Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, PS, I scored the bridesmaids E-Book

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Ross O'Carroll Kelly
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 422

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

So there I was, roysh, twenty-three years of age, still, like, gorgeous and rich, living off my legend as a schools rugby player, scoring the birds, being the man, when all of a sudden, roysh, life becomes a total mare. I don't have a Betty Blue what's wrong, but I can't eat, can't sleep, I don't even want to do the old beast with two backs, which means a major problem, and we're talking big time here. Normally my head is so full of, like thoughts, but now I'm down to just one: Sorcha, I'm playing it Kool and the Gang, but this is basically scary. I mean, I'm Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, for fock's sake, I don't do love.

Leseprobe

Reviews

ROSS O’CARROLL-KELLY

‘PURE AND UTTER DICKLIT

The infantile ramblings of a privileged south Dublin airhead. A Golf GTI ride through a world of moral entropy, social advantage, conspicuous consumption and alcohol-driven sexual misadventure. This book sets the women’s movement back forty years. It’s like Germaine Greer was never born. Its author – if he can even be described as such – is Holden Caulfield on ten pints of Heineken with a pure testosterone chaser, and what he has to say is puerile, misogynistic trash. If this is what the Celtic Tiger has spawned, then roll on the next recession.’

Sunday Tribune

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the Dublin City Council that finally gives Bob Geldof the freedom of the city.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Mum, Dad, Mark, Vin and Rich for the memories. Thanks to Matt Cooper for making Ross a star. Thanks to Paddy Murray and Jim Farrelly for not letting it go to the boy’s head. Thanks to Ger Siggins, Maureen Gillespie, Deirdre Sheeran and Colm Voyles for being inspiring. Thanks to Alan Clarke whose pen has breathed new life into Ross. Thanks to Emma whose design work makes these books sing. Thanks to Rachel Pierce, an editor who was once again right about everything and who made this book twice what it might otherwise have been. And a very special thank-you to Michelle Murphy and Sarah and Karl Holmes – the wedding planners.

Contents

Reviews

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1: To Have and to Hold

CHAPTER 2: To Love and to Cherish

CHAPTER 3: To Honour and Obey

CHAPTER 4: For Better or Worse

CHAPTER 5: For Richer or Poorer

CHAPTER 6: In Sickness and in Health

CHAPTER 7: And Forsaking All Others

CHAPTER 8: All the Days of Our Lives

CHAPTER 9: Oh, and PS …

About the Author

Other books by Paul Howard

Copyright

Got this, like,

Valey’s Day cord from Sorcha, roysh, we’re talking six or seven months ago, when I was throwing her a bone for a little while. She basically arrived home from Australia minus Penis Head, Cian or whatever his name was, that tool she went off with on the so-called romantic trip of a lifetime. Realised the spark wasn’t there anymore, she said, and they both wanted different things in life – code for Cian storted rattling some other Sheila. So she comes home and after a couple of days, roysh, and not wanting to sound like a total orsehole here, let’s just say it’s not just her tail she’s got between her legs. The girl’s got it bad, alroysh. So sue me. It’s, like, phone us now for your free consultation. Just dial 1850 STUD MUFFIN. No foal, no fee.

Anyway, we ended up being together maybe, like, three times, roysh, when this cord arrives and in it she’s written, ‘You are the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep at night,’ which I was sure she robbed off a Westlife record, or ‘Dawson’s Creek’, or some, I don’t know, Patricia focking Scanlon book. Or maybe they learn it in school. Yeah, I can hear a lot of birds out there shifting uncomfortably in their seats. And with good reason. Your secret’s out. Goys, remember that time in sixth class when the priest took us all out to play, I don’t know, tag rugby or some shit, and all the birds had to stay behind for a chat with some woman teacher who was focking morto? Thought it was about the blob, didn’t you? The old period costume drama. Wear loose trousers, hold a hot-water bottle to your stomach and try not to stab any men. News flash, goys. That little chat, it had fock-all to do with telling the birds what to do when Munster are playing at home. It was like, ‘How To Get A Goy: Step One – tell him he’s the first thing you think about when you get up in the morning and the last thing you think about before you go to sleep at night. They’re suckers for that shit,’ which we basically are. I even find myself repeating it back to Sorcha, like a total sap, going, ‘You’re the first thing I think about in the morning as well. And the last thing I think about at night,’ and it’s total bullshit and the thing is, roysh, we’re talking totally here. I could name fifty things I think about in the morning before Sorcha ever crosses my mind. You want to take that bet?

Jessica Alba. Jade Jagger. Christina Ricci. Anna Kournikova. Ali Landry. Heidi Klum. Halle Berry. Gail Porter. Drew Barrymore. Katie Holmes. Denise Richards. Teri Hatcher. Yasmine Bleeth. Tiffani Amber Thiessen. Angelina Jolie. Isla Fischer. Calista Flockhart. Why not? Estella Warren. Heather Graham. Claudia Schiffer. Gillian Anderson. Andrea Corr. Rachel Stevens. Liz Hurley. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Alicia Silverstone. Natalie Imbruglia. Billie Piper. Alyson Hannigan. Rebecca Romjin-Stamos. What am I up to? Thirty? Amanda Holden. Cat Deeley. Sarah Michelle Gellar. Holly Valance. Britney Spears. Anna Friel. Shania Twain. Jennifer Aniston. Tyra Banks. Liv Tyler. Charisma Carpenter. Neve Campbell. Elisha Cuthbert. Kirsten Dunst. Hannah Spearitt. Penelope Cruz. Mena Suvari. Claire Danes. Ashley Judd. Kate Beckinsale.

