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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
So there I was, roysh, enjoying college life, college birds and, like, a major amount of socialising. Then, roysh, the old pair decide to mess everything up for me. And we're talking totally here. Don't ask me what they were thinking. I hadn't, like, changed or treated them any differently, but the next thing I know, roysh, I'm out on the streets. Another focking day in paradise for me! If it hadn't been for Oisinn's apartment in Killiney, the old man paying for my Golf GTI, JP's old man's job offer and all the goys wanting to buy me drink, it would have been, like, a complete mare. Totally. But naturally, roysh, you can never be sure what life plans to do to you next. At least, it came as a complete focking surprise to me … The life and times of Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, the cult hero with a weekly column in The Sunday Tribune.
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‘Brilliant, like a southside Commitments’
The Ian Dempsey Breakfast Show, Today FM
ROSS O’CARROLL-KELLY
‘I love him, but I’m not in love with him. I certainly wouldn’t, like, be with him again.’ SORCHA
‘He’s like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo rolled into one. With a bit of Chewbacca as well.’ CHRISTIAN
‘He’s the next Brian O’Driscoll. I said as much to Gerry Thornley. Then he brought up that barring order nonsense.’ CHARLES O’CARROLL-KELLY
‘The kid has no brain. But he has no conscience either, so he’s perfectly cut out for real estate.’ JP’S OLD MAN
‘One of the century’s great thinkers.’ FIONN
Dedication
For Rich, Vin and Mark, my brothers
Acknowledgements
The publisher and the author wish to thank the Sunday Tribune for permission to reproduce previously published material from the Ross O’Carroll-Kelly column.
Thank you to Rachel, Ger, Deirdre and Vin for the excellent editing job. Thanks also to Emma and Alan.
Contents
Introduction
They seem so long ago now, thoseOrange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years.
I wrote what was intended to be the third and final installment of the Ross O’Carroll-Kelly trilogy in the autumn of 2002, a period when the Irish Government was quite literally giving away free money, the entire country developed a fetish for timber decking and St Mary’s College had a young, teenage out-half called Jonathan Sexton who was apparently going to be the next Ronan O’Gara.
It was also the year when a friend told me that he’d discovered his plumber snorting cocaine off the top of his toilet cistern at eleven o’clock in the morning. That’s what I regard as the defining image of the period of temporary economic buoyancy that we refer to as the Celtic Tiger.
If you cared to look, there were a lot of signs that Ireland – much like the Rossmeister himself – was beginning to lose the run of itself.
I felt this very clearly at the time because I happened to be in the market to buy a house, having allowed myself to be convinced that it was somehow morally delinquent of me not to get myself onto the property ladder.
So I started visiting banks and lending institutions, the thought of which filled me with a quiet terror. In my youth, the bank manager was a figure of fear, an unsmiling, tyrannical character you only got to meet if you were in some kind of trouble.
But not in the autumn of 2002. By then, bank managers had been reimagined as good guys. They were cheery men in short-sleeved shirts, with no ties, who were desperate to lend you money and prepared to smile indulgently while you told them fib after barefaced fib.
I was informed by one mortgage adviser that I was ‘debt-poor’, which was an inversion of what I’d been brought up to believe. I thought that to have no debt whatsoever was to be rich, relative to, say, someone who owed the bank a million quid. These days, this is popularly held to be true again, but, in the autumn of 2002, that wasn’t the case at all. I was ‘debt-poor’ but, happily, there was no shortage of financial institutions prepared to dig me out of that particular hole.
I was told how much I could borrow. It wasn’t quite a million. But it still seemed to me an obscene amount of money, given the notoriously unreliable nature of the newspaper industry, in which I worked – particularly the newspaper that employed me at the time – and the fact that I was borrowing the money on my own.
But having received mortgage approval in principle, I struck out to look for a home to call my own. I spent the next few months viewing houses, apartments and greenfield sites that I was assured would one day be filled with houses and apartments.
