I told him, in fact I never heard of you or your bank until a couple of months ago. Well how do you make out I ruined your life then, he asked me. Because Gene Kerrigan told me you did, I replied. He proceeded to tell me to eff off in about eight different dialects. I apologised for the confusion, wished him luck with the par three thirteenth and hung up. He rang me back to tell me he liked my style and that I was the type who could go places in his organisation. What organisation is that I asked, Opus Dei he replied. Jaysus wept I told him and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre ecclesiastical love triangle. I wished him luck and hung up.
I thought how funny it is how golf and our approach to it has crystallised our attitudes and framed the debate on the boom and sudden bust. Five years ago images of Fitzy and his buddies playing golf would have garnered nothing but approval from all quarters. We would have lauded these corporate giants networking and making the decisions that were facilitating the continuation of our grand lifestyles. Now a similar image provokes such derision and contempt that to be photographed on the fairway nowadays is the equivalent of being photographed clubbing baby seals.
I wonder was Fitzy always a golfer or did he just take to it when the shit hit the fan in order to rub it in? Having spoken to him it certainly seems like the kind of flourish of which he would be capable.
Anyway much done, more to do. I will have to shop in Lidl tomorrow. You’re already shopping in a landfill. Seamus, formerly of number 46 across the way, is living in a landfill and has changed his name to Paddy Neary to avoid the shame and embarrassment. It’s still you Seamus, as Dara O’ Briain would say.
P.S. Fidelma from New Tone spa and fitness centre just called looking for this month’s dues. She can sing for it. Anyway according to Fidelma herself I’m fit enough already. Never knew my luck with the ladies was inversely proportionate to Gross National Product.
Let the bad times roll.