There you have it. Fifty cures for the old morning wood. You wake up at ten o’clock and your little love warrior’s already been up an hour. This book was going to be called The Goy Who Went To Sleep In A Bed And Woke Up In A Tent, but they couldn’t fit it on the focking cover. I know there’s a lot of birds out there whose blood is, like, boiling at this point. Hey, I’m called an orsehole on average ten or eleven times a week. Twice that if I venture out to Knackery Doo, which isn’t often these days. I’ve overfished the waters. But the last time I was there, roysh, a bird who I’d never clapped eyes on in my focking life – nobody’s bargain, to be honest – she goes, ‘Your problem is you think with your dick,’ which is basically all true, except for the bit about it being a problem. Because it’s not. I do think with my dick. Or at least I listen to it, roysh, and that’s because it’s hordly ever wrong. Okay, I’ve woken up with a few mingers in my time, but generally I do alroysh.

Listening to your lad. You know another word – well, two words – for that? Animal attraction. So snap the bracelets on me, roysh, and take me to see the judge, but while you’re at it, you’re going to have to charge the rest of the animal kingdom as well, because they’re choosing who to score and who not to score on exactly the same basis as me. It’s nature. Birds – as in women – think they’re, like, cleverer than nature. Want to know on what basis they decide whether a goy is worth jumping? Come on, you know this. How many times have you heard a girl say that you can tell a lot about a man by looking at his shoes. His focking SHOES! ‘Slip-ons, Orlaith, do NOT go there!’ ‘OH! MY! GOD! They’re not even proper Dubes, Eibhin!’

Get this, roysh. JP was seeing this bird who he was basically mad into. The name’s not important, but she had great top tens and an alroysh boat. Chatted her up while showing her old pair around a gaff in Monkstown that they were buying as, like, an investment property. So he gets her number, roysh, and they end up going out with each other for, like, six months. It’s so serious, roysh, that me and the goys didn’t see the focker for basically ages and when he finally resurfaced he was talking about, like, babies and engagement rings and mortgages and shit. So one night, roysh, they’re in Annabel’s and JP’s wearing a pair of Timberland boots. He’s actually sitting down, roysh, shooting the breeze with me, when he stands up to get the Britneys in and doesn’t realise that the bottom of his chinos are tucked into his boot, just at the back. So he ends up walking around like this for, like, five full minutes, roysh, and his bird cops it, as do all her friends. So what does she do? OH! MY GOD! SOembarrassing! She focking dumps the dude. These are the same creatures who sit crying with the curtains drawn wondering why their hearts are low, their hearts are soooo low … Want to know what JP’s ex is up to now? She’s with some tosser who played for Belvo when we were at school and he’s already boned two of her friends behind her back. Wears nice shoes, though. And birds think I’m focked up? You see, the whole goy-girl thing, roysh, is basically simple. It’s birds who choose to complicate things. You meet a bird. If you’re attracted to her, you bail in. If she’s good, you give her your mobile number the next morning. If she’s not, you give her the first ten digits that come into your head. And you don’t get married, not this side of forty anyway.

So just as I’m thinking this, roysh, I pull up in traffic outside the church in Donnybrook, and everyone’s, like, craning their necks out of their windows to see this bird in a long white dress getting out of a wedding cor, and of course I’m thinking, ‘What a dope!’ She’s only, like, my age, we’re talking twenty-two or twenty-three, roysh, a ringer for Abie Titmus, and she’s about to walk into that building and swear that she’s only going to knob one man for the rest of her days. HELLO? So the bridesmaids are fixing the veil on her, roysh, and fussing around her when all of a sudden, for absolutely no reason – and I did not imagine this – she looks over her shoulder, towards my cor, and basically our eyes just, like, lock together. And I can tell, roysh, that in her mind she’s wondering if she’s doing the right thing. She’s wondering why she’s settling for the muppet at the altar when there’s still people like me in the game. She’s basically going to herself, ‘I’d love to jump in that cor. Escape. Go wherever the Stillorgan dualler takes us. Make a new life with that incredibly handsome goy.’ I wink at her and she just, like, smiles at me, but then the goy behind me beeps me because the traffic has storted moving again, so I give the accelerator some and she’s left there thinking

 

Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. The one that got away …

 

CHAPTER ONE

To Have and to Hold

‘Do you know how difficult it is to get wisteria in this country?’ That’s what Oisinn says to me, standing there in his long, white coat, surrounded by hundreds of bottles and, like, test tubes filled with, like, funny coloured liquids, which he’s heating over a Bunsen burner. He goes, ‘Do you know how difficult it is to get wisteria in this country?’ and I’m like, ‘I don’t know what the fock that is and I don’t care either. Come on, dude, let’s get mullered,’ because the rest of the goys have been in the M1 since, like, half-six.

He goes, ‘I was going to maybe mix it with vanilla, ginger and sandalwood, but I’m wondering would it be too close to BlvAbsolute,’ and I’m just standing there staring at him, thinking the goy has seriously lost the plot this time. Couple of weeks ago, roysh, he chucked in that handy number he had going out at the airport to try to basically invent a new smell, lash it in a bottle and flog it to Calvin Klein or one of that crowd for a million sheets. So his old pair’s shed suddenly looks like the focking science lab in Castlerock. He’s like, ‘I suppose if I go easy on the musk accords,’ and I go, ‘Dude, this is your last chance. Are you coming for scoops or not?’ He sniffs this one bottle, roysh, then looks at me, cops that I’m serious and goes, ‘All work and no play. Suppose you’re roysh,’ then he whips off the lab coat and twenty minutes later the two of us are stepping into the Merrion Inn, every set of female eyes in the place glued to us.