Iremember an estate agent showing me around a house that I quite liked in Greystones, County Wicklow. It was advertised as a three-bedroom house, but the third bedroom could have accommodated a bed only if you knew someone who enjoyed sleeping upright.
Batman would have loved it.
The asking price was €750,000 and that part of me that grew up in a council house that cost my father £11 per week to rent wanted to scream: ‘Are you out of your mind?’
And of course he was – but there was a lot of it about.
He had narrow trousers, I remember, and impossibly pointy shoes and he seemed unnaturally young to be charged with the rather serious job of helping to sell people into a lifetime of crippling debt. I was quite confident that I had tins of food in my cupboard that were older than him. When I voiced my concerns about the size of the third bedroom, he laughed as if I’d misunderstood the entire point of the exercise, but misunderstood it in a way that was funny and adorable and would make a terrific anecdote later on.
‘You’re not going to live here forever,’ he explained. ‘You’ll sell it in a couple of years for a massive profit and you’ll move into an even bigger house.’
That was what passed food good sense at the time. In fact, our entire economy was founded on that shaky logic.
In the end, I didn’t buy the £750,000 house. Perhaps I got scared. Or perhaps I just listened to that part of me that remembered Bono paying something very similar for a mansion on the Vico Road in Killiney just over ten years earlier.
The estate agent told me I’d regret it. I wasn’t sure I would. But one thing I was absolutely certain about, as he hitched up his narrow trousers and prepared to give another prospective buyer the same pitch he’d given me, was that Ross O’Carroll-Kelly had to spend at least some part of his life working as an estate agent.
And this is what happened next.
Paul Howard, 2016
This friend of mine, roysh, he had a bit of a scenario with this bird. Portia was her name, roysh, met her in Annabel’s, the usual craic, giving it loads, blah blah blah, ended up asking her out for dinner, which he wouldn’t usually do, roysh, but she’s actually a bit of a cracker – a better-looking version of Shannon Elizabeth – so he was prepared to put a bit of, like, spadework into the job. And anyway, roysh, the goys were all stood behind him, giving it, ‘Crash and burn, crash and burn,’ and this friend of mine, roysh, he was just there, ‘Oh my God, I SO love a challenge.’
The only problem was, roysh, he didn’t know where to bring her. He couldn’t remember the last time he went out with a bird for dinner and he was like, ‘What’s a cool place to bring a bird these days?’ And he must have really liked this bird because he decided he was going to pay for everything, none of this going halves bullshit. He ended up suggesting Roly’s, roysh, which he regretted straight away because that’s where his asshole of an old man usually goes, but as it turned out he needn’t have worried, roysh, because the dickhead wasn’t there.
And this friend of mine, roysh, he had to say that Portia looked focking amazing this particular night. And the thing is, roysh, she was actually really nice this bird, as in a nice person and not just a lasher. And she storts, like, telling him, this friend of mine, all about herself as they’re, like, looking through the menu. And, of course, he makes a total orse of himself. She says she’s a vegan and he asks her how old she was when she moved to Ireland, but she just laughs and tells him she SO loves a goy with a sense of humour, and he can’t make out whether she really thinks he was joking or whether she’s just, like, embarrassed for me, I mean for this friend of mine. And it’s only when she orders that he finds out that a vegan is someone who basically eats, like, grass and shrubbery.
But they get on well. She’s actually really, really nice, which is usually a total turn-off for him. She tells him she does some work at night in the Simon shelter in town and, like, the dogs’ and cats’ home at the weekend, just helping with, like, feeding and shit, a real Princess Diana vibe off her. And he’s really into her and she’s really into him and it’s, like, weird, but he thinks he might already be in love with this bird. She asks him about himself and he’s like, ‘Nothing much to tell,’ and his steak arrives and so does her, like, cabbage, and she goes, ‘I’m sure there is.’ He’s there, ‘Well, I’m thinking of going back playing rugby. Had an offer from Clontarf and–’ She goes, ‘Hey, you can save the macho bullshit for the groupies in the Merrion Inn. I want to know the real you.’ And he’s speechless. He goes, ‘The real me? Em … well, basically, Portia, I’m an asshole. I’ve always been an asshole. For as long as I can remember. I treat people like shit. Girls. Mates. The old pair. Don’t know why. I’m basically not a very good person.’ And she just, like, looks at him and goes, ‘I think you’re a good person.’ He presses his fork into his steak and blood seeps out. He’s like, ‘Your friends, what did they say when they heard you were going out with me?’ She goes, ‘Honestly?’ He’s there, ‘It’s probably best.’ She’s like, ‘They said I was mad. They said you were, well, all of the things you just told me you were.’ He’s there, ‘And you still wanted to go out with me?’ She goes, ‘I’m one of those people who sees the good in everyone.’ He’s like, ‘A bit of a Princess Diana vibe?’ She laughs and goes, ‘You can be yourself with me, you know.’
