Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, The Miseducation Years E-Book

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

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

Seitenzahl: 390

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

So there I was, roysh, putting the 'in' in 'in crowd', hanging out, pick of the babes, bills from the old pair to fund the lifestyle I, like, totally deserve. But being a schools rugby legend has its downsides, roysh, like all the total knobs wanting to chill in your, like, reflected glory, and the bunny-boilers who decide they want to be with me and won't take, like, no for an answer. And we're talking totally here. Basically, it may look like a champagne bath with, like, Nell McAndrew, with, like, no clothes and everything, but I can tell you, roysh, those focking bubbles can burst. And when they do … OH MY GOD! Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is all meat and no preservatives, roysh, at least, that's what it says in the can in, like, one particular south Dublin girls' school, which shall remain nameless, roysh, basically to protect the names of the guilty. You know who you are.  

Leseprobe

Reviews

ROSS O’CARROLL-KELLY

‘Has delusions of adequacy’ Mr Crabtree, History

‘Sets low personal standards and consistently fails to meet them’ Mr Clark, English

‘He is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot’ Mr Lambkin, Biology

‘I’ve never set eyes on the boy’ Mr Allen, Maths

‘Reached rock bottom in fifth year and has continued to dig’ Miss Cully, Irish

‘The next Ollie Campbell’ Fr Fehily, Principal

Dedication

To Laura and David Howard, for a life filled with love and laughter. You made everything worthwhile. There aren’t enough words. Mum, we miss you every day x

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my mother and father for it all. Thanks to Mark, Vin and Rich for the interest you’ve taken in your adopted brother. Thanks to Matt Cooper, Paddy Murray and Jim Farrelly for taking a chance on an obnoxious little south Dublin shit, and thanks especially to Ger Siggins, who was there for the conception, the difficult birth and did most of the initial breast-feeding. For a whole myriad of other reasons too numerous to mention, thanks to Lady Dowager Genevieve; Wally; Ro and Johnny; Mick and Lorna who saved me from leeches; Mousey; Walshy; Paddy; Róisín; Dave; both Barrys; Fi and John and the lad Liam; Neil with the second name that goes on till Christmas and Liz; Karen with an e; Jenny Lowe and Claire Even Lower; Enda Mac; Lise with a totally unnecessary e; Fleur (!); Jimmy who’s real name isn’t Jimmy at all; Malachy; One F; at least two Michelles; Maureen, Deirdre and her south Dublin princess daughter Anne; Lisa and the Nordie Bogball Down Under Tour Party; and Dion and John from the cabal. Thanks to Ryle and Gerry for your restraint in never sending me a solicitor’s letter. Thanks to Michael, Íde, Mary, Ivan, Lynn and everyone at OBP for accepting Ross into the OBP family. Caitríona, I miss you. And lastly – stay awake, these are the biggies – thanks to Emma for making these books look edible, to Alan for capturing our hero with the genius of your pen, and most of all to Rachel (Dublin 24), a brilliant editor who knows Ross better than I do. The funny bits are hers.

Contents

Reviews

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER ONE  ‘Comes to class unprepared’

CHAPTER TWO ‘Has minimal attention span’

CHAPTER THREE  ‘Cheeky and disruptive’

CHAPTER FOUR ‘Refuses to listen’

CHAPTER FIVE ‘Academic application non-existent’

CHAPTER SIX ‘Usually the ringleader whenever there’s trouble’

CHAPTER SEVEN ‘Poor attendance’

CHAPTER EIGHT ‘A pleasure to have at the school’

About the Author

Other books by Paul Howard

Copyright

Other Books

What’s my name? I don’t even bother answering him, just reef open the glove comportment and hand him my licence through the window, roysh, and he gives it the once-over and he goes, ‘This is a provisional licence,’ making no effort at all to hide the fact that he’s a bogger. It’s like he’s actually proud of it. I go, ‘Your point is?’ and the way he looks at me, roysh, I can tell he just wants to snap those bracelets on me and haul my orse off to Donnybrook. He’s like, ‘Provisional licences are issued subject to certain restrictions. One is that you have a fully qualified driver accompanying you at all times.’

I turn around to the bird beside me and I go, ‘Have you passed your test?’ and she’s like, ‘Oh my God, ages ago,’ and she storts rooting through her Louis V for her licence, which she eventually finds and I hand it to focking Blackie Connors through the window. He throws the eyes over it, roysh, then he hands it back to me and I’m thinking of taking a sneaky look at it myself, maybe find out this bird’s name, because she’s a total randomer and at some point between her telling me her name in Annabel’s and us doing the bould thing out in her gaff in Clonskeagh, I’ve managed to forget what she calls herself. In the end I don’t. The goy goes, ‘Where are your L-plates?’ and I have to admit, roysh, that he has me there, although he knows he can’t lift me for it, which is what he’d really like to do. I go, ‘Don’t own a set. Never did. To me they’re a total passion-killer,’ and I smile at the bird beside me. Martinique rings a bell. The goy goes, ‘Did you know that it’s an offence for a driver operating a vehicle on a provisional licence not to display Learner plates?’ but I don’t answer because it’s not, like, a real question, and he looks at my licence again – like it’s a forgery or something – and he tells me to, like, stay where I am and then he walks back to his cor, roysh, and in the rear-view I can see him getting on the radio. The bird’s there giving it, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Why are you giving him such attitude? I am SO not being arrested, Ross. HELLO? I’ve got cello in, like, half an hour,’ and I tell her to drink the Kool-Aid, the goy’s only trying to put the shits up us.

