Roysh, I’m only bombing along the Stillorgan dualler in the old Beamer with the sounds blaring out when I’m brought to a shuddering halt by the Gords.
I’m all ready to fess up when I remember it’s Marathon Day and we should ‘expect diversions’.
It’s actually a Citroen Xara Picasso, it’s gentle jazz on the music deck, Sarah is driving and I’m devouring the latest Ross O’Carroll-Kelly book, but go with me here, I’m in character.
The Gord directs me round the houses until I see it in front of me, my pleasure dome, Xanadu, if that’s actually a word, or place, the InterContinental Dublin, the old Four Seasons, and this Gord won’t let me though the barriers, even though I’ve nearly got residence here.
Marathon runners, more like refugees form the Foxrock Senior Tennis team, are by now, walking, no, stumbling through Ballsbridge.
Forty minutes later we’re eventually parking the cor and I’ve a thirst on me like that Old Wgon Fionnaulla first thing in the morning.
But I’m brought back to the moment by the filthies I’m getting from Sorcha, sorry Sarah, who is late for her facial which is OMG, or as Chloe told Amie with an ‘ie’ only the best, even better than the one she had in Cannes and the one that Kim always has when she’s in town.
I head for Kiely’s to see if Oisin, JP, Fionn and Christian have been allowed out to play.
Don’t tell the Goys but they’ve only got football on above the bar.
I drain my fourth Ken and am out of there, checking the sign on my way out to see if it was the same old Kiely’s I’d lived in since I was a mini-rugby star.
This is SoDu, South Dublin, Leinster rugby heartland, and where I have worked and played for the last dozen years.
On my arrival here I was thrown a Ross O’Carroll-Kelly book as an introduction… I have watched him grow up as I have my own ‘Kicker’, the Son and Heir, who is in the RDS with the rest of the Canto-clad Jocks and semi-clad Sorchas, Chlies, Erikas and Muirgheals for Metropole, a DJ set.
Myself and Sarah are here for a relaxing overnight stay at the D4 institution that is the InterContinental.
I join her in the Spa and Leisure Centre where she confirms everything Amie with an ‘ie’ had said.
I pass by the gym, flex, and look at my reflection. One careful user, bodywork in fine working order.
I do opt to use the sauna to sweat off the booze though.
We pass the time before dinner in our suite which only acts as a reminder that we need to replace our own furniture while the two televisions has got me thinking too.
And as for the bed and shower, my two favourite things in life… they might have to drag me out of here.
InterContinental’s famous Ice Bar is closed so we grab a snifter in Paddy Cullen’s, one of a number of rugby pubs on the main drag before negotiating our way back past the revellers from the RDS…. my famous body swerve has never left me.
The InterContinental is bedecked in Halloween decorations for the week that’s in it and naturally my mind turns to that old Weapon of Mass Destruction, Fionnuala, that and the beautiful smell of food wafting out of the Reading Room. She is an amazing cook, though, of course, I’d never tell her that.
My own Sarah is too and I do tell her which is why it’s good that she’s got a night off cooking for me, The Son and Heir and Daddy’s Little Girl.
The food at the InterCon is fabulous, Sarah looks enviously at my baby-back ribs (thd dish, of course) before settling for chicken wings as they are all out.
As there’s no such thing as too much meat, I go for the beef sirloin with mushroom sauce and vegetables while Sarah opts for the Chicken Caesar Salad, all washed down with a Portuguese red.
The dulcet tones of Carole King and Frank Sinatra waft through the room. That’s Life and I can’t deny it.
It’s easy to see why Ross and his clan spend so much of their lives here… it’s pure indulgence.
It’s time to retire for the night… Sarah indulges me and I finish off my Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.
The InterContinental? You absolute Ledge. Visit www.intercontinentaldublin,.ie.