They go back to her gaff, a big fock-off apartment in, like, Blackrock, and she makes coffee and she goes, ‘Sorry, there’s no milk. Because I’m a–’ He goes, ‘Vulcan, I know,’ and she breaks her shite laughing again and, like, punches him in the arm, all sort of, like, playful. And then, well, I don’t have to paint you a picture, one thing leads to another, blah blah blah, and afterwards she goes, ‘You’re so much different to what people say,’ and he goes, ‘What people?’ and she’s like, ‘Other girls.’ And the next they know, roysh, they’ve both drifted off to sleep and after a few hours, roysh, he’s woken up by this, like, beeping noise and it’s his mobile and he realises he must have, like, fallen asleep. Portia, roysh, she’s in the scratcher beside him and he gets out and grabs his phone, which is in the pocket of his chinos. And it turns out, roysh, that it’s a text message from, like, Oisinn, one of the lads, and it’s like, WELL? And this friend of mine, roysh, he thinks for a minute before he texts him back and when he does it’s like, HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES! He looks at the clock and it’s, like, three o’clock in the morning, and he didn’t realise he’d been asleep so long. His phone beeps again and he reads the message and it’s like, UDM, which is, like, U DA MAN, and then a few minutes later it beeps again and it’s, like, NOW GET DA FCK OUTTA THR. He lies there in the darkness thinking for about half an hour, roysh, and then he gets up and puts on the old threads, trying his best not to wake Portia, but she does wake, roysh, and when she cops what’s happening she goes, ‘What are you doing?’ And the goy, roysh, he goes, ‘Going home.’ And she’s like, ‘But there’s no need.’ He goes, ‘Look, em … don’t flatter yourself, okay. It was a one-night thing.’ She goes, ‘But you told me last night that you thought you–’ and he goes, ‘I know what I said. This is for the best. Believe me, Portia, you’re too nice a chick. You really don’t need someone like me in your life.’
And he walks straight out of there. Even though he really, really likes her, maybe even loves her, he gets the fock out of there. And you’re probably wondering why. Because that’s him. That’s what he’s like, this friend of mine. The goys call him The Tin Man. He has no feelings, that’s what they say. Completely focking untouchable. In Annabel’s, Lillies, Cocoon, every weekend you’ll hear them all giving it that:
‘Here comes Ross. The Tin Man.’