I’m always getting pulled over by the Feds, especially here, just after you go under the bridge at, like, UCD. I’m too smart to get caught doing more than forty, but what happens is they see the baseball cap, they see the Barbie doll next to me and they hear ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ blasting out through the windows at, like, a million decibels. Boggers or not, they’re not thick, these goys, and because it’s a focking Micra, they know straight away that it’s a young dude driving his old dear’s cor and – probably out of total jealousy – they end up pulling me over. I’m still looking at the goy in the mirror. He’s finished talking on the radio and now he’s just trying to make me sweat, which I’m SO not.

People always ask me, roysh, how did I get this cool? Not being big-headed or anything, but they genuinely want to know how it is that I pretty much have it all – Dead Eye Dick with a rugby ball and the stor of the school team, good-looking, amazing body, big-time chormer, great with the ladies and absolutely loaded.

But to be honest with you, roysh, I wasn’t always shit-hot. Between me and you, when I was in, like, transition year I was actually as big a loser as Fionn. I used to basically get bullied. I remember the day I found out that we didn’t always live in Foxrock. Two or three fifth years were in the process of, like, stuffing my head down the toilet one lunchtime when one of them happened to go, ‘Go back to the focking Noggin.’ So that night, roysh, I went to the old man, who’s a complete and utter dickhead by the way, and I go, ‘Did we live in Sallynoggin?’ – straight out with it, just like that – and he looks at me, roysh, and he knows there’s no point in lying, so he goes, ‘It was more Glenageary than Sallynoggin, Ross,’ and he tells me it was a long time ago, before the business took off.

But that whole Noggin thing followed me around for years. If they weren’t stuffing my head down the pan and flushing it, they were giving me wedgies, or setting fire to my schoolbag, ha focking ha. Then one day, roysh, I’m walking down the corridor, minding my own business and these two fifth years grab me in a headlock and drag me into, like, one of the locker rooms. They stort giving me the usual crack, roysh – ‘Are you getting a spice burger from the Noggin Grill later?’ and ‘Are you going up to the Noggin Inn for a few jors?’ – when all of a sudden, roysh, I hear a voice behind them go, ‘To get at him, goys, you’re going to have to come through me first,’ and I look up and it’s, like, Christian. So all hell breaks loose and the two of us end up decking the two fifth years and afterwards he tells me that Obi Wan has taught me well and I tell him he’s the best friend I’ve ever had, which he is, roysh, even if it sounds a bit gay.

Of course the word went around, roysh, that we’d basically decked two goys who, it turned out, were on the S, and nobody laid a finger on me after that. Then the next year there was, shall we say, an incident that helped me complete the change from geek to chic – basically I got my Nat King Cole before anyone else in our whole year. AND it was with an older woman.

To cut a long story short, roysh, our school arranged this thing called The Urban Plunge, which was basically an exchange programme between us and a school from, like, Pram Springs. It was typical of the Brothers in our place. They knew we were loaded, roysh, and most of us would never have to work for a thing in our lives, but it was their ‘Christian responsibility’ to show us how people less fortunate than ourselves – meaning skobies – lived, as if we wanted to know.

The way it worked, roysh, was that you got paired off with some Anto or other – in fact, I think my one was actually called Anto. Anyway, he ended up half-inching everything in our gaff that wasn’t nailed down. I remember the old man and the old dear, the silly wagon, walking around the house making a list of all the stuff that had disappeared, the old dear going, ‘Your Callaway driver, darling,’ and the old man shaking his head and writing it down. Of course Castlerock agreed to pay for everything on condition that they didn’t involve the Feds.

But while this was all going on, roysh, I was getting my own back by scoring his older sister, we’re talking Wham, Bam, that’s for the old dear’s Waterford Crystal limited edition votive, Ma’am. Tina was her name, roysh, a total howiya, but she was, like, twenty and I was, like, sixteen and by the time I got back from my two-week tour of duty in Beirut – every meal came with curry sauce, roysh, and they never answered the door in case it was the rent man or a loan shork – I was a legend in the school. The head-lice were gone after a couple of weeks and I settled well into my new existence as a complete focking stud.

‘What speed were you doing?’

Glenroe’s finest is back at the window. I was miles away there. I’m like, ‘I think you’ll find I was just under forty,’ which he knows well from his speed camera. He’s just trying to put the shits up me. He hands me back my licence and he goes, ‘I’ll let you go … this time,’ and I have to stop myself from going, ‘Oh, I’m SO grateful, orsehole,’ and he goes, ‘Get a set of Learner plates when you’re in town, Rod.’

I’m there, ‘Rod? Rod? It’s Ross! Ross O’Carroll-Kelly! You might not know the name now, but by the seventeenth of March you will.’ He goes, ‘Why? What’s happening on that day?’ The smell of turnip and spuds off him. I go, ‘What’s happening on that day? That’s the day I become

Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, living focking legend.’

