Ross O'Carroll-Kelly: The Teenage Dirtbag Years: 2 (Ross O'Carroll Kelly)

by Paul Howard

  Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God! I’ve put make-up on your shirt,’ and she storts, like, rubbing his collar, roysh, but the goy goes, ‘Don’t worry about it. You can put make-up on me any time you like, love,’ and all the girls laugh, roysh, all except Erika, who is SO not impressed, she’s got, like, her orms folded, really pissed off at being kept waiting.

  Of course the bouncer, roysh, he pushes it too far, tries to get a bit of physical contact going with the rest of the birds, and he goes to hug Erika next – I SO want to deck the focker at this stage – but of course she doesn’t respond, roysh, just stands there stiff as a focking tree. And when he picks up on the vibe, roysh, he pulls away and Erika asks him what the fock he thinks he’s doing, and he says he’s just being friendly. He goes, ‘Ine just tryin’ to be your friend, love,’ and she looks him up and down and goes, ‘You’re sexually frustrated. Why don’t you get a dirty magazine, take it to the men’s room and stop making a nuisance of yourself out here.’

  I’m falling in love with the girl.

  Most of Freshers’ Day is a total blur. And we’re talking TOTALLY here. I remember bits, roysh, but I was basically off my tits by about four o’clock in the afternoon, so I don’t know what was, like, real, and what I, like, imagined. I remember millions of people milling about the place. All these tossers standing up on stages trying to get you to, like, join stupid societies. And freebies. They gave us, like, tubes of toothpaste, roysh, and we ended up having fights with them, covering each other with the focking stuff. Blue shit. And someone else was handing out packets of johnnies. The old love zeppelins. Packets of six, yeah they’re goinna last a long time, I don’t think!

  Join Fianna Fáil. Join the World Wildlife Fund. Join the Drama Society. Join the dots to reveal a good-looking goy who’s only here for the beer and the birds and thinks you Society wankers should get a focking life. Big time. And we’re talking TOTALLY.

  Another double vodka and Red Bull. And then … Pretty much the only part I can remember after that, roysh, is chatting up these two Mounties in some focking marquee or other, don’t have a clue how we all ended up there. I remember the birds coming up to us, we’re talking me, Christian, Oisinn and Fionn, and one of them, roysh, I think she’s first year Social Science, she goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! did you hear about Becky?’ and I’m like, ‘No, what’s the story?’ obviously not cracking on that I don’t have a focking clue who Becky is. She goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! She drank half a bottle of vodka straight, had to be brought home in an ambulance. Her mum is SO going to have a knicker-fit.’

  I don’t actually remember when these two birds focked off, roysh, but I’m sort of, like, vaguely aware that Oisinn said something totally out of order to one of them. I think he pointed at one of them and went, ‘Halle Berry,’ then pointed at the other and went, ‘Halle Tosis,’ and then the next hour is, like, a blur. I fell asleep at one stage, with my feet up on the chair opposite me, and then I woke up maybe half an hour later with all, like, spit dribbling down my chin, and this other bird, who I’ve never laid eyes on before, roysh, is sitting beside me, boring the ears off me about some bullshit or other. She has my mobile, roysh, and she’s, like, flicking through my numbers, going, ‘Keyser. Is that Dermot Keyes? Oh my God! I can’t believe you know Dermot Keyes. I was going to bring him to my debs,’ and then it’s like, ‘Oh my God! You know Eanna Fallon. I kissed his best friend in Wesley when I was, like, fourteen. OH! MY! GOD! That’s, like, SO embarrassing.’ This goes on for quite a while, roysh, although I completely conk out again after about, like, five minutes. I don’t know what the fock happens then because the next thing I know she’s bawling her eyes out and asking me if I think she’s fat, but all I can see is Christian across the far side of the bor and he’s, like, calling me over, and he reminds me about this plan we had – didn’t think we were being serious at the time, roysh – to rob this, like, ten-foot-tall inflatable Heino can from outside the student bor and hang it off the bridge over the main road.

  So I just, like, get up and leave the bird there, roysh, the stupid, sappy bitch, and the next thing I know, me, Christian, Oisinn, Eanna, and I’m pretty sure Fionn as well, are trying to smuggle this, like, big fock-off can out of UCD, trying to avoid the security goys who were, like, driving around in jeeps. I remember Christian saying it was just like the time Princess Leia tried to sneak Han Solo out of Jabba’s Palace dressed as the Ubese bounty hunter, Boussh, then getting totally, like, paranoid and going, ‘I’m not gonna be no dancing girl in your court, you slimey Hutt,’ and we have to calm the mad focker down, roysh, before we can cross the road over the bridge with the thing.