CHAPTER ONE
The One Where Ross Goes To D(twenty)4
I go toring Fionn, roysh, to find out what the goys are doing for Hallowe’en night, but the old dear’s already on the line, on the phone in the sitting room, dictating an ad for the paper and, like, giving the bird on the other end of the line a focking earful of abuse. I’m there on the extension in the kitchen, listening to her, roysh, and I have to put my hand over the mouthpiece to stop her from hearing me cracking my shite laughing. She’s there, ‘Cleaning Woman Wanted,’ and the bird in the paper, roysh, she goes, ‘Sorry, I have to stop you there. You can’t be gender specific, I’m afraid.’ The old dear’s like, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and the bird’s there, ‘Gender specific. It’s this new equality legislation, you see. You have to say, ‘Cleaner wanted’.’ The old dear’s like, ‘Yes, but you don’t seem to understand. It’s a woman I want to hire,’ and the bird’s there, ‘Yes, but you have to be seen to offer men the opportunity to apply.’ And the old dear storts going ballistic, roysh, she’s there, ‘I do not want some pervert going through my underwear drawer.’ And the bird’s like, ‘I’m really sorry, I don’t make the law.’ The old dear, roysh, she’s in a real snot at this stage, huffing and puffing down the phone. She goes, ‘I suppose you have a problem with the next line as well. ‘No Foreigners Need Apply’. I suppose you want me to change that to No Non-Nationals Need Apply, or somesuch.’ The bird’s like, ‘Well, actually, you can’t say either. Your advertisement can’t be race specific.’ The old dear’s like, ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, this is political correctness gone mad,’ and the bird goes, ‘There’s nothing I can do. I’m not allowed to–’ The old dear’s there, ‘I am not hiring one of those refugees, if that’s what you are getting at.’ The bird goes, ‘They’re not my rules,’ and the old dear goes, ‘Romanian refugees? In my home? The very idea of it.’
There’s this game I like to play, roysh, where you see a good-looking bird out with her boyfriend – actually she doesn’t even have to be that good-looking – but what you do is you catch her eye and try to, like, hold her stare until her boyfriend notices. I don’t know why I get a kick out of it. I just do.
Amy goes, ‘I’m telling you, it’s drinph,’ and Faye, who’s also first year law in Portobello, goes, ‘Are you sure?’ and Amy goes, ‘Hello? I think I know this subject better than you. You’re the one repeating, remember?’ I’m like, ‘What the fock is drinph?’ and Amy goes, ‘It’s D.R.I.N.P.H. They’re initials, Ross. The duties of a receiver. Debts. Report. Interests. Negligence. Price. High Court.’ I’m there, ‘Am I, like, missing something here?’ And Faye goes, ‘We have a Christmas exam next week, and receiverships are SO going to come up.’ Fionn, roysh, he pushes his glasses up on his nose, like he always does when he’s about to show off, the focking brainbox, and he goes, ‘I believe what’s being referred to here, Ross, is the use of mnemonics as a means of retaining and then recalling large tracts of information.’ What an asshole.
Amy is wearing a pair of black, knee-high Burberry boots, the old slut wellies, as the goys call them. She closes her eyes and goes, ‘One, the receiver must pay the company debts in the correct order. Two, the receiver has a duty to report to the company, via the statement of affairs. Three, the receiver and debenture holder have a fiduciary relationship, i.e., the receiver must act in the best interests of the debenture holder regardless of whose agent the receiver is said to be, or the method of appointment. Four, the receiver is under a duty of skill and care and may be liable in negligence to the debenture holder and the company. Five, the receiver’s main duty to the company is to get the best price available in the circumstances for the sale of the charge asset. Six, the receiver may apply to the High Court for directions in relation to any matter connected with the performance of his or her duties.’
I’m like, ‘Sure, but what does it all mean?’ And Faye’s like, ‘You don’t need to know what it means, Ross. You just need to remember it. Oh my God, how did you manage to pass the Leaving?’ Erika, roysh, the bitch, goes, ‘He didn’t,’ and Faye just looks at me and goes, ‘But you repeated it, like, twice?’ and I go, ‘I was on the Senior Cup team,’ and I just, like, shrug my shoulders and go back to my chilli beef ramen. Amy goes, ‘Okay, examiner-ships.’ and Erika, roysh, she looks at her over the top of her shades and she’s like, ‘Excuse me, some of us aren’t interested in this shit,’ and Amy just looks her up and down and tells her she has an attitude problem, and Erika goes, ‘Spare me,’ calls the waitress over and orders another cappuccino, no a latte, no a cappuccino.
Oisinn arrives in, roysh, sits down next to me and makes this big, like, show of sniffing the air. Then he goes, ‘Which one of you is wearing Red Door?’ and no one answers, roysh, so he goes, ‘As in Elizabeth Arden? Well, whichever one of you it is, be careful. I might try to hop you tonight.’