 

CHAPTER ONE

‘Comes to class unprepared’

‘Mister O’Carroll-Kelly, will you pay attention please.’ That’s what Lambkin says. He goes, ‘Entertaining the troops as usual,’ but I’m not, roysh, I’m actually about to spew my ring all over the desk, and we’re talking totally here. If I’d known we were going to be looking at an actual focking cow’s eye this morning, roysh, I think it’s pretty safe to say I wouldn’t have been out on the batter last night. And Oisinn’s not helping. He was more hammered than I was, but he’s got a stomach like a focking goat. He’s got it in his hand, roysh, and he’s, like, squelching it and you can hear all the, I don’t know, guts inside. The goy actually wants to see me spitting chunks.

The teacher’s going, ‘How do we see? Well, the eye processes the light through photoreceptors located in the eye, which send signals to the brain and tell us what we are seeing. There are two types of photoreceptor and these are called rods and cones,’ and then he walks around handing us each a scalpel, and I’m thinking he couldn’t seriously be suggesting we … He goes, ‘These photoreceptors are sensitive to light. Rods are the most sensitive to light and therefore provide grey vision at night. Now there are a number of differences between the human eye and the cow’s eye, which I will discuss as we proceed with the dissection.’

I’m just, like, staring straight ahead, trying not to think about what we’re about to do, when all of a sudden Oisinn taps me on the shoulder and – HOLY FOCK! – he’s somehow managed to stick the focking eyeball onto his forehead, roysh, and he goes, ‘Look at me, Ross, I’m from Newtownmountkennedy,’ and I laugh and heave at the same time and old focking Lamb Chop throws me a filthy, basically telling me that I’m pushing my luck here.

He’s going, ‘Cones are, in the main, active in bright light and enable you to see colour. There are one hundred million rods located in your retina compared to just three million cones.’

I just need to get through this class, then I’ll hit the canteen and get a Yop or something to settle my stomach. But Oisinn knows how close I am to hurling here and it’s become, like, a challenge now. He turns around to Fionn and goes, ‘Gimme your glasses,’ and Fionn’s like, ‘Why?’ and Oisinn just grabs them off him. Then – this is focking horrific – he puts the eye basically onto his own eye and then he puts on Fionn’s glasses, which sort of, like, hold it in place. Then he turns around to the rest of the class and goes, ‘ESMERELDA!’ and the whole class cracks up, roysh, and Lamb Chop, who’s been writing some shite or other on the blackboard, turns around and goes, ‘O’CARROLL-KELLY!’ and he looks at me in a way that basically says Last Chance Saloon, and of course I can’t tell him that I’m doing fock-all, roysh, because I can taste the vom at the top of my throat and if I open my mouth it’s coming out. Oisinn throws Fionn back his goggles and Fionn’s, like, majorly pissed off, trying to clean them on his shirt, but of course they’re covered in, like, blood and shite and all sorts, but I’m trying not to, like, think about it.

‘If you walk inside from the sun,’ – this is Lambkin again – ‘you can’t initially see anything. This is due to the activity of the cones and the lack of activity of the rods. Similarly, when you leave a cinema during the day, it’s the rods that are mainly activated and the cones have to adjust to the sunlight.’

I’m thinking, I better actually listen to some of this shit because it might, like, come up in the Leaving. Then I hear Oisinn going, ‘Ross! Ross! I know you can hear me!’ and I’m trying my best to, like, ignore him. Rods and cones, I get it now. He just, like, grabs me by the back of the neck, roysh, and spins me around so that I’m, like, facing him and then – Oh! My! FOCKING! God! – he pops the eyeball into his mouth like it’s a focking Bon Bon and then – get this – he actually bites into the focking thing and all this, like, blood and yellow goo and everything just, like, squirts out of the side of his mouth and, like, dribbles down his face and I just go, Weeeuuuggghhh! and basically explode.

There’s vom everywhere, all over my Dubes, the desk, my biology book, the floor. I’m like a focking volcano. It just keeps coming and coming. Goes on for about ten minutes and everyone’s just, like, staring at me, and when I’ve finished I’ve got, like, my face on the desk and the table feels nice and cold against my cheek, and I’m slowly getting my breath back and Lamb Chop’s basically speechless and I’m thinking, I don’t even remember having a kebab.

Castlerock boarders are Total Knackers it says in, like, black morker on the bus shelter opposite Stillorgan Shopping Centre, roysh, put there by some tool who doesn’t realise that (a) writing graffiti actually makes him a knacker and (b) so does getting the focking bus. Nothing against public transport myself, but the old pair are basically rolling in it enough for me and the old 46A to lead parallel lives. The old dear, who’s a total focking weapon, pulls up in her Micra – total shamer – and I hop in, and she’s all smug and delighted with herself because she’s just been to the printers to collect the posters for this anti-halting site group she’s involved in, Foxrock Against Total Skangers or whatever the fock they’re called, and she says that Lucy and Angela are going to be SO pleased with how they turned out, basically not giving a fock how long she left me sitting around waiting.

