Jack Irish: Black Tide

Jack Irish,

well, I'll be buggered.

Last time I saw you, about this high

you were, in short pants.

Des Connors. How are you, fella?

Des...

Yeah, look, the daughter-in-law's

been driving me mad

about getting me will done,

and I happened to look up

the phone books

and I happened to see

this John Irish.

Thought, 'I wonder...'

and here you are.

And by Christ, son, you're the dead

spit of your old man.

Him and me were teammates,

you know, a long time ago,

and you would have to be

a ruck rover.

Oh, Des, I'm considered a bit

of an evolutionary cul-de-sac

in the Irish family.

Anyway, come inside.

Hey, Jack, you wouldn't happen

to have a local around here, would

you mate?

And tell me, son, your mother.

Is she still sound?

No, she kicked the bucket,

I'm afraid.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. That

happens. That's a pity.

She a good looker, your Mum.

She was.

I was with Bill the first day

he spotted her.

I guess you've heard that story

a million times.

No. No, I haven't, actually.

Anyway, here we are.

My other office.

Ah, Bill and I sank some frothies in

here back in the day.

Yeah, I bet you did.

Of course, it's all changed

since then.

The Fitzroy Youth Club.

Afternoon, gents.

G'day, mate. Hey, Jack.

Can you give us a round, Stan?

Sure, mate.

Des Connors...

Half back flank,

53 games for the Roys.

Done your knee, what was that,

round 17, 1969, Windy Hill?

Just a player.

Played with your old man, Jack.

Ah, yes, I did that, but I was never

in Bill Irish's league.

Never. One hell of a footballer, was

Bill Irish.

Deadset champion.

Prince among men.

God-like, he was.

A hard God.

Legs like tree trunks.

What was he like, Des?

Yeah, you must have some stories.

His feet stunk.

He had very, very smelly feet, that

fella.

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