I turn on my phone. I have two voice messages. One from Rachael, this bird from second year science who I haven’t seen since, like, the Traffic Light Ball last year and have no desire to ever see again. The other is from Michelle from Ulster Bank who’d like to arrange a meeting to, like, discuss my overdraft.
Erika all of a sudden goes, ‘Hey, Fionn, how’s Christian?’ just basically being a bitch, roysh, and everyone at the table is suddenly looking at me. Fionn’s like, ‘He’s, eh, he’s great. There’s a new Star Wars movie out next year, why wouldn’t he be?’ Erika goes, ‘Have you seen Christian lately, Ross?’ and I can actually feel my face going red. She’s like, ‘Oh no, of course, I forgot, he hasn’t spoken to you since he found out about you and his mum.’ I’m like, ‘That is SO out of order,’ and Amy’s like, ‘Hello? Can we, like, change the subject here?’ Fair focks to her.
Faye goes, ‘Okay, okay, okay. Everybody, favourite ‘Dawson’s Creek’ episode, we’re talking ever?’ Erika throws her eyes up to heaven. Amy goes, ‘That’s easy. The one where Dawson kisses Joey. ‘The sweetest, most romantic, Fourth-of-July-fireworky, waves-crashing-against-the-shore, beyond-any-movie-I-could-ever-imagine kiss.’ Oh my God, SO romantic.’ Amy and Faye are like focking clones of Sorcha, my ex who’s gone to, like, Australia for a year. Faye goes, ‘The hard part is over. We got through it. Fifteen years of preamble. Fifteen years of hyper-real dialogue disguising our most obvious feelings. It’s all over now. The rest is simple. We’ll make it simple.’ Erika just goes, ‘Sad.’
Oisinn turns around and goes, ‘Hey, you know which one I like best? The one where Jen and Joey get it on.’ Faye’s like, ‘That never happened,’ and Oisinn goes, ‘Oh, you probably didn’t see it. It was, like, a one-off. It was only shown late at night.’ Faye goes, ‘I think this may have been a dream you had?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘Which one of us hasn’t? Are you sure you’re not wearing Red Door?’ Then he orders the tempura ramen, the ginger chicken udon and a chilli beef ramen, with side orders of steamed white rice and chillies, the fat bastard, and Amy goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I SO love Japanese food,’ roysh, and Faye goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! so do I,’ even though I’ve never seen either of them actually eat it, or eat anything at all for that matter. Amy asks the waitress whether there’s, like, celery in the yasai gyoza and when the waitress says yes she just, like, turns her nose up and says she doesn’t want anything, and Faye, roysh, she just orders carrot juice and then basically picks food off my plate.
Eventually, roysh, Faye focks off to the jacks and when she’s gone Amy goes, ‘I’m not being a bitch or anything, but – OH! MY! GOD! – I cannot believe she thinks those trousers still fit her,’ and she points out how much ‘that girl’ has put on since she came back from Montauk in the summer, and it’s basically so sad the way she pestered her old man for membership of Crunch for her twenty-first and she’s only used it, like, three times, and that’s if you count going in the sauna and the jacuzzi as using a gym. I don’t really know what Amy’s bullshitting on about. Some birds, they wear those hipster trousers, roysh, and they’ve got those big trouser melons hanging over the waist-band, but there’s, like, fock-all meat on Faye. She comes back from the jacks, roysh, and says – OH! MY! GOD! – she feels like such a whale and she seriously needs to stort getting back to the gym, and Amy goes, ‘Are those the trousers you wore to Eunan’s twenty-first?’ and Faye’s like, ‘Yeah, the ones I got in Karen Millen before the summer,’ and Amy doesn’t say anything back, roysh, and Faye gives her this filthy, like she knows she’s being a bitch to her.