I go, ‘I am SO late,’ but she makes a big deal of ignoring me, roysh, humming some stupid Celine Dion song to herself, and I pretty much know what this is all about. Last week, roysh, the old man found out I’ve been, like, skipping my grinds. It’s already January, roysh, and I basically haven’t gone to one. The old Crimbo report comes and I ended up failing, like, six of my seven exams, and of course the old man’s going, ‘Don’t be too down in the mouth, Kicker. I’ll phone that Institute tomorrow and see if I can’t get to the bottom of it.’ I’m like, ‘What are you banging on about, you dickhead?’ and he goes, ‘Well, you’re not stupid, we know that. My brains and your mother’s, that’s a formidable combination, with a capital F. No, they’re obviously not teaching you the right things. No, wait a second, maybe it is the school after all. Yes. Clearly they’ve either miscalculated your marks, given you the wrong report, or simply didn’t understand what it was you were trying to say.’ The tosser actually thinks I’m the next Stephen what’s-his-face with the focking voicebox. ‘My eyesight is very important to me.’

So thinking of the old man, roysh, trying to help him not make a complete tit of himself, I end up telling him that I haven’t been doing the grinds. He has an eppo, of course, reminding me how much they cost him – we’re talking two thousand bills, the scabby focker – and then he asks me, roysh, what I’ve been doing every Friday night and Saturday morning, and I tell him I’ve been, like, hanging around town and shit, not mentioning, of course, the fact that I’ve been going on the batter with the goys. So the old pair have a major freak out, and we’re talking major here – they basically don’t understand the pressure of being on the S. All this results in the Mister Freeze treatment, which suits me because I hate having to talk to them. Anyway, the schools cup storts in two weeks and they’ll be all focking over me then, you mork my words. Still can’t believe I failed six of my seven exams. Actually, it was news to me that I even took English.

The goys are already sitting in Eddie Rockets when I arrive. Oisinn’s wearing the old beige Dockers chinos, brown dubes, light blue Ralph and a red, white and blue sailing jacket by Henri Lloyd. He high-fives me, then he hugs me – nearly breaks my back, the fat bastard – and he goes, ‘YOU THE MAN, ROSS,’ seven or eight times in my ear. JP high-fives me and tells me he’s glad I took the idea of having a nosebag offline. JP’s also wearing beige Dockers chinos, brown dubes, light blue Ralph and a red, white and blue sailing jacket by Henri Lloyd. Aoife leans across the table and, like, air-kisses me on both cheeks, totally flirting her orse off with me, while Sorcha gives me daggers and goes, ‘We’ve already ordered,’ and I look her in the eye and I know she basically still wants me.

Oisinn goes, ‘Question for you, Ross. If anyone can answer this, you can,’ and I’m there, ‘Shoot, my man.’ He goes, ‘Is it proper to wear Dubes with, like, formalwear?’ and of course I’m there, ‘How formal is formal?’ and he goes, ‘We’re talking black trousers, we’re talking white shirt, we’re talking black blazer.’ I rub my chin and think about it. The food arrives. JP is having the Classic without dill pickle, bacon and cheese fries and a large Coke. Oisinn is having the Moby Dick, southern chicken tenders, chilli fries, a side order of nachos with guacamole, cheese sauce, salsa and hot jalapenos and a chocolate malt, the focking Michelin man that he is. Sorcha is having a Caesar salad with extra croutons and Romanie lettuce. Aoife is having a bag of popcorn which she has hidden inside her baby-blue sleeveless bubble jacket. She’s looking over her shoulder every few seconds, roysh, going, ‘I have to be careful. Me, Sophie, Amy and clarinet Deirdre got focked out of the one in Donnybrook last week for ordering, like, a Diet Coke between us.’ and Sorcha says that is, like, SODuhhh! And Aoife’s there, ‘Totally. It’s like, OH my God! HELLO?’ and Sorcha goes, ‘No, it’s more like, OH MY GOD!’ and Aoife’s there, ‘Oh my God! Totally.’

The waitress, roysh, is a total babe, we’re talking Kelly out of 90210’s identical twin here, and when she drops the last of the food over she turns around to me and she goes, ‘Do you want to order something?’ and I go, ‘Well, what I want and what I get are probably two different things,’ and I’m hoping it didn’t sound too sleazy, roysh, but she just goes red and out of the corner of my eye I can see Sorcha giving me filthies, and we’re talking total filthies. I go – cue sexy voice, roysh – I’m like, ‘Could I get a, em, dolphin-friendly tuna melt, maybe a chilli cheese dog and a portion of, like, buffalo wings,’ and she writes it down and then, like, smiles at me and when she focks off Sorcha goes, ‘That girl is SUCH a knob.’ I’m there, ‘You don’t even know her,’ and she goes, ‘HELLO? Her name HAPPENS to be Sian Kennedy and she’s doing, like, morkeshing in ATIM.’ Aoife goes, ‘She is like, Aaaggghhh!’ and Sorcha goes, ‘Totally.’

Oisinn’s there, ‘Ross, you never answered my question, dude,’ and I’m there, ‘I don’t know why you have to rely on me for this stuff,’ secretly delighted of course, and then I’m like, ‘Dubes are traditionally a casual shoe.’ I look at Sorcha, who stirs Oisinn’s chocolate malt and then takes a sip from it. I go, ‘But to be passed off along with formalwear, the Dubes must – and I repeat must – be black.’ Oisinn whistles. JP goes, ‘They can’t be brown?’ in a real, like, suspicious voice. I go, ‘Too casual for black trousers. Beige definitely. Black’s a complete no-no.’