Christian greets me by going, ‘Why you slimy, double-crossing, no-good swindler. You’ve got a lot of guts coming here after what you pulled,’ and we high-five each other and I get the Britneys in, three Kens and one Probably. JP’s in flying form. No sign of Fionn, though, the focking geek. JP goes, ‘Looking suave and debonair, my man,’ and I’m there, ‘Likewise, dude,’ which he is, I have to say. The property morket’s obviously treating him well. He flicks his thumb in Christian’s direction and he goes, ‘Did George Lucas there tell you his news?’ I look at Christian and he goes, ‘I’m making a film, Ross,’ and I end up nearly spitting beer all over him, roysh. Making a film? I wouldn’t trust him to get one developed, best friend and all as he is. He goes, ‘It’s no joke, padwan. Got a grant through the college and everything,’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah, roysh,’ and he goes, ‘Ten Ks,’ and I just freeze, my pint glass about two inches away from my lips. I go, ‘Ten thousand bills? They’re giving you ten thousand bills to make a movie?’ and he just, like, nods his head.

I’m there, ‘That’s it. It’s got to be a porno,’ and JP and Oisinn just, like, high-five each other, as if to say, you know, the goy’s a focking genius. I can actually see it. I’m like, ‘It’s Christmas. Everyone’s having fun at the office porty. Everyone except, I don’t know, twenty-one-year-old receptionist Christine, who the boss has asked to work late. So Christine’s pretty fit, roysh, but she doesn’t, like, make the most of herself, we’re talking glasses, hair up in a bun, and here she is, roysh, slaving away while everyone else is off enjoying themselves. Boss pops back to the office and before you know it she’s whipping off the specs, shaking down her hair–’ and JP goes, ‘And he does her from behind while photocopying her baps and faxing them to the office in Tampere. It’s been done before, Ross. But respect to the porno idea.’ ‘Em, actually,’ Christian goes, ‘it’s going to be more of a science fiction film really. I’m planning to present a distant future in which a space pirate, loosely based on you-know-who, gets a fit of conscience, gives up his roguish ways and settles down on Makkerat, a strange planet where no one grows old and no one dies. There he falls in love with a girl called Azanda who, unbeknownst to our hero, is a shape-changer and also a secret agent for the Empire.’ And we’re all just, like, staring at him.

Eventually, I go, ‘I’ve got someone in mind to play Christine. We’re talking Emer,’ and Oisinn goes, ‘Howth Emer?’ and I’m like, ‘Sandycove Emer. Used to be in ballet with Sorcha,’ and JP goes, ‘Ten-four, I’m hearing you loud and clear, dude. The bird would do anything to be famous. Puts her name down for everything. We’re talking ‘Big Brother’. We’re talking ‘Pop Idol’.’ I go, ‘And I was thinking, who better to play the boss than my good self?’ and Oisinn and JP both high-five me and go, ‘Stud muffin,’ and I’m there, ‘Well, I’ve been there before. Me and Emer have this, chemistry, you see. On-screen it’ll be pure focking magic.’

Christian goes, ‘Our hero has bad debts all over the galaxy and Azanda’s job is to bring him in. But of course she soon finds herself falling in love with him,’ and I go ape-shit listening to him, roysh, I’m like, ‘Christian, don’t touch that focking money until we’ve had a proper talk,’ and he looks at me like he’s about to burst out crying, roysh, and even though I feel pretty bad for hurting the dude’s feelings, I’ve got to be, like, firm with him. I go, ‘It’s not going to be a focking science fiction film, okay? I’m putting my foot down, Christian. It’s going to be a porno and that’s that.’

The focker would end up spending the money on, I don’t know, light sabres or some shit. The beauty of my idea, roysh, is that it’ll cost pretty much fock-all to make. We’re talking seven-and-a-half Ks for my services, leaving two-and-a-half for whatever other overheads there are. Emer will do it for free, that much I can guarantee, and we can use JP’s old man’s office for the filming. The photocopier can be a bit dodgy, but we’ll film it at night so we can do plenty of takes. We’re talking lights, camera, action, baby.

‘Have you heard from that tool you went to Australia with?’ That’s what I say to Sorcha, roysh, but she just, like, shoots me a filthy and goes, ‘His name happens to be Cillian. And yes, Ross, we’re still friends.’ I’m there, ‘After he abandoned you in Sydney?’ and quick as a flash, roysh, she goes, ‘How’s Christian?’ which is basically a subtle reminder to me that I’m not exactly the nicest goy in the world myself. Then she goes, ‘Sorry. That was uncalled for. Why am I always such a total bitch to you?’ and I shrug my shoulders, roysh, and she goes, ‘I suppose I have been listening to a lot of Mary J Blige lately.’

She looks great. Her year away doing fock-all except spending her old pair’s money really suited her. She’s still got that just-back-from-holidays look even though she’s back, like, six months or something, and looking across the table at her, roysh, I realise that I SO want to be with her today. I go, ‘There was no one else, Sorcha. While you were away,’ and she nearly chokes on a mouthful of water. She must be back on Weight Watchers, the way she’s knocking back that stuff. She goes, ‘Sorry, Ross, but I simply can’t let that one go. What about Melanie?’ and of course I’m like, ‘Melanie?’ playing the innocent. She goes, ‘You know very well who I’m talking about. And Siun.’ I’m there, ‘Siun was a mistake,’ and she’s like, ‘Was Ali a mistake, too?’ and I’m there, ‘Who’s Ali?’ and she goes, ‘Ali would be Siun’s sister, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘Was that her name?’ and I tell her I can’t believe they’ve taken the tuna melt off the menu, just to try to, like, change the subject. She goes, ‘Of course, why should I be surprised that you didn’t even ask the girl her name before you slept with her? You were with Tamara as well. Anna. Lucy. Elaine. Lia …’ and I’m like, ‘Okay, okay. Didn’t know you were keeping score.’ She pours herself some more water and sort of, like, smiles to herself, all smug, and goes, ‘Not keeping score, Ross. Keeping you in your place,’ and I think I’ve got it bad for this girl again.