Then Amy storts talking about some dickhead who’s on the permanent guest list in Reynards. Erika gets up to go, roysh, and Fionn’s like, ‘Are you not going to finish your coffee, babes?’ He is SO trying to get in there it’s not funny, as if she’d be interested in the geeky-looking focker. She goes, ‘No, I’m going Christmas shopping with my mum. I said I’d meet her outside.’ She gets her shit together, roysh, and she’s about to leave, then she turns back and she goes, ‘I’d bring her in to meet you all, but Ross might try to have sex with her.’ And everyone at the table just breaks their shite laughing, roysh, and as Erika makes her exit they stop laughing and look sort of, like, embarrassed for me.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, roysh, in total focking ribbons, we’re talking seriously hanging here, a feed of pints last night and a kebab on the way home, roysh, and my orse feels like the focking Japanese flag this morning. I know I should have put a toilet roll in the fridge last night. It’s always too late when I think about it. And the old pair aren’t helping matters, wrecking my head as usual. The old man’s planning to go on the New Zealand tour with a few of his dickhead mates from the golf club next year, and he’s going on and on and on about it. And the old dear, roysh, she’s flicking through her speech for tonight’s end-of-year residents’ association meeting, highlighting important points with a yellow marker pen, totally ignoring the knobhead and I don’t blame her. He’s sort of, like, muttering under his breath, roysh, about Mount Cook and the Canterbury Plains, and all of a sudden, roysh, he has a sly look at the old dear to see if she’s listening to him, and then he goes, ‘Gerry Thornley’s going.’ The old dear looks up, roysh, over the top of her glasses, and she goes, ‘Charles, please,’ and he goes, ‘I’m sure all that business is forgotten about,’ and she’s like, ‘Charles, I do not want the police at the door again.’ He’s like, ‘A misunderstanding is all it was. Gerry understands that now, I’m sure of it.’
I’m like, ‘Will you two shut the fock up? I’m suffering here.’ The old dear’s like, ‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘What are you, a focking doctor now?’ and she goes, ‘No,’ and I’m like, ‘Then drop the focking act.’
Then, all of a sudden, roysh, I realise that my mobile phone is gone, that it must have been, like, nicked in Soho last night and, to be honest, roysh, I’m not actually surprised, I was that ossified basically. Can hardly remember a thing. It was the usual crew, roysh, we’re talking me, Oisinn, Fionn, JP and JP’s cousin, Ryle Nugent, and we were all, like, knocking back the beers and giving it loads on the dance floor. Anyway, somewhere along the line, my phone must have been robbed, roysh, so I go into the sitting room, as far away as I can get from the two assholes, and I pick up the phone and dial my number, roysh. This total skanger answers it and basically, roysh, we’re talking TOTAL here. He’s like, ‘Stor-ee?’ I’m like, ‘What the fock are you doing with my phone?’ He goes, ‘Alreet, bud. Good noyt lass noyt, wasn’t it?’ I’m like, ‘One too many knackers out for my liking. What the fock are you doing with my phone?’ He goes, ‘Sorted. It’s sorted, bud. Someone’s after robbin’ it on ye and Ine after gettin’ it back for ye.’ I’m there, ‘Give it to me then.’ He’s like, ‘It’s gonna cost ye a finder’s fee. Fifty squids, bud.’ I’m like, ‘I am SO not giving you money.’ He goes, ‘Then you’ll never see yisser phone again.’ I’m like, ‘Alroysh, alroysh, you focking skanger. Where do I go?’ Surprise sur-focking-prise, roysh, the goy lives in Pram focking Springs, Tallafornia, and I tell him, roysh, that I’ll give him a hundred bills if he comes out my direction and meets me at the Frascati Centre instead, but he’s like, ‘I’ll meet you in de Square. In McDonald’s. Next to the pictures. Four o’clock. And bring yisser money.’
So I phone up Oisinn, roysh, and I tell him the story and he goes, ‘Ross, I can’t let you do this alone,’ which is what I was hoping he’d say, roysh, because the goy is a huge bastard. He’s like, ‘We’ll get, like, a bit of a posse together to go with you.’ So a couple of hours later, roysh, there we are in Oisinn’s old man’s Alfa Romeo, we’re talking me, Oisinn, JP and Ryle, heading out to the northside or wherever the fock Tallaght is. I keep, like, nodding off, roysh, still majorly suffering from the night before, and I wake up at one stage and I’m, like, looking out the window going, ‘Oh my God, what the fock is this place? Where have you brought us, man?’ and Ryle’s like, ‘Calm down, Babycakes. Take it, like, easy,’ and I’m there, ‘Are you telling me people actually live like this? Oh the poverty, the squalor. It’s focking inhuman,’ and Ryle goes, ‘Ross, this is Terenure. We haven’t got there yet.’