Sorcha’s mobile rings, roysh, and it’s, like, Jayne with a y, who used to be her best friend until she caught me wearing the face off her in Fionn’s kitchen on New Year’s Eve, which was basically one of the reasons Sorcha, like, finished with me. Anyway, roysh, they’re obviously back talking again and they’re blabbing on about some, like, dinner porty they’re organising, but then all of a sudden Sorcha turns around to her and goes, ‘Is Fionn there with you?’ and of course immediately the old antennae pop up, and I’m wondering what that four-eyed focker’s doing sniffing around – looks like Anna Friel this bird, I’m telling you – and JP must cop the look on my face because he goes, ‘Message to the stockmorket – friendly merger going down between Fionn and Jayne with a y.’ I’m there, ‘And for those of us who don’t speak morkeshing?’ and he goes, ‘They’re going out together, Ross,’ which is news to me, roysh, because I’ve been seeing her on the old QT for the past three or four weeks and she asked me to, like, keep it quiet, the complete bitch.

Sorcha must cop my reaction, roysh, because she’s suddenly going, ‘Ross, I’m talking to Jayne with a y. Fionn’s sitting beside her. Do you want a word with him?’ and I go, ‘Tell him I’ll pick him up for rugby training in the morning,’ playing it Kool Plus Support Band. I run my hand through my hair, which needs a serious cut. Might get a blade one all over this time instead of, like, just the sides, seeing as the Cup’s about to stort and everything.

Sorcha hangs up and of course she can’t let it go. She goes, ‘Oh my God, they make SUCH a cute couple, don’t they?’ and Aoife’s there, ‘Yeah, it’s like, Rachel and Ross cute,’ and Sorcha goes, ‘No, it’s more like, Joey and Dawson cute,’ then she turns to me and she’s like, ‘You’ve gone very quiet, Ross. Not jealous, are you?’ Where’s my focking food? I’m there, ‘Not at all. Been there, done that … worn the best friend,’ and she’s bulling, and we’re talking bigtime.

The waitress comes over and I decide to up the old ante. She’s putting my food on the table, roysh, and I’m giving it, ‘You’re Sian Kennedy, aren’t you?’ and she goes, ‘Yeah,’ and I’m there, ‘First year morkeshing in ATIM?’ and she goes, ‘Yeah, I know your face. You go to Annabel’s, don’t you?’ and I’m seriously giving it, ‘Sure do. Maybe I’ll see you there tomorrow night?’ and she goes totally red, roysh, and she’s there, ‘Em … yeah,’ and I go, ‘Cool,’ and she’s like, ‘Bye,’ and I’m giving it, ‘Later.’

Oisinn and JP both high-five me and Aoife goes, ‘Oh my God, you don’t ACTUALLY fancy her, do you?’ and I go, ‘She looks like Kelly off 90210,’ and Aoife goes, ‘But she’s a sap, Ross. A total sap,’ and out of the corner of my eye I can see Sorcha’s face is all red, the way it gets when she’s pissed off. I’m on match-point now. She turns around to Aoife and she goes, ‘So, do you think I should go?’ and Aoife’s there, ‘What?’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘Do you think I should go?’ Aoife’s there, ‘Oh my God, you SO should. I’m telling you, you SO should go,’ obviously wanting me to ask, roysh, but I’m in the game too long to fall for that one. But JP – the loser – he goes, ‘Go where?’ and Aoife’s like, ‘She’s been invited to the Gonzaga pre-debs,’ and JP’s there, ‘By who?’ and Sorcha goes, ‘Jamie O’Connell-Keavney,’ all delighted with herself and she’s looking at me for a reaction, roysh, because she knows damn well we have Gonzaga in the first round of the Cup.

The goys look at me for a reaction too, roysh, but there’s no way I’m, like, taking the bait. JP goes, ‘That is SO not cool, Sorcha. That is SUCH an uncool thing to do,’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘Why?’ and JP goes, ‘Because Gonzaga are our TOTAL enemies,’ and Oisinn nods and goes, ‘Tossers.’ Sorcha goes, ‘Jamie’s not like that. He’s SUCH a cool goy,’ and Aoife’s there, ‘What do you think she should do, Ross?’ As subtle as a kick in the old town halls. I pop the last piece of tuna into my mouth and I go, ‘If she wants to go, that’s cool. I think she should do what makes her happy,’ and JP’s going, ‘Yeah, but not with someone from Gonzaga … Oh my God, we are SO going to kick their orses now,’ and him and Oisinn high-five each other.

Aoife gets up to go to the toilet and Oisinn goes, ‘That’s three times she’s been in there since we arrived. What kind of load could she possibly be dropping off? It’s not as if she ever eats anything.’ Then he says he can definitely taste dill pickle on his Classic and he takes the top off the bun to investigate. Sorcha takes off her scrunchy and slips it onto her wrist, shakes her head, smoothes her hair back into a low ponytail, puts it back in the scrunchy and then pulls five or six strands of hair loose. It looks exactly the same as it did before she did it.