We order and the food arrives. She picks all the blue cheese and olives out of her blue cheese and olive salad and leaves them on her side plate. Don’t ask. As she’s doing this, she goes, ‘What are you doing at the moment, we’re talking careerwise?’ Careerwise? I’m like, ‘Well, I’m pretty much chilling at the moment, basically,’ and she goes, ‘You were pretty much chilling at the moment basically when I went to Australia. Your life is passing you by, Ross, and you’ve done nothing with it,’ and she makes it sound like a bad thing. She’s back working in her old dear’s boutique, which is hordly, like, the end of the focking rainbow.

She asks me with a totally straight face if I’ve been following what’s been happening in Singapore, and I tell her with a totally straight face that I’ve kind of lost track of it in the past few weeks. She tells me that fifteen members of the Falun Gong spiritual group were – OH! MY! GOD! – arrested for holding, like, a vigil in memory of the group members who, like, died in custody in China? We’re talking, HELLO? I’m there, ‘No focking way,’ and I’m wondering was that a bit OTT, but she just goes, ‘And now Chee Soon Juan – he’s, like, the leader of the opposition – he’s facing, like, a defamation suit from the Prime Minister for asking questions – we’re talking questions – about a multibillion dollar loan to Suharto. It’s like, Duuuhhh!’ I throw my eyes up to heaven and I go, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another, eh?’ and she sort of, like, stares into the distance and goes, ‘I know. The world is SUCH a focked-up place. Bush is going to attack Iraq as well, whether the United Nations gives him the mandate or not. It’s like, OH MY GOD!’

Her phone beeps, roysh, and it’s, like, a text. She reads it and goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I nearly forgot – I’m meeting Andrea this afternoon,’ and I wonder if it’s the same Andrea I ended up knobbing after Annabel’s about two weeks ago. Sorcha goes, ‘She’s doing politics in UCD.’ It’s her alroysh. She’s there, ‘She has to present a paper this afternoon. ‘Sterilisation – A Solution to Northern Ireland’s Troubles.’ She thinks that everyone who earns less than £30,000 a year in the North should be neutered, thus wiping out the working classes who actually cause all the problems. It’s a bit extreme for my political taste, but I said I’d look over it for her. Actually, you and her would have a lot in common.’

I try to play it Kool and the Gang, roysh, wondering whether Andrea’s actually said anything, but Sorcha breaks her shite laughing and goes, ‘I believe you two already know each other?’ and I can feel my face go red. She goes, ‘It’s okay, Ross. I’m not jealous. I am SO over you, it’s like, Aaaggghhh. Watch her, though. She might be one of my best friends, but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I’d throw her.’

We finish lunch and she pays using her gold cord, roysh, and as I get up to go she’s just there, ‘Leanne Rimes’ GreatestHits,’ and of course I’m there, ‘Sorry?’ and she goes, ‘Andrea said it went missing from her aportment the night you stayed over. Don’t tell me you and the other goys are still playing that stupid game?’ That stupid game, roysh, happens to be called Petty Pilfering and not only are we still playing it, roysh, but we’ve got, like, a thousand bills riding on the current game. Basically, roysh, me and the goys – we’re talking me, Christian, JP, Oisinn and Fionn – we all threw, like, two hundred sheets each into the pot, which adds up to basically a grand, roysh, and it goes to whichever one of us reaches the magical fifty number first. And whoever finishes last, roysh – it’ll be Fionn, of course – has to do a forfeit. The winner gets to pick a song off one of his fifty CDs which the loser has to, like, perform while standing on the bor in the Club of Love. Petty Pilfering, you can’t beat it.

I go, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sorcha,’ which is technically true, roysh, because the CD I stole from Andrea was, like, Short Sharp Shocked by Michelle Shocked. Unless I’m very much mistaken it was Oisinn who stole her Leanne Rimes CD, and if she can’t keep track of who’s robbing what from her, then she’s probably putting it about a bit too much. Sorcha goes, ‘When are you going to grow up, Ross?’ and I look down at my plate trying to look, I don’t know, ashamed I suppose. Then as she gets up, roysh, she kisses me on the cheek and goes, ‘Still cute, though,’ and she says she’ll text me. I watch her leave. Still has a great orse.

I walk into the kitchen and, of course, Dickhead’s in there being his usual dickhead self. He’s got the phone up to his ear, roysh, and the second he sees me he puts his hand over the mouthpiece and goes, ‘I take it from your less-than-cheerful countenance that you’ve yet to hear the joyous news?’ and I’m there, ‘Shut the fock up, you absolute orsehole.’ He goes, ‘The Bertie Bowl, Ross. It’s history. Charlie Bird’s been on the news. Mary Harney’s put her foot down. Rugby on the northside. The very idea. I’m on to the florists now.’

I’m about to tell him, roysh, that he’s the biggest knob I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet when he takes his hand away from the mouthpiece all of a sudden and he goes, ‘Hello? Yes, I’ve been holding for ten minutes. Used to love ‘The Entertainer’, now I wouldn’t care if I never heard the damned tune again. Want to order a wreath, please. Just a regular funeral wreath. Doesn’t matter what flowers. And could you put on the card: RIP Knacker Park. Yes, Knacker Park. Yes, it’s going to Mister Bertie Ahern, Taoiseach, Leinster House, Kildare Street, Dublin 2, thank you very much indeed. Oh and put a couple of exclamation marks after RIP Knacker Park. Three. No, four. Is four overdoing it? No, three then.’