But ten minutes later, roysh, we’re in the middle of Tallaght and it’s, like, a total Beirut buzz. JP goes, ‘Oisinn, don’t stop at any lights. They’ll have the focking alloys off.’ And Oisinn’s like, ‘TOTALLY.’
We get to the Square and pork, roysh, but it takes ages to find McDonald’s. We’re all wandering around this focking shopping centre, roysh, basically seeing how the other half lives, and it’s all, like, Ken Ackers in twenty quid jeans and ninety quid runners trying to make eye contact with you for an excuse to kick the shit out of you, and AJHs in black leggings and bad perms, pushing prams around and going, ‘Ah, Jaysus, Howiya.’ It’s a complete mare. We take a wrong turn and end up in, like, a pound shop and JP’s there, ‘Hair gel for a quid a tub? Somebody needs to hold a charity concert for these people.’ And it’s all tinsel Christmas decorations that poor people have hanging from their ceilings and, like, forty Christmas cards for a quid. And in the window of this other shop, there’s this picture of, like, Jesus, one of those Sacred Heart jobs, roysh, and it’s got, like, a clock built into the heart, and I think about buying it for my old pair, just to piss them off, but we’re all, like, too tense to stort focking around. It’s all about getting in, getting what you want and then getting out without being wasted, a bit like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.
Finally we find McDonald’s. I go in and the goys are sort of, like, waiting around outside, keeping a discreet distance, waiting for the knacker to arrive. I see this goy with what looks like my Motorola V3690, totally staring me out of it, so I go up to him, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Are you Anto?’ He goes, ‘Dat’s me nayim.’ I click my fingers and hold my hand out and go, ‘Phone. Now.’ He goes, ‘Price has gone up, bud. Fifty squids … and yisser jacket.’ I’m like, ‘This is a focking Abercrombie.’ He’s there, ‘I know what it fookin is, ye little poshie bastard. Gimme it.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh.’ And he goes to stand up, roysh, but suddenly the goys are standing right behind me and Oisinn goes, ‘Just give him the phone,’ and the skanger, roysh, he’s just about to say something when he cops Ryle and he goes, ‘Here, aren’t you dat fella what used to do ‘The Grip’?’ Ryle’s like, ‘Ten-four, Babycakes,’ and the goy goes, ‘Here, what’s dat Jason Sherlock really like? I’d say he’s sound as a pound, is he?’
Then everything happens really quickly, roysh. Oisinn uses the distraction to land one on the goy and totally deck him and there’s, like, blood and curry sauce all over the place, and in the confusion I grab my phone off the table, but all of a sudden, roysh, all these goys with Barry McGuigan moustaches a couple of tables down, they stort heading over, obviously the goy’s mates, so we have to peg it pretty sharpish, the old rugby training paying off in the sprint back to the cor, which by some focking miracle still has all four wheels attached to it, and then we’re all basically out of there. We’re, like, SO out of there.
I’m driving home from college, roysh, just broken up for the Christmas holliers, so I’m basically in great form, on the Stillorgan dual carriageway, cruising along in my cor – we’re talking an 01 reg Golf GTI, black, alloys – minding my own business, when this focking bitch in a white Peugeot 206, roysh, decides to move into the fast lane all of a sudden without checking what was behind her, and she ends up nearly running me off the road, the stupid wagon. I wouldn’t mind, roysh, but she’s not even going fast enough to, like, be in the fast lane. I blare the horn at her, roysh, then drive right up her orse and stort, like, flashing my lights at her to freak her out and then, roysh, when we hit the next red light outside Foxrock church, I get out of the cor and go up to her and she winds down the window, roysh, and says she’s really sorry. I’m like, ‘Your mirror’s not for checking whether you’ve got fake tan on your collar, you know.’ She goes, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.’ And I’m like, ‘Given that you’re a bird, you were probably thinking about shoes.’ She’s like, ‘What?’ And I don’t say anything else, roysh, just head back to my cor, which really pisses her off, because I can hear her still shouting back, ‘What did you say?’