Aoife comes back, wiping her mouth, calls one of the other waitresses over and asks can she have a glass of, like, water. The waitress asks us if we want dessert and Oisinn and JP both order the Kit Kat Dream and Sorcha orders the New York toffee cheesecake with ice cream and cream. Aoife goes, ‘OH MY GOD! Do you KNOW how many points are in that? Have you, like, TOTALLY lost your mind?’ and Sorcha goes, ‘I’m not counting my points anymore,’ but before it arrives the guilt gets to her, roysh, and she takes one mouthful, then pushes the rest across the table to me. I just pick at it, roysh, then I get up to go. JP goes, ‘You heading home?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah. Big training session tomorrow. Got to, like, keep my focus.’

I walk up to the counter, cool as a fish’s fart, tell Sian what I had and she tots it up. I hand her twenty bills and tell her to, like, keep the change. Then I tell her I might see her tomorrow night, which is, like, Saturday, and she says that would be cool. Behind me I can hear Oisinn saying he’s sure he can taste dill pickle on his burger and he is SO not paying for it. Aoife goes, ‘See you tomorrow night, Ross. Annabel’s,’ but I totally blank her and go outside. I stand in the cor pork and try to ring the old dear, but the phone’s engaged and so’s her mobile. Her and that focking campaign of hers. I try Dick Features, but then I remember he’s out at the K Club tonight with Hennessy, his orsehole solicitor.

I stand out on the road for ten minutes looking for a taxi, roysh, but there’s fock-all about. I don’t focking believe this, but there’s nothing else for it, I’m going to have to get the focking bus. Mortification City, Wisconsin. I cross over to the bus stop. There’s two birds there. Skobies. One is telling the other that Sharon – no, Shadden – is a dorty-lookin’ dort-bord. The bus comes and I let them get on first. I hand the driver two pound coins, roysh, and he tells me to put the money in the slot, which I do. I pull the ticket and wait for my change but the tosspot storts driving off. I go, ‘What do you think that is, a tip or something?’ and he goes, ‘Sorry, bud, we don’t give out change. You have to take your receipt into O’Connell Street to get yisser change.’ I go, ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ and he’s there, ‘Sorry, bud?’ I’m like, ‘O’Connell Street?’ and he goes, ‘Yeah, you know where Dublin Bus is?’ and I’m there, ‘No. I don’t do the northside,’ and I sit down. He probably had one of his mates lined up to focking mug me.

I sit downstairs. There’s a funny smell off buses. Actually it’s probably the people. I take out my mobile and, like, listen to my messages. Some bird called Alison phoned and said OH MY GOD! she hoped I remembered her from last Saturday night and she couldn’t remember whether I was supposed to phone her or she was supposed to phone me, but she decided to call me anyway and if it’s after midnight when I get this message I should phone her tomorrow, but not in the morning because OH MY GOD! she’s just remembered she’s at the orthodontist and she gives me the number again.

It’s Saturday morning, roysh, and I’m hanging, but try telling that to the old man. He comes into the sitting-room where I’m trying to watch MTV, roysh, and of course straight away I grab the remote and higher up the volume. The Prodigy SO rock. The dickhead doesn’t even take this as a hint, roysh, just marches straight in and storts giving it loads, like we’re long-lost friends or something. He’s there, ‘I expect you heard me getting up in the middle of the night,’ and I know he’s basically dying for me to ask why, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. He goes, ‘Difficulty sleeping, Kicker. Got up and had a glass of milk, which can sometimes help. Hope I didn’t wake you.’ I just look at him, roysh – give him this total filthy – and I go, ‘Well, given that I fell in that door at half-six this morning, I don’t think so. I was probably still in Reynords.’

He goes, ‘The reason I couldn’t sleep, in case you’re wondering, is all this halting site nonsense. It’s not that we’re anti these types of people. That little one who sings off Grafton Street? Tremendous fun. Your mother will tell you, I wouldn’t pass him without putting a few pence in his tin and whatnot. But a halting site in Foxrock? It’s just not appropriate. I’m thinking about them as much as anyone else. They wouldn’t be happy here. Good lord, Ross, who is that chap?’ I don’t answer him, roysh, and he goes, ‘Who is he, Ross?’ and I’m there, ‘Are you focking deaf? I said his name’s Keith Flint.’ He’s there, ‘Very peculiar-looking individual, isn’t he? I suppose they can do all sorts with make-up.’

I just, like, shake my head but he still doesn’t take the hint. He goes, ‘Travelling people. Travelling. It’s like when that client of Hennessy’s woke up one morning to find three caravans on that little patch of grass opposite his house. In Dalkey of all places. Year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-seven. Six months they stayed. As he said – you’ll have to get Hennessy to do the voice for you – he said, “I don’t know why they call them travelling folk, hell, they never bloody move.” Because he’s a terrible snob, old Wilmot Ruddy. A great old character, even if he is a bit much at times.’

Shania Twain comes on. I would, before you ask. The old man’s still blabbing away. ‘You do understand, don’t you, that I’ve nothing against these people? I’m all for them. I just happen to think they’d struggle to fit in, inverted commas. Can’t say that to these councillors, of course. Racism, that silly woman accused me of. There were times, of course, when all you had to do was pop a few hundred pounds in an envelope and hey presto you had the council on your side. These are changed times, thank you very much indeed Mister G Kerrigan of Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1.’