What a tool.

I get a text from JP and it’s like, Scord Nicki Carney lst nite. Robbd In Your Time, Mark Owen’s nvr-populr solo effrt, and I text him back, Respect! and he just goes, Affluence!

I hit Kiely’s, roysh, having basically arranged to meet Fionn for a few scoops, but of course Goggle Features is too busy to even notice me, sat up at the bor he is, with his focking groupies, three or four freshers, total airheads, roysh, and coming from me that’s saying something. Should see them, roysh, hanging on his every word, because of course he’s, like, lecturing in UCD now. Lechering, more like. He’s going, ‘Well, yes, Emile Durkheim is the father of modern sociology after a fashion. But don’t forget about Max Weber’s contribution,’ which I’d rip the total piss out of him for if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m here looking for a favour from him. Eventually, roysh, the dude decides to actually acknowledge my existence.

He goes, ‘The very man. There we were, talking about humankind’s deepest thinkers and suddenly you walk in,’ and I can’t make out whether he’s, like, taking the piss, but the birds all crack up, so he might be. He does the introductions. One of them, her name’s, like, Julie-Ann – nice rack, but a brace on her Taylor Keith – she just gives me this filthy, roysh, looks me up and down, and goes, ‘So you’re Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?’ and I’m like, ‘The one and only,’ playing it like Steve Silvermint, of course. She’s there, ‘You went to my sister Amy’s debs,’ like I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about. Actually, I think I do. Uh-oh. It’s like, There may be trouble aheeeaaad. I’m there, ‘That was, like, two months ago. Tell her to get laid and get over it,’ and then I’m like, ‘Anyway, I’m TRYING to talk to my friend here,’ and I point to her three mates and I’m like, ‘Go and take the dogs for a walk,’ because in fairness they are all mutts. Fionn goes, ‘I’ll talk to you later, girls’, and they all fock off to the jacks together, to top up their Eau Dynamisante and talk about how fanciable I’d be if I wasn’t such a bastard to women.

Fionn pushes his glasses up on his nose and goes, ‘A tad unnecessary, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Fock’s sake, Fionn. First years?’ and he goes, ‘Sorry, remind me who it was went to the Loreto on the Green debs recently?’ and it’s like, you know, touché. I’m there, ‘I cannot BELIEVE Amy’s still going on about that,’ and he goes, ‘Ross, you slept with her best friend on the night of her debs,’ and I’m like, ‘Oh and that’s suddenly, like, a big deal, is it?’ Fionn goes, ‘You see, Ross, because of various demographic and socio-economic factors that you’re too pissed to understand at this particular juncture, the debs has assumed a far greater significance in the lives of teenage girls and their families than it enjoyed, say, five years ago.’ He loves the sound of his own voice, the Specsavers focker. Knows his stuff, though, you have to hand it to him.

He’s going, ‘Girls could usually expect to be married with children by their mid-twenties. Not anymore. With house prices being what they are, the single-income household is a thing of the past. In any relationship now, there’s an imperative on both porties to have a career, which means they’re tying the knot a lot later in life, often in their thirties, if at all. So, you see, the debs has become almost a surrogate wedding. The debs is the big day now. And you ruined Amy’s.’

I’m just there, ‘Okay, spare me the focking guilt trip. Fionn, I need your help. You’re, well, the cleverest goy I know, roysh?’ and Fionn’s there, ‘What about all your friends from Mensa?’ which is probably a piss-take as well for all I know, but I just, like, ignore it. I go, ‘Fionn, I need you to write something for me,’ and he’s like, ‘Write something? You’ve changed your mind about that French exchange student who had the hots for you, haven’t you?’ I just give him daggers, roysh, but I need the focker at this moment in time, so I go, ‘It’s actually the script for a porno film to be precise. Long story, roysh, but that film-making course that Christian’s doing isn’t the total waste of time I told him it was. The stupid fockers have given him ten thousand squids to make a movie, Fionn. How focked up is that?’

He goes, ‘And Christian wants it to be a porno?’ I’m there, ‘No, Christian wants it to be about focking spacemen. But I am SO not letting him waste this money.’ Fionn goes, ‘If it’s a porno, I take it that you’re going to be the lead?’ and I’m like, ‘You’ve got to get the best, Fionn, even if it means paying a few squids over the odds.’ I should probably state at this point, roysh, that I have no intention of anyone ever seeing this film. For me it’s the chance to earn seven-and-a-half Ks, big my end away on camera – a new experience for me, believe it or not – and maybe take home a souvenir copy of the video. If the Head of Christian’s course wants to see it, well and good, if that’s what pumps his nads, but what I’m saying is it’s not going to be on in the focking IMC in Dún Laoghaire.

Fionn goes, ‘Why are you asking me? I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to write a script,’ and I’m there, ‘Use your imagination. You used it enough when I was sharing a gaff with you. I remember how many boxes of Kleenex you went through in a week,’ and it’s true, roysh, the dude has the biggest collection of adult movies this side of Hugh Heffner’s front focking door.

I’m there, ‘There’s two grand in it for you,’ and he suddenly looks up, roysh, all interested. He’s there, ‘Two grand?’ and I’m there, ‘There’s enough in the budget for a good scriptwriter,’ and he’s so focking happy I’m bulling now I didn’t say one-and-a-half instead. Only got, like, five hundred bills left now for overheads. He goes, ‘Have you a leading lady? Just so I can have her in mind when I’m doing the writing.’ He’s a total professional is Fionn. You get what you pay for, you see. I’m there, ‘It’s almost certainly going to be Emer, as in Sandycove Emer,’ and Fionn nods his head and pushes his glasses up and goes, ‘Good chemistry there. It’ll work,’ which, fair play to him, he didn’t have to say. I’m there, ‘I think so, too. Just a matter of getting her to agree to it now.’