  I remember hearing Fionn go, ‘Is that noise what I think it is?’ but I’m basically too busy trying to decide the best way to, like, attach this thing to the railings, but then, all of a sudden, roysh, I notice that the goys are gone. They’ve focking pegged it, I can see them in the distance and they’re halfway to focking Stillorgan. Of course, in my shock, roysh, I end up letting go of the focking Heino can and it just, like, falls over the side of the bridge and lands on the road, and this black Fiat Punto has to, like, swerve to avoid it. That’s when I hear the siren, and I’m instantly focking sober.

  So the next thing I know is the Feds are asking me for my name, my address and my phone number. Obviously, roysh, I don’t want my old pair to know that I focked this thing onto the dualler – still hoping the old man will give me the shekels to go skiing at Christmas – so I give them my name and Sorcha’s address and number because I know she’s actually the only one in her house at the moment, roysh, because her parents and her sister are in, like, the south of France for a couple of weeks.

  I try to play it cool like Fonzie, roysh. I go, ‘Is there a problem, Ossifer?’ but the cop who’s arrested me, roysh, he’s on the radio, all delighted with himself for having lifted someone, and it’s then that I stort thinking about basically pegging it, which isn’t a good idea because I don’t know if I can trust my legs, but I chance it anyway and I get about ten yords before the cop grabs me – must play focking bogball – and slams me up against the railings. And he’s back on the radio, roysh, going, ‘Assistance, assistance,’ and he snaps the old bracelets on me and makes me lean over the railings, looking down onto the dualler, a mistake because I feel like I’m going to borf my ring up, and I’m made to stay like that until the van arrives and I’m thrown into the back of that.

  Seems I’m not the only person who’s been a naughty boy tonight either. There’s this cream cracker in the back as well, roysh, who insists on trying to talk to me. He’s going, ‘What are you in for, Bud?’ and straight away, roysh, I’m like, ‘Let’s get one thing focking straight: I’m not your Bud, roysh. We’ve both been arrested on the same night. That’s all we have in common. I live in Foxrock. You live at rock bottom. I’m wearing Polo Sport. You’re wearing the same clothes for a week. I was holding a giant, blow-up Heino can over the edge of a bridge. You were holding up someone with a syringe.’ He looks at me like I’m talking in a foreign language, which I suppose I am to him. He goes, ‘I hit a bouncer a dig,’ and I’m there thinking, He’s not all bad then, and for two seconds I’m almost sorry for giving the creamer such a hord time.

  I go, ‘Please don’t breathe near me. I hate the smell of turpentine,’ and he smiles then, roysh – four focking teeth in his mouth – and he goes, ‘You have to watch out for me, I’m a bit of a character.’ I go, ‘Why did you hit the bouncer?’ and he’s there, ‘Wouldn’t let me in. Said he didn’t know me face. Says I, “You’ll remember it de next toyim.”’ I go, ‘I suspect it had nothing to do with not knowing your face. You were turned away because you’re a skobie. You dress like a scarecrow and you smell of piss. You are one hundred percent creamer. I’m no fan of bouncers myself, but us regulars have the roysh to go to a nightclub without having to be deloused afterwards.’ He’s sitting there with his mouth open. With the language barrier, you could say anything to him. I go, ‘You piece of vermin.’

 
He goes, ‘D’ya tink you’ll end up insoyid?’ and I’m there, ‘I se-riously doubt it. I don’t make a habit of being arrested, you know.’ He goes, ‘Don’t worry, Bud, just tell the judge you’re going back to do yisser Junior Cert. Dee love dat. Improving yisser self. Mustard.’ I’m like, ‘I don’t think so. My old man’s solicitor will get me off.’ The goy goes, ‘Ah, I’m on dee oul’ free legal ayid meself,’ and I’m there, ‘No shit.’

  We get to the cop shop, roysh – think it’s Donnybrook – and we’re brought in and this total focking bogger takes my details again, while the one who arrested me is, like, muttering under his breath with all his ‘endangering the lives of road-users’ bullshit, roysh, and I’m just there, ‘Spare me the lecture, will you?’

  So the next thing is, roysh, the copper who takes my details, he tells me to, like, turn out my pockets and hand over my belt and shoelaces and I’m like, ‘Why do you need those?’ and he goes, ‘In case you try to hang yourself.’ I’m like, ‘Hang myself? Whoah, who the fock owns that Heino can? Is there something I should know here?’ and he tells me I have a big mouth and it’s going to get me into trouble one day and I’m like, ‘Spare me.’