I look at him and I go, ‘Are you still here?’ He winks at me, roysh – actually focking winks – and he goes, ‘I’ve got my Mont Blanc pen out, Ross. Which can mean only one thing. Yes, I’m going to write one of my world-famous letters to The Irish Times. Oh, I love the letters page of The Irish Times. The cut and thrust of the debates on all the important issues of the day. The cheeky humour. Throw in a witticism or two at the start and you’ve got a winner on your hands. Winner with a capital W. Let me read you what I’ve put down thus far,’ and he whips out this sheet of paper, roysh. He’s there, ‘Have a listen to this: I need only say the words ‘Hiace van’ and ‘Family Allowance Day’ to evoke the image of–’ and straight away, roysh, I’m there, ‘If you’re not out of this room in five focking seconds, I’m leaving home.’

I place the ball on the ground, stand up and raise my head slowly. Christian’s behind me going, ‘One of the great taboos of the twentieth century and no one’s prepared to talk about it.’ I look down, take five steps backwards and look up again, tracing the line of the posts upwards. Christian’s still in my ear, giving it, ‘It’s, what, twenty years on and there’s never been any discussion on the subject.’ I take three steps to the side, look down at the ball, lick my fingers, run my right hand through my hair, do my usual dance on the spot, then I run at the ball. Just as I’m about to kick it, roysh, Christian goes, ‘I mean, far be it from me to tell George Lucas his business …’ and of course I end up skying the focking thing to the right of the posts and there’s this, like, chorus of OH MY GODs from the Mounties on the sideline.

I’m just there, ‘Fock’s sake, Christian, you’re supposed to be helping me practice,’ basically ripping the dude out of it, and he looks at me, roysh, like I’ve just dropped a load in one of his Dubes. Of course I stort feeling bad then, roysh, basic softie that I am, and I go, ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s just this Gonzaga match. Storting to feel, like, the pressure, you know. What were you saying?’ He goes, ‘I was talking about the incestuous undertone running through the first half of the original trilogy. Have you not been listening to me? I’m talking about the sexual frisson between Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia.’ I just go, ‘Oh, roysh,’ and try to look interested, he is my best friend, the focking weirdo.

He goes, ‘Okay, you might think it was a harmless, hand-holding, carry-your-books-home-from-high-school kind of attraction. When Leia kissed Luke in the central core shaft …’ I’m there, ‘Kissed him where?’ and he goes, ‘The central core shaft? Of the Death Stor? Before they swung across the gorge? Okay it was just a peck on the cheek, like the one she gave him in the main hangar deck on Alderaan. But there’s no doubt they were the main love interest in A New Hope. Then in Return of the Jedi we found out they were brother and sister all along. We’re talking twins here!’ I’m there, ‘Your point is?’ and he goes, ‘My point is, if George Lucas knew that these were Anakin Skywalker’s kids, why the fock were they playing tonsil hockey in the medical centre on Hoth at the stort of Empire?’

I’m just, like, staring at the dude. He’s totally lost me. The goy’s focking Baghdad. He walked up to two Virgins on the Rocks at the Trinity Open Day last week and he went, ‘What planet is this? What year is this? Where is your water source?’ But like I say, roysh, we’ve been best friends since we were, like, kids, so I just go, ‘That’s a good point,’ and he tells me not to worry about Gonzaga, he heard they’re running on empty this year, and he tells me to let go of my conscious self and trust my instinct.

‘I’m thinking of sleeping with you.’ That’s what Erika says to me when I meet her for lunch. We’re talking Erika as in Sorcha’s friend Erika. We’re talking Erika who’s the image of Denise Richards Erika. We’re talking Erika as in total bitch Erika who never sleeps with anyone who’s never been on ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’. And she doesn’t even look up from the menu, roysh, she just goes, ‘Don’t have the split pea soup, the croutons are always stale. I’m thinking of sleeping with you,’ and I sort of, like, resent the fact that she thinks she could basically have me any time she wants me, even though she could. She looks up and she cops the delighted look on my face, roysh, and she goes, ‘Not for pleasure, Ross. It’s just that I know you’re on the rugby team this year. And you’re the goy all the girls will want to be with.’

The waitress comes over, roysh – bit of a hound, truth be told – and I order a roast beef sandwich, a portion of fries and, like, a Coke. Erika asks for just a latte, roysh, and the waitress points to a sign on the wall, something about a five quid minimum charge between twelve and two o’clock. The waitress is like, ‘Can you read?’ which is a big mistake, roysh, because quick as a flash Erika goes, ‘Yes I can. You’re the one earning three pounds an hour for collecting dirty dishes, remember.’

The waitress – she’s actually a bit of a howiya – she goes, ‘Between twelve and two the tables are reserved for lunch customers,’ and Erika just, like, looks her up and down, roysh, and she goes, ‘Just bring me a latte and you can charge me five pounds for it,’ and the bird doesn’t know what to say, roysh, obviously no one’s ever said that before. Erika goes, ‘Five pounds is hordly expensive for a cup of coffee anyway. Have you ever been to Paris, dear?’