Says in the paper, roysh, that Susan Sarandon – who I’d do in the blink of an eye – has welcomed the release of environmental activists Rodolfo Montiel and Teodoro Cabrera, and she’s backing Amnesty International’s call on the Mexican government to acknowledge their innocence of terrorism charges and to investigate their claims that they were tortured while in custody. I remember Sorcha banging on about these two dudes before, so I cut the article out, roysh, and, bent as it sounds, I put it in an envelope and lash it in the post for her with a little note just saying, I don’t know, I thought she might be interested in this, maybe meet soon for a drink, blah blah blah.

‘You always said you wanted to work in movies,’ I say to Emer. She goes, ‘I’m doing four nights a week in Advance Vision. So I already am in a way,’ and she gives me one of those stupid girly laughs and I forgot, roysh, that the girl is sappier than an entire Irish debating team. I’m there, ‘It’s not what you dreamt of, though, is it? Come on, Emer, we’re talking a proper movie here. We’re talking silver screen.’ She goes, ‘I don’t know. What kind of movie are we talking about?’ like she’s focking Nicole Kidman or something, in a position to pick and choose. I’m like, ‘It’s, em, for mature audiences,’ and she goes, ‘Mature audiences? Oh, like TheEnglish Patient?’ and I go, ‘A bit, yeah,’ deciding it’s probably best if I break her to it very gently. I’m like, ‘Can I get you another Cosmopolitan?’ thinking she has focking expensive taste in drinks this bird, we’re talking a tenner a pop here, and I must remember to keep the receipts – don’t want to end up out of pocket. She goes, ‘That’d be lovely, thanks. I, em, very nearly didn’t come tonight, I hope you know that,’ and I’m like, ‘Why, pray tell?’ She goes, ‘Why? Ross, you never rang me. And that number you gave me didn’t exist.’ I’m like, ‘I’d just gone through a pretty painful break-up,’ spinning her a total cock-and-bull story. I’m there, ‘I guess I could feel myself falling in love with you. I had to get out before I got hurt again.’

That’s rocked her back on her heels. She’s there, ‘In love withme? But we were only, like, with each other that one night,’ and I go, ‘Sometimes a minute is all it takes to fall in love,’ and all of a sudden she’s as happy as a Tallafornian on Mickey Thursday. She goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I am, like, SO sorry, Ross. I SO didn’t know you felt that way,’ and I just shrug my shoulders and take a long gulp of Ken. I don’t know how I can live with myself sometimes. She goes, ‘I’ll never forget what you said to me that night, though,’ and I’m thinking, it could have been anything, roysh, because I was off my tits. She goes, ‘I had just sent off my application to go on, like, ‘Pop Idol’ and you were like, “If it went on looks alone, they’d declare you the winner straight away”.’

I’m there, ‘And I meant it,’ really softening her up now for the kill. She’s like, ‘Can I ask you a question? It’s, like, personal?’ and I’m wondering did I end up, I don’t know, giving her something the night we were together, but she just goes, ‘Did you borrow my Sheryl Crow CD? As in Tuesday Night Music Club?’ I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’ cracking on to be majorly pissed off. She goes, ‘I said borrow. It’s just, I was sure it was there on the locker beside my bed that night. And the next morning …’ And then she thinks better of it and goes, ‘OH MY GOD! what am I saying? I am SO sorry, Ross. I feel like SUCH an orsehole for, like, bringing it up,’ and I’m there, ‘Just leave it,’ and she’s like, ‘No, Ross, genuinely. I am SUCH an ungrateful bitch sometimes. I mean, here you are, trying to help me out with my, like, career and shit, and I’m practically accusing you of, like, stealing a CD from my room. HELLO? Sometimes I’m like, DUUUHHH!’ I’m there, ‘You’re not the first person to misjudge me,’ and she goes, ‘I know. You get SUCH a hord time from people,’ and I’m like, ‘It’s mostly because I’m good-looking,’ and she nods all, like, sympathetically, I suppose you’d call it. Then she goes, ‘I am SO looking forward to working with you. When will I get the script?’ I knock back another shitload of Ken and I go, ‘You want to see the script beforehand?’ and she’s there, ‘Duuuhh? Naturally! To, like, learn my lines,’ and under my breath I’m like, ‘Don’t think that’s going to take long.’

I order her another Cosmopolitan, the thirsty bitch. Suddenly she’s all, like, excited and she’s going, ‘Will I get a chance to use my ballet?’ I’m there, ‘Can you still do that thing where you wrap your legs around your neck?’ and she’s like, ‘Yeah,’ and I go, ‘We’ll see if there’s some way we can include it.’

In This Skin by Jessica Simpson is definitely the worst CD I’ve ever robbed. Total crap. Sara Mooney: shit taste in music, shit taste in men. What star sign does that make her?

It’s, like, midnight, roysh, and I’m in the Margaret – on my own, for once – when all of a sudden my phone rings and my caller ID says it’s, like, Sorcha. I’m there, ‘Hey, Hon,’ and she goes, ‘Hey, Ross. What are you doing?’ I’m there, ‘Just, em, thinking.’ I was actually reading FHM, but I don’t want her to think I was knocking one off the wrist. She goes, ‘I’m SO glad you’re doing something you’re passionate about.’ The focking top tens on Hilary Swank! She’s there, ‘Hey, thanks for that article. Susan Sarandon does SUCH good work. It’s like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and she goes quiet for a few seconds, roysh, and the next thing that comes out of her mouth is, ‘We live in a cynical, cynical world,’ and that’s when I cop, roysh, that she’s been basically crying.

