Deco from Cabra

The Adrian Kennedy PhoneShow on Irish radio must be one of the easiest platforms to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. I reckon half the callers and texts read out are fake. I know how easy it is to swindle listeners, the producers, and Adrian himself, because I did it myself for close to two hours, live on air.

The topic was men fighting on nights out. Too easy.

The first thing you need to do when you’re trying to get on The PhoneShow is send a text in. Don’t make it too far fetched though. Give it enough believability that the producers will bite. But get ready for what comes next, because if your initial text is what the producers want, you’ll get a call from them.

It was a late winter evening and I was sitting with my friends, parked up, in a local car park beside a football pitch. There was a row of cars full of us, each parked close together so conversations could be heard and joints easily passed back and forth. A typical Tuesday night for young lads in college. I was nineteen.

The lads knew I had texted in to The PhoneShow. But I don’t think anyone expected what was going to happen next.

Again, the topic was men fighting on nights out. I texted something like:

“Tell ur 1 ta shut da fuck up I always be in a scrap down me local its natural I luv it gets me mad respect in d local fuckin dopes talkin shite Deco in Cabra”

Two minutes later I got the call; private number.

‘Hello is this Deco?’ a posh south side woman’s accent asked me.

‘It is… eh, I mean…’ (Now doing my best inner city Dublin accent). ‘Yeh it is yeh.’

‘Hi Deco, this is Una calling from The Adrian Kennedy PhoneShow. You just texted in didn’t you?’

‘Yeh.’

“Great. I’d like to put you through to the show so you can join the live conversation on air, is that something you would be interested in doing?”

‘Eh, yeh. Wha’ever.’

‘Great, Deco. Just hold the line.’

The lads were all staring at me, excited and wide-eyed. I told them to hush. Everyone leaned in towards my phone.

I was put through to the show.

‘Adrian tell him to shut his fuckin mouth the stupid cunt. Eejit, so he is.,

‘Sarah, Sarah, please. I’ll have to ask you to not use that sort of language.’

‘But he is a fuckin eejit, Adrian, listen to him…’

‘…You shut your fuckin mouth!’

‘…John, please…’

‘…You see Adrian? He’s worse, fuckin eejit.’

‘OK, well let’s hear from Deco. Hello Deco are you there?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Deco, you said, and I’m reading your text here now, that fighting on a night out gets you “mad respect” in the pub. What do you mean by that?’

‘Just dat fightin is normal like. All lads do it. Your ones a dope der talkin shite.’

‘He can’t be serious, Adrian.’

‘Of course I’m bein serious. I’ve scars down me face and all and everyone knows not to touch me cos I can handle meself. All young lads should be able to handle demselves. Ye haven’t a clue what yer on about ye fuckin dope.’

‘And you do? Fighting makes you hard does it?’

‘Yeh, and the mots love it. I get loads of gee after I’ve floored some cunt.’

‘Deco, please, that sort of language isn’t acceptable.’

The conversation continued like that for close to two hours.

After the first few minutes, I had to leave the car I was sitting in and go stand in the cold, because the lads couldn’t stop laughing in the background and I didn’t want to blow my cover. Also, the lads obviously wanted to listen to the conversation, and there’s a twenty second delay between the actual conversation and what goes out live. So I couldn’t sit in the car with the radio blaring the delayed conversation.

Callers came and went, but Adrian kept me on the line throughout. I was stirring so much shit that people were getting really angry. It was too easy to wind some people up.

One man called in to say he’d like to see me put a pair of gloves on and get into an octagon. He said I’d crumble in an MMA fight. I called him a poxy little fairy who loves getting half naked and oiled up to hug his mates, and that he should skip all that and just go straight to riding fellas.

Another lad told me I was a coward, and that one day I’d get what was coming to me. I said the only thing coming to me was respect and his auld one.

During ad breaks, Adrain would talk to me personally.

‘Deco, how are you doing?’

‘Good yeh.’

‘Listen, this is great. I’m going to keep you going OK?’

‘Yeh grand yeh. Fuckin dopes the lot.’

‘Brilliant.’

It did get tiring at times though. I was standing out in the wind and cold so long my hands went pink and numb. My teeth were chattering and I needed a drink to cure my cotton mouth.

Every thirty minutes one of the lads would come over to me, silently, with a big smile and giving me the thumbs up. They’d hand me a half smoked spliff, because I’d chipped in on a bag with the rest of them, and then leave me with it. I’d make the hand signal for a drink and someone would grab me a water or Coke from one of the cars.

The distant laughter from the lads in the cars fed me. When I knew I’d said something good, I’d turn towards our row of parked cars and wait for their delayed response. Plumes of smoke billowed from the car windows. So did fits of laughter and choking coughs. It spurred me on.

Sometimes my accent slipped. Maybe the producers and Adrian noticed, but I doubt they cared. I was controversial, unrepentant, and winding the other callers up to the point of hysteria. Deco from Cabra, The PhoneShow’s wet dream.

I told Adrian I’d been glassed and bottled plenty of times, and had the scars to prove it. I said I wore my scars with pride, like war medals. I said any woman who says my behavior is disgusting is only lying to herself, because one sight of me knocking people out in a smoking area and their knickers would be drenched.

Adrain was loving it. He knew how angry everyone was getting with me. I reckon the phone lines in the studio were lighting up like the control centre on board the Millennium Falcon.

One caller – let’s call him Terry – said he was from Cabra as well, and he’d like to see me outside one of the locals for a straightener tomorrow night. I told Adrian I recognised Terry’s voice, and that Terry was a well known sham. I said Terry was always throwing shapes and running his mouth, but couldn’t back up the chat with his fists. I told Terry I’d seen him “go down more times than a bleedin whore with bills to pay, know what I mean Adrian?”

That really boiled Terry’s piss. He eventually had to be cut off the line because of anger and profanity.

I stayed on the line until the midway point in the show, where Adrian winds up the conversation and takes an extended ad break before changing the topic and getting new callers.

Then I joined the lads back in the cars.

I’d like to bump into Adrian Kennedy in a pub, or one of his producers, and ask how many callers he reckons are faking it. I reckon every night of the week there’s a group of stoned young lads parked up somewhere, giving it a go.