  The reason I can afford to be so Jack the Lad about it is that I know the old man’s dickhead of a mate will have me out of here in ten seconds flat. So before they stick me in the cell, roysh, I tell them I want to make a call and they give me a phone and I ring his number. He answers pretty much straight away. He’s like, ‘Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara,’ and I’m like, ‘Hennessy, it’s Ross. I’ve been arrested. If you tell the old man, I’ll tell your wife about that time I saw you in Angels. Where are you?’ and he goes, ‘Outside Donnybrook Garda Station.’ I’m there, ‘Holy fock, that was quick. Who told you?’ He goes, ‘No, I’ve been arrested myself. It seems you can’t even hold a conversation with a prostitute these days without being accused of kerb-crawling.

  The Gardaí have had to take stern action to stem the tide of people being civil to those less fortunate than themselves.’ The next thing the door swings open, roysh, and there he is, a cop either side of him, and he marches straight up to the counter and goes, ‘Can you explain to me why the criminal justice system is squandering vital resources that could be used in the war on crime?’ One of the Feds beside him goes, ‘You have been charged with performing a lewd act in a public place. Do you understand the charge?’ and he goes, ‘I was asking the girl for directions, for heaven’s sake,’ and I’m like, ‘Hennessy, your trousers are open,’ and he looks down, pulls up his fly, fastens his belt, winks at me and goes, ‘The little minx.’

  I tell the Feds I am SO not sharing a cell with him, or with the goy from The Commitments, roysh, and they put me in one by myself and it’s a bit of a hole. I lie on the hord, wooden bed and read some of the graffiti on the wall, and after a while one of the Feds comes into me and he goes, ‘That number you gave us, who’s there now?’ I’m like, ‘Sorcha. My … em … sister.’

  So he goes off to ring her, roysh, obviously planning to let me out, probably needs the cell for some real criminals, but Sorcha takes her focking time getting here, we’re talking two focking hours, and when they finally let me out of the cell, I can see why. She’s, like, totally dressed to kill, the sad bitch, wearing the Burberry leather knee-high boots, in cognac, that her old dear bought her in New York, her long black Prada skirt, her black cashmere turtleneck sweater, we’re talking the Calvin Klein one, and her sleeveless, faux sheepskin jacket by Karen Millen – as if I’m supposed to believe she always looks this well at, like, three o’clock in the morning. I’m SO glad to see her though, and I give her a hug and go to throw the old lips on her but she just, like, pulls away from me, roysh, and I’m just there going to myself, Oh my God, this one is in a Pauline now.

  The cops decide not to charge me, roysh – happy days – but they say they’ll keep the incident on file and if I’m ever arrested again, blah blah blah. They give me my shit back, but I’m still too shit-faced to put my, like, shoelaces back into my shoes, roysh, so I just stuff them into my pocket, while Sorcha spends about ten focking minutes apologising to the cops for my behaviour, totally overdoing it with the Mature Young Adult act, and we’re talking totally here. Then she walks on out to the cor, like she’s in a hurry and in no mood to take shit from me.

  I see this bird arriving, roysh, dirty blonde hair, big hoopy earrings, leather jacket, denim skirt, bare legs, white stilettos – we’re talking straight off the ‘Jerry Springer’ show, roysh – and she marches up to the desk and goes, ‘Here to pick up me fella,’ and I know straight away, roysh, that it’s the goy who was in the back of the van with me. I just walk up to her, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Your boyfriend’s one hell of a goy. You’re a lucky girl,’ and she looks at me, roysh, real aggressive, and she goes, ‘Who the fook do you tink you are?’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry, I’ve been assigned to his case. I’m his social worker,’ and the stupid sap believes me, roysh, she shakes my hand – she’s more sovs on her than Jimmy focking Saville – and then I turn around and go, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ and head for the door. She shouts after me, roysh, she goes, ‘He’s not goin’ back insoyid, is he?’ and I turn back to her and I’m there, ‘He’s gonna get ten years. I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,’ and I can, like, hear her shrieks from outside.

  Sorcha tells me to hurry up. We get into her cor, roysh, black Rav 4, we’re talking amazing here, and the nagging storts straight away. She’s like, ‘Well, you’ve certainly made an impression at UCD. It was certainly a day to remember, wasn’t it?’ I just, like, totally blank her, which really pisses her off, but she just keeps it up, going, ‘Don’t worry, Ross, you’ll grow out of it.’ On the other side of the road, roysh, there’s, like, two or three buses turning into the bus depot in Donnybrook, and I realise that it’s actually a lot earlier than I thought it was. What the fock was I drinking? Sorcha goes, ‘By the way, that was a stupid thing you did back there. In the police station,’ and I’m like, ‘What?’ and she goes, ‘Trying to kiss me.’ I’m like, ‘You love it,’ and she goes, ‘You told them I was your sister.’ I’m like, ‘Incest, the game for all the family.’