I’m there, ‘Sorcha, what’s wrong?’ and she’s like, ‘Nothing,’ and I go, ‘Sounds like nothing as in something,’ and she storts spilling her guts out to me, about how the Japanese have developed a satellite that will allow them to monitor the movement of minke whales and kill them in greater numbers. She goes, ‘And this is supposedly in the name of scientific research. They’re hell-bent on resuming full-blown commercial whaling, Ross. I know it.’ I’m like, ‘Sorcha, you’ve got to stop taking the problems of the world onto your shoulders,’ which is a bit, I don’t know, deep for me, I suppose. The thing is, roysh, I really do care about her, dickhead and all that I am sometimes. I go, ‘It’s late. Would you not try to get some sleep?’ and she goes, ‘HELLO? They’re already killing four hundred a year, Ross. How can I be expected to sleep? I’m going to look up the Greenpeace website. See if there’s an online petition or something.’

Been living the dream these last few days. Friday night I ended up scoring Heidi Hession, as in studying-to-be-an-auctioneer Heidi, and robbed Folklore by Nelly Furtado. Saturday night I bagged off with that Emily Patten who’s a real, like, girl-next-door type – if you happen to be Cheryl Tweedy’s neighbour! Let’s just say that In the Zone by Britney Spears is not all I got from her. Then Sunday night it was Blathnad McAuley, who I’m basically convinced knocked back the Wonderbra ad because she thought Eva Herzegovina could do with the work. My selection there was The Diary of Alicia Keyes by, funnily enough, Alicia Keyes.

My busy weekend put me basically seven CDs ahead of my nearest challenger – we’re talking JP – and that left me pretty much on a high when I called out to Christian’s gaff on Monday afternoon. That didn’t last long, of course, because I had to listen to him still banging on about space pirates and bounty hunters and how he’s thinking of loosely basing the plot twist on the time Princess Leia tried to hire Prince Xizor of the Black Sun organisation to rescue Han Solo from Jabba’s palace and Xizor tried to seduce her by emitting a powerful pheromone, except it didn’t work because the Force was so strong in her. It’s like the dude’s not listening to me. I’m there, ‘For the last focking time, Christian, this is your big chance. Don’t blow it on some outer-space shite,’ only going easy on the goy because I’ve still got to get my hands on that budget money.

He goes, ‘But Andy – he’s my tutor – he said my ideas are germinating nicely,’ and I’m there, ‘Well, whatever he meant by that, my idea’s going to blow his mind. We’re not talking dudes with funny beards getting it on with forty-year-old slappers with tattoos. Get this, Christian – we’re talking an adult movie with a storyline. Never been attempted before.’ He just looks at me, roysh, with those big cow eyes and he goes, ‘I told Lauren she could play Leia,’ and I swear to God, roysh, I don’t know how I manage to keep my calm, although I actually do, roysh, because the dude’s my best friend and shit. He just changes the subject, roysh, tells me he met Fionn in, like, Hilper’s this afternoon and Fionn gave him, like, a package to give to me and I’ll kill the many-eyed focker when I see him, roysh, because it’s basically the script and I don’t want Christian to know how far down the road I am with my plans for his movie. I’m sure Fionn wanted Christian to open it, roysh, but the dude’s too honest and, like, trusting to do something like that.

I make some lame-ass excuse to leave, roysh, and when I get into the cor – we’re talking a black GTI here, alloys, blah blah blah – I just, like, bell Fionn as I’m reading the thing. He goes, ‘You like it then?’ and I’m like, ‘The Love Boat? It’s been done before. We used to watch it on TV3 when we were supposed to be in college,’ but he goes, ‘Just read it, Ross,’ which I do, roysh, while he waits on the line. And I have to say, roysh, it’s focking amazing, and we’re talking totally here. I go, ‘Fionn, you’re a genius,’ and he goes, ‘I thought we’d steer clear of the office porty motif. It’s a pornographic cliché at this stage. Thought we’d set it on a yacht. You’d have no qualms about borrowing your old man’s boat, I take it?’ I’m like, ‘Fock him. It gets a bit, I don’t know, heavy towards the end, doesn’t it? There’s laws against animal cruelty, isn’t there?’ He goes, ‘That’s the beauty of the boat, Ross. If you film it in international waters, you’re in the clear.’ I’m like, ‘Kool and the Gang. Still not one hundred percent convinced about the ending, but I swear to God, Fionn, don’t breathe a word of this to Sorcha. You know how she feels about dolphins.’

Unbelievable, roysh, but Oisinn’s neighbours showed up at the door of his shed the other night. We’re not talking one or two, roysh, we’re talking a whole focking posse here, like one of those lynch mobs from ‘The Simpsons’, we’re talking pitchforks, flaming torches, the lot, demanding to know with what strange powers he be meddling. Oisinn threatened to douse them all in, like, amber accords and they ended up backing off. I’m not sure how reliable this is, roysh, but it’s certainly JP’s account and he claims he was there. He goes, ‘The dude is going to end up very, very wealthy, or very, very dead.’ I’m glad he’s in such good form, roysh, because I’ve asked him to meet me for a coffee – we’re talking Davy Byrne’s? – to discuss security for the movie, I do NOT want my orse splashed all over VIP – not unless they’re paying for it. Cut a long story short, I, like, broach the subject with him and he’s pretty much game, roysh, but he wants five hundred sheets, which means the budget’s basically spent now, and I’m just hoping Christian isn’t expecting to make a few shekels out of this himself.