Me and Christian, roysh, we hadn’t spoken for ages and basically I can tell you that they were the worst months of my life. Then Christmas Eve, roysh, I’m in Kiely’s, sitting at the bor, a few scoops in me, waiting for, like, Oisinn to arrive, when all of a sudden, roysh, Christian is suddenly sitting there beside me, as though nothing had, like, ever happened. He orders two pints of Ken without talking to me, roysh, then he goes, ‘Ross, you know a thing or two about women, don’t you?’ I’m like, ‘Christian, if this is about what happened between me and your old dear, I swear to you, she came on to me. Not being big-headed or anything, but basically–’ He goes, ‘I need advice, Ross.’ He takes off his jacket, a black-and-red Henri Lloyd. I go, ‘Hey, shoot.’ He goes, ‘There’s this girl and, well … I think I’ve fallen in love with her.’ I’m like, ‘Hea-vy! Name?’He goes, ‘It’s Zam. Zam Wesell.’
I have to say, roysh, I’ve never actually heard of this bird, but I presume it’s the German au pair his old man’s got working for him, and if that’s the case, roysh, then he needs more than advice, because his old man’s been knobbing her for basically the last six months, or so the rumour goes. I’m like, ‘How do you know it’s love, Christian?’ and he looks at me like I’ve got, like, fifty heads or something. He goes, ‘You think I don’t know what it feels like? I know what people say about me, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘You do?’ He goes, ‘Yeah. “Oh, he’s just a vagabond space pirate, a mercenary spice smuggler with a death mark on his head.”’ I just nod. He goes, ‘I might well be the fastest space pilot in the galaxy, Ross, but I’m also capable of feeling.’ I’m like, ‘I know, I know, I’m hearing you. It’s just, like, you know, foreign birds, they’re, like, different and shit.’ He nods, roysh, as though I’ve said something, like, really deep, then he heads off for a slash.
Where the fock is Oisinn? I’m thinking. I realise my mobile is switched off. There’s, like, something wrong with my battery. I lash it on again. Check my messages. Michelle from Ulster Bank called and wants me to call her back urgently. And Oisinn has also phoned to say he’s going to be late because he’s calling in to see L’Air du Temps, as he calls her, some bird he’s seeing who works in the Frascati Centre. He goes to me last week, ‘You should see this bird. She … is … focking … huge,’ like he’s really proud of the fact. The Chubby Chaser, the goys call him.
Christian arrives back and he goes, ‘I used to be so different. Slapdash. Reckless. If I had everything in the world, I’d risk the lot on a half-decent sabacc hand. But now …’ I’m like, ‘Have you spoken to her?’ He looks at me like I’m mad and shakes his head. He’s like, ‘You make it sound so easy.’ I’m like, ‘It is easy. Just walk up to her and talk to her, man. Ask her out to the flicks.’ I order two more pints. He looks totally lost, roysh, and we’re talkingTOTALLY here. He goes, ‘As if she’d be interested in a scruffy-looking nerf-herder like me.’ I’m like, ‘Christian, you’ve chatted up birds before.’ He goes, ‘Not like this one.’ I’m there, ‘What’s so special about her?’ He thinks for a minute, roysh, then he goes, ‘Her eyes … I might write her a letter.’ A letter, for fock’s sake. I’m like, ‘Not a bad idea.’ He goes, ‘Yeah, that way I can tell her exactly how I feel, like I’ve been waiting for her all my life and shit.’ I’m like, ‘Don’t lay it on too thick, though. You want to knob this girl, but you also want to keep your options open.’ He goes, ‘No, Ross, I don’t. She’s the one.’