  Blah blah blah blah blah. She goes, ‘You owe me. Big time.’ I’m like, ‘What do you mean, owe you?’ She goes, ‘Hello? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do at eleven o’clock at night than drive all the way from Killiney into town to get you out of a police cell?’ I’m there, ‘What were you doing when the Feds called?’ and she looks at me, shakes her head and goes, ‘I have a life, you know,’ which means she was doing fock-all.

  I spend what seems like the next hour falling in and out of sleep, roysh, but it must only be a few minutes because when I open my eyes we’re only at, like, the Stillorgan crossroads, and I realise that it’s actually Sorcha’s shouting that’s woken me up. I keep sort of belching, roysh, and there’s, like, baby sick on my chin and my jacket and Sorcha’s going, ‘If you borf in my cor, Ross, I am SO going to kill you.’ I wipe my face on my sleeve, tell her I love her when she’s angry and go to kiss her on the cheek, but she tells me that if I even think about it she’ll break my orm, so I don’t.

  After a few minutes, roysh, completely out of the blue, she goes, ‘I’m seeing someone.’ She’s totally dying for me to ask who, roysh, but I don’t say anything and after a couple of minutes she goes, ‘He’s in my class. He’s actually twenty-eight. The goys in Carysfort are SO much more mature than the goys in UCD.’ She takes the roysh turn at White’s Cross and she’s there going, ‘I am SO over you, Ross. I look back now and I’m like, Oh my God! what a mistake.’ I don’t say anything. She goes, ‘I mean, is the proposition of monogamy such a Jurassic notion to you?’ I’m just like, ‘Okay, Joey,’ and she realises that I’m not as shit-faced as she thought I was and she just goes really red and doesn’t, like, say anything else for ages and I’m, like, totally laughing my orse off.

  She turns up the CD then, roysh, and I hadn’t even realised that she had it on. I’m just
like, ‘What is this shit?’ and she throws her eyes up to heaven and goes, ‘It’s Tchaikovsky, Ross. ‘Dance of the Reed Flute’. It’s from The Nutcracker. Oh my God, Ross, when are you ever going to get with the programme?’ The cover from the CD is on the dashboard, roysh, and it’s like, The Best Classical Album of the Millennium … Ever! I turn up the sound really high, roysh, until it’s blasting, and then stort, like, conducting the music, swinging my orms around the place and Sorcha goes, ‘You are SUCH a dickhead.’ We pull up outside my gaff and I get out of the cor and, like, stagger up to the gates of the house, and I must have left the passenger door open because I hear Sorcha getting out and, like, basically cursing me under her breath, then slamming the door shut, and the next thing I know I’m waking up and it’s, like, the middle of the afternoon the next day, and I still have my Castlerock jersey and my chinos on and I’m in the total horrors. And we’re talking big style.

  Me and Oisinn, we skip our eleven o’clock, roysh, and we’re sitting in his gaff watching the telly when my mobile rings and I, like, make the mistake of answering before checking who it is, roysh, and who is it only the old man, basically checking up on me, he’s like, ‘Hey, Kicker, how’s college?’ and I’m there, ‘Not a good time. I’m watching ‘The Love Boat’,’ and I hang up on the loser.

  Huge row in the bor the other night, roysh. Erika was going on about the National Lottery, which she said was basically for skangers, and Claire, who basically is a skanger, roysh – a Dalkey wannabe who actually lives in Bray – she goes, ‘But what about my mum? She buys scratch cards. That doesn’t mean I’m a skanger.’ And Erika goes, ‘I’m not changing the rules to accommodate you, your mother, or anyone else in your family. Scratch cords are actually worse than doing the Lottery. Face it, Dear, you’re peasant class,’ and Claire storts going ballistic, roysh, screaming and shouting, telling Erika she’s the biggest snob she’s ever met, which Erika would actually consider a compliment, roysh, and she just smiles while Claire makes a total tit of herself in front of everyone, and eventually Sorcha takes her off to the toilet to calm her down and, like, clean up her make-up and shit, which totally pisses Erika off, roysh, I can tell, because she looks at me and goes, ‘Sorry, whose best friend is Sorcha supposed to be again?’ Then she gets up and leaves the boozer without even finishing her Bacordi Breezer.