I’m there, ‘Five hundred sounds a bit steep to me,’ and he goes, ‘Actually, there’s one other issue,’ and I’m thinking, I do NOT like the sound of this. He goes, ‘My old man, he wants a port in it,’ and I’m thinking, I bet he does, the dirty dog. He goes, ‘Not a big port. Something small. Maybe the first mate on the boat or something,’ and I’m like, ‘Look, Fionn’s in charge of the script. I’ll ask him can he find room for another cast member, if you’ll pordon the pun.’

So there I am, roysh, feeling like Hugh focking Heffner, when all of a sudden who steps into Davy Byrne’s, only Erika. She just happened to be passing, she says, on her way down to Blue Eriu when she, like, saw us through the window and she says she’s just been talking to Sorcha and she mentions that I should just, like, do her again, roysh, so Erika doesn’t have to listen to her crap anymore because basically she says she’s sick of it, which I don’t think is fair, roysh, although I say nothing. She goes, ‘I’ve never known what she sees in you, Ross. But I think exposure to you for any length of time could help her get over it,’ and I decide I’m not taking that, roysh, even though she looks focking amazing. I’m there, ‘What is your problem with Sorcha? She’s supposed to be, like, your friend.’ but she just goes, ‘My problem is with you andSorcha. I’m sorry, Ross, I just don’t buy it, all this fairy tale rubbish she goes on with. You sent her some crap out of the paper about Mexico or some other shithole of a place and all of a sudden I’m listening to, Oooh, Erika, he’s the one. She’s pathetic. And I don’t like seeing orseholes like you reduce her to that,’ and I’m there, ‘Perhaps it’s just plain, old-fashioned jealousy,’ and I get up to go and drop the kids off at the pool and I pretend I don’t hear her go, ‘You have a dick like a babycorn – what is there to be jealous of?’

I go into trap one, lock the door behind me and sit there thinking about Sorcha. She hasn’t, like, been herself lately. It’s like all this stuff about the whales and those two, I don’t know, spics I suppose you’d have to call them, is getting her down, not to mention this Iraq thing, which looks like it’s all going to kick off. I decide I’m basically going to stort being, like, nicer to her because even though I’m, like, too damn handsome to be tied down by one woman, I do have feelings for the bird, or girl, if you like. I wash my hands, check myself out in the mirror and head back out. Erika’s got this, like, evil look on her face, in other words her usual look. She goes, ‘JP’s just been telling me about your little project. Wonder what Sorcha will think when she hears you’ve moved into pimping,’ and of course I try to bluff it out, going, ‘Just helping a friend out with his film-making course,’ but JP’s basically spilled the beans. No point in blaming the dude, though. Erika can be very, let’s say, persuasive. Goys tend to just give her what she wants.

She goes, ‘Poor Emer. She’s slept with pretty much everybody who’s anybody in Lillie’s, trying to get famous. Then she’s lucky enough to meet you. I’m sure Sorcha will see the artistic merit in what it is you’ll be doing together,’ and I know what her game is, roysh, she’s trying to make me feel like a pervert basically. I’m there, ‘Erika, I’m asking you not to tell Sorcha about this,’ but she just, like, laughs in my face and she goes, ‘And you in the lead role, Ross. I take it the film will be a short then?’ which she didn’t have to say, roysh, she just did it to be a bitch.

Sorcha’s already got the old waterworks on full-tap when I answer the phone. She goes, ‘Is it true, Ross?’ and straight away I’m like, ‘Of course it’s not, Sorcha,’ totally forgetting to ask her, ‘Is what true?’ which she picks up on straight away. She goes, ‘How can you deny it when you don’t even know what I was going to say?’ and I’m just there, ‘Well, I met Erika this afternoon and I just presume she’s been putting the poison. Because I happened to mention how I felt about you,’ and she stops crying, roysh, and I can hear the little cogs and wheels in her mind turning, trying to work out how to feel about this. She goes, ‘What do you mean, how you felt about me?’ and I’m there, ‘I told her there were still a lot of feelings there and I could tell she was not a happy camper.’

Again, roysh, there’s, like, silence. Then she goes, ‘It’s a simple yes or no answer, Ross. I’m tired of meeting liars and phoneys, Ross, and if there’s one person in the world I think I can hear the truth from, it’s you. Are you and Emer King making a pornographic film together?’ and what can I say, roysh, except, ‘Yes,’ and then the floods really come. She tells me I’m a sicko, that Emer’s no better than a prostitute and I’m basically a pimp, which was Erika’s word. She tells me she always thought I was, like, a nice goy underneath it all, but now she knows, roysh, that I’m not, I’m basically like everyone else in the world, a cynical focker who looks after number one first and foremost and doesn’t give a fock who I hurt as a consequence. She says she used to tell the rest of the girls that I was the kind of goy she’d like to marry, but now she doesn’t care, roysh, if she never, like, speaks to me again.

I try to say something, roysh, but she’s, like, ranting now and she won’t be stopped. She says that her problem has always been that she takes everything way too personally and she realises now she can’t carry the weight of the world’s problems on her shoulders anymore and that you have to be hord to make it in this world, and that in future she’s going to look after herself and fock the seals and fock what’s going to happen in Iraq and fock the Mothers of the Disappeared, whoever they are.

I’m there, ‘Sorcha, this isn’t you,’ and she goes, ‘Oh it SO is, Ross. This is the new me. This is SO the new me. I’m not working in the boutique anymore, Ross. I told my mum tonight. I was offered a new job, which I had certain qualms about. But not anymore. I’m taking it. I’m doing what you do, Ross. I’m looking after number one,’ and she just, like, hangs up.