She’s, like, fascinating to watch when she’s in this kind of form. The waitress, roysh, she mutters something about having to ask the manager and as she’s walking away, Erika goes, ‘On second thoughts,’ and the bird turns around and Erika’s like, ‘I will have something to eat. I’ll have the spaghetti bolognaise,’ and she closes the menu and hands it to her. She goes, ‘And that latte. Thank you,’ real, like, sarcastic. Then she turns to me and goes, ‘Where was I?’

I’m there, ‘The thing is, Erika, I’m very flattered to think that you’d want to be with me, even for the reason you said. But maybe I don’t want to be with you.’ She looks at me, roysh, through sort of, like, slanty eyes, and she goes, ‘Listen to yourself, will you? Do you think I’m blind or something? Do you think I haven’t seen you looking at me and practically salivating? You can’t help yourself around me. You want me, Ross. You always have,’ and like an idiot, I go, ‘That’s true. But what about Sorcha? She’s your friend. And she still has, like, feelings for me? And I wouldn’t do anything to–’ Erika just goes, ‘Don’t give me that, Ross. More than any other goy I know, you think with that,’ and she points at my … well, let’s just say she points down.

The food arrives. Erika gives the waitress a filthy, roysh, and the waitress puts the plates on the table and throws her eyes up to heaven. Erika pushes her spaghetti bolognaise away from her, like it’s infected or something. She goes, ‘Don’t kid yourself, Ross. Two squirts of IsseyMiyake and that black Karen Millen top I have that you’re always trying to look down and you’d be mine.’ I go, ‘And you’d do that? Even if it hurt Sorcha?’ and she’s there, ‘Ross, have I got the words ‘social worker’ tattooed on my forehead? Do you think you’re talking to someone who actually gives a shit about other people? Do you think I actually enjoy listening to Sorcha going on about how she is SO over you, then telling me she’s going to lose a stone before the summer and “OH! MY! GOD! Wait until Ross sees me then.” She’s a sad case.’

She still hasn’t touched her food. She goes, ‘Face it, Ross. I’m the object of your desire. I’m the object of many men’s desires. Whether I sleep with you or not is entirely up to me.’ The next thing, roysh, her phone rings and she answers it and goes, ‘Well, talk of the devil,’ and of course I’m on the other side of the table, doing the actions to tell her not to tell Sorcha I’m here. ‘Where am I?’ she goes. ‘I’m in town, having lunch with the love of your life … yes, Ross. He’s just been admiring my black top, the Karen Millen one?’ The next thing, roysh, she puts the phone down on the table and goes, ‘She hung up, the silly girl.’

I cannot focking Adam and Eve this, roysh, but twenty minutes later or whatever, we’re both getting up to go and Erika gets the plate of spaghetti, which she hasn’t eaten a single mouthful of, and she just, like, tips the whole thing onto the floor. It’s one of those, like, wooden floors and she’s made a total mess of it, and she just goes, ‘Oops,’ as in I’ve just done that accidentally on purpose. Then she walks straight up to the waitress, roysh, and she goes, ‘Oh dear, I am SUCH a klutz. I seem to have spilled that food you made me order all over your clean floor. I really don’t envy you the job of cleaning it up,’ and before the waitress has a chance to say anything back, she goes, ‘You obviously think you’re made for something better than taking orders in a restaurant. But until Aaron Spelling discovers you, this is it for you, dear.’

She’s incredible. She’s right. She could have me like that.

I’m in the kitchen, roysh, lorrying the chicken and pasta into me, loading up on the old, I don’t know, carbohydrates I suppose, what with this match coming up, when all of a sudden Knobhead comes into the kitchen with the portable, like, clutched to his ear, roysh, and he’s going, ‘What do you mean you won’t be publishing my letter?’ and at a guess I’d say it’s someone from The Irish Times. He’s going, ‘Elements of it could be construed as being racist? What a lot of nonsense, pardon the French … Weddings? Yes, that was just a bit of good-natured fun, to stop it getting too heavy and political. In fact, I think I may have actually spelt the word machete with two Ts instead of one. But look, I’d be willing to take it out if it meant … Well, many of them don’t tax or insure their cars, that’s a fact … Carpets? How can a reference to them selling poor quality carpets be construed as … Hello? Hello? I think she might have bloody hung up on me.’

Tosser.

‘Fucus is a multicellular alga consisting of an unbranched filament in which all of the cells are cylindrical and haploid and each has a cell wall surrounded by mucilage.’ This is what passes for basically conversation among the birds. Sophie’s going, ‘Each has a chloroplast which is wound spirally inside the cell wall and the nucleus is suspended in the cell vacuole by threads of cytoplasm and–’ Sorcha’s, like, shaking her head. She goes, ‘Sophie, HELLO? That’s not fucus. That’s, like, spirogyra,’ and Sophie’s giving it, ‘Couldn’t be,’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘HELLO? I got an A in this at Christmas, remember?’ Sophie sort of, like, squints her eyes, roysh, like she wants to rip Sorcha’s face off and goes, ‘They’re practically the same focking thing anyway,’ and Sorcha, being a total bitch, goes, ‘No they’re not. Spirogyra is a simple-structured, filamentous alga commonly found in ponds and ditches. Fucus is a multicellular marine-living brown alga commonly found on the seashore. They are SO different. We’re talking habitat, structure, the way they reproduce. Ross, grab a seat. Is anyone else coming to the Ladies’?’