Times puts the hard questions to Ross O’Carroll Kelly
Have you ever been to Croke Park before?
Only in my worst, creatine-induced nightmares. To me, anything north of
Westmoreland Street is Northern Ireland - in other words, a foreign country
where I’ve no business being Probably one of the upsides of global warming
and the melting of the polar ice cap is that, one day, in the hopefully
not-too-distant future, the whole lot will be under the sea and Crock Park
will be part of some forgotten Atlantis.
That sounds like your old man talking - you must agree it’s a beautiful
stadium.
I’m sure the Christians said pretty much the same thing about the Coliseum
when they were being thrown to the lions.
So you’re not going to the game then?
Well, I didn’t actually say that. See, the old man, who’s actually in the
clink at the moment, keeps reminding me that an O’Carroll-Kelly has been
present at every Ireland home international since 1937. I’m not going to let
the fact that Ireland are playing their home matches in the Six Nations in
the spiritual home of Aslan, Lizzy Duke bling and tiger kidnappings put me
off going.
As a matter of interest, why is your father in jail?
Let’s just say, for something he didn’t do.
You mean, pay his taxes?
Er, pretty much.
So he clearly won’t be going to the game, then?
No. And that’s sort of, like, unfair? I mean, every summer they pretty much
open the doors of the Joy and let thousands of poor people out to support
“de Dubs” in the Leinster Football Championship. One of the conditions of
temporary release is that you don’t associate with known criminals. That
makes Hill 16 on most summer Sundays one big sweating parole violation. In
Adidas.
But the prison authorities have actually turned my old man’s application
down. It’s, like, one law for people with Barry McGuigan moustaches and
their names tattooed across their knuckles, and another for ridiculously
wealthy tax evaders from Foxrock.
Will he get to see it on television?
In the Joy? Are you yanking my chain? He’s tried to introduce one or two
goys from his landing to rugby but they can’t even pronounce the name.
Rubby, they call it. He pulled out a ball recently to show them how it
worked, roysh, and they hit the floor, thinking he was a suicide bomber. So
I wouldn’t imagine there’ll me much demand for the Governor stick on the old
Liza. I think the old man’s planning some kind of rooftop protest anyway.
He’s been making a banner in the workshop that just says, “Keep It South
Side”.
What about Ronan? Will he be going?
Yeah, he’ll be selling tickets at his usual pitch, outside the Clonliffe
House.
So, presuming you go, how will you get there?
Well, I’ve looked at the map and I’ve checked out a few options - Mi-2 light
armoured helicopter, F15 Eagle, Centauro 8x8 tank destroyer, obviously all
fitted with go-faster stripes, Big Bore 4 exhausts and a sound system that
sounds like it’s been stolen from the Point Depot - just to blend in and not
look conspicuous.
I’ve decided, though, that probably the safest option is to take the old
man’s 60-foot, Ocean-going oyster yacht in the direction of Howth, hang a
left just before Bull Island and pork it just behind the Canal End, where a
couple of Ronan’s friends - “heads” from the local flats - have promised to
look after it, for an obviously extortionate fee.
That’s provided the Cab don’t get their filthy Christian Andersons on it
before then.
Where will you be drinking before the game?
Onboard, definitely. The boat’s got, like, a full working bor and me and the
goys are going to have a bit of a corporate shindig beforehand. We’re
talking Caroline Morohan, Claire Byrne, Andrea Roche, Grainne Seoige, a few
of the Leinster goys who aren’t involved . . .
Michael McDowell’s angling for an invite but he can find some
continental-style caf bor to watch it in - see how he likes a taste of his
own medicine.
No room for Bertie either?
No. We’re not allowed to take Northsiders. The insurance doesn’t cover it.
Or maybe you blame him for the fact that rugby has come to this sorry pass,
with no home of its own and forced to go cap in hand to the GAA?
I’m still not 100 per cent convinced it’s going to happen. I wouldn’t rule
out a last-minute revolt by the players. They might still refuse to travel.
Okay, Drico will play - he’s from that port of the world. But what about the
rest of them? Wait’ll Shaggy and Dorce find out that Croker is closer to
Tamango’s than it is to Reynards.
Providing it does go ahead, what do you think of the idea of establishing a
human security corridor, using Garda reserves, between Tara Street and
Gardiner Street, to protect Southsiders on their way to the stadium?
That one of Geraldine’s ideas, is it? I like it but I’m not sure it goes far
enough. I think they should pedestrianise the Port Tunnel for the day.
Southsiders could be picked up at the RDS and bussed to the docks, where
they’d walk through the tunnel, to be met on the other side by another fleet
of buses that would take them to the ground. Each would have its windows
boarded up, so as to spare sensitive Southside eyes from the worst of the
destruction and depravity.
How do you feel about ‘God Save The Queen’ being played at Croke Park?
Look, if we have players from, like, Northern Ireland on the team, I say,
let them have their anthem.
Do you have any advice for Southsiders considering crossing the Liffey for
the game?
Yeah. Don’t carry large amounts of money. Don’t use the ATMs. Don’t make eye
contact with anyone. Actually, don’t go at all unless it’s completely
necessary.
Keep your Irish Times hidden at all times and under no circumstances attempt
to engage a local in a debate about the merits of Avoca’s new organic
wattleseed and walnut bread, whether the Saturday magazine says it’s hot or
not.
Avoid ostentatious demonstrations of wealth, as these can result in a sound
beating. Remember, the garda on this side of the city are mostly from the
country and are unlikely to be sympathetic towards you - even if you do
manage to overcome the language barrier.
Try, in so far as it’s possible, to “fit in” - buying “curry chips” and some
deep fried lard in batter from a local “chipper” - or perhaps investing five
euros in some strands of wool knotted together to form what’s known as a
“headband”.
Mention as often as you can that there was once a time when if you saw a
black man walking down O’Connell Street, you’d say, “Howiya, Phil,” because
you knew it’d be Phil Lynott. Mention also that Jackie Charlton put Ireland
on the map. This passes for intelligent discourse on this side of the city.
Oh, and if you intend driving to the ground, you will almost certainly be
“assisted” in identifying an available parking space by a local man wearing
a fluorescent bib. Bear in mind that he’s not giving up his afternoon
because he wants to make his Southside cousins feel welcome.
He’s extorting money from you - but try to consider being shaken down in
this way as part of the overall adventure. And obviously get back to the
Berkeley before it gets dark.