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

by Paul Howard

  I was a bit embarrassed, roysh, probably should have focked off back downstairs instead of going in. She was, like, off her face and suddenly she storts pouring out her whole, like, life story to me – what Christian’s old man was really like and that woman who had the cheek to come into her home on this of all days, and I wasn’t sure who she was talking about, though I presumed it was someone she’d found out the old man was rattling on the side. And that’s probably what the row was about, him inviting her.

  It’s funny, roysh, I’d always had a bit of a thing for Christian’s old dear. She was always a bit of a yummy-mummy, not quite as nice as Simon’s, but I wouldn’t have said no.

  I sat on the bath beside her, roysh, and the next thing – it’s focking stupid, I know, but I’d a few on me as well – we’re suddenly, like, hugging each other and there’s a bit of kissing going on and, well, I’ll spare you the details, but basically one thing led to another and we did it, there on the floor of the bathroom, and there’s me gicking it in case Christian, or his old man, or, fock, his granny even, came up to use the can.

  When it was over she said it was lovely, she goes, ‘That was lovely,’ but I knew it was bullshit. It was too quick and too sleazy to have been lovely.

  And that was it, roysh, we both got dressed and headed back downstairs to the porty and it was never, like, mentioned again. Even when I was in the gaff after that there was no, like, awkwardness about it. Sometimes I wondered whether she was too pissed to even remember because she basically acted like it had never happened and shit.

  That was until this night, about three weeks ago, when she phoned me up, roysh, and says she told Christian’s old man what had happened between us. She was really sorry, it was all bound to come out now, she said. I asked her why she had to say anything. I’m like, ‘It was three focking years ago, for fock’s sake.’ She goes, ‘And we’re separated now. I know it shouldn’t matter. But there’s so much stuff going on. So much bitterness. So many bad things coming out. I found out today about this woman he was seeing. Two years it was going on. Right under my nose as well. We had a row about it. On the phone. And in the heat of the moment, I mentioned what happened between you and me.’

  I asked her did she think he’d tell Christian and she said not for now, roysh, because Christian was refusing point-blank to see him or even, like, take his calls because he was, like, blaming him for the break-up and shit. But she was sure it would come out eventually. He would use it to try to worm his way back into Christian’s good books. Nothing focking surer.

  The old man calls a meeting of KISS, roysh, what with all the stuff in the papers about rugby going to, like, Croke Park and shit, and you should see our driveway, it’s like focking Maxwell Motors, we’re talking Beamers, Mercs, Rovers, the whole lot. The old man’s, like, in his element, of course, crapping on about the Berkeley Court and how the heart and soul of the game belongs at Lansdowne Road. He’s there giving it, ‘I don’t care whether it’s Abbotstown, Croke Park, or Áras-an-blooming-Uachtaráin, rugby will not be moving to the northside, certainly not as long as I have breath in my lungs and I’m chairman of Keep It South Side.’

  I warned him not to make a focking knob of himself again, but of course the old dear was straight on my case, going, ‘Please be on your best behaviour, Ross. Today’s a big day for your father,’ and it must be, roysh, because she’s got the focking gourmet coffee out again and it’s, like, I don’t know, French Vanilla Supreme all round, and the old man’s giving it, ‘It’s far from Wedgwood that Bertie Ahern was reared,’ which gets a laugh off all his dickhead mates, and the old dear, who’s standing there with the tray, goes, ‘I say, how clever, Darling,’ and she kisses him – on the actual lips – and I’m thinking, Oh my God! I am going to focking vom.

  She lays the tray down on the dining-room table and she gives it, ‘For heaven’s sake, that man can’t even speak properly, that Bertie Ahern.’ And Alan, this total orsehole who’s, like, president of Castlerock this year, he goes, ‘You’re right, Fionnuala. It’s all Dis, Dat, Deez and Doze with that chap.’ And Alan’s wife is like, ‘C as M. The man is simply C as M.’

  The old man goes, ‘But we’re not allowed to say that, unfortunately. Not politically correct, quote-unquote. That’s why we have to think out our strategy carefully. You mention unmarried mothers, tracksuits and satellite dishes and you’re immediately labelled a snob. With a capital S.’

  I’m standing at the door of the sitting room, listening to this shite and going, ‘What a bunch of sad bastards,’ under my breath. Eduard, this knob the old man knows from the golf club, he bangs his fist on the table and goes, ‘What are we going to do then?’ and Richard, this other complete and utter dickhead who’s supposed to be helping the old man get his handicap down, goes, ‘That’s the frustrating thing, Eduard. We know what this is about. It’s about Bertie Ahern getting votes in these Northside hellholes. That’s what it’s about … I mean, some of these young girls, they’re having these babies just for the money. Are we just going to sit back and accept that that’s right?’

  The old man goes, ‘I think you’ve gone off on a bit of a tangent there, Richard, but your point will be noted in the minutes. But if we’re to accept that we can’t include anything about sovereign rings, little moustaches, or spice burgers in our argument, then I believe there’s only one way for us to fight this nonsense. And that’s by using the only language Fianna Fáil understands.’

  Hennessy goes, ‘I can raise a few hundred thousand. Might mean going to Guernsey, but it’s feasible.’ Eduard goes, ‘You’d do that?’ and Hennessy’s like, ‘This is an attack on our way of life, Eduard. I’d do that and a lot more besides.’

  Richard goes, ‘I’ve known Frank Dunlop for many, many years, and something tells me that simple bribery isn’t going to work this time.’ Eduard, roysh, he loses it then, jumps up and goes, ‘Well, what do you suggest we do? For thirty-five years I’ve been going to rugby internationals. Thirty-five years. It’s the Berkeley Court. It’s the Dorsh. It’s … it’s … I mean, where is Abbotstown anyway?’ Hennessy puts his orm around him, trying to calm the looper down, and he goes, ‘Who knows, Eduard? Who knows …?’

  The old man’s there, ‘Can I just call this meeting to order for a moment and say that I think we’ve gone off the point slightly. This Abbotstown business, it’s still some way down the line. The real, immediate danger at the moment comes from the GAA. If they vote to open up Croke Stadium, we could be in real danger. We’ll be travelling out to north Dublin for our matches quicker than you can say, “What do you mean, you don’t sell Courvoisier around here?” Now I think Richard is right. Frank Dunlop has been keeping his head down lately, and who can blame him?’

  Hennessy goes, ‘Kerrigan. He hates anyone with money,’ and the old man’s like, ‘Let me finish, Hennessy. What I’m saying is, let’s deal with the GAA first. If we need to bribe anyone, we’ve got to get a few of these Gaelic Association of … what does it stand for? Gaelic … I don’t know, these GAA chaps. What I’m saying is, let’s put together, say, £50,000 each and try to bribe a few of them. Get them to vote against it.’

  Hennessy goes, ‘Just think of all the bacon and cabbage and, you know, sports coats they could buy with that kind of money.’

  And Richard’s like, ‘We can offer it to them, but they’d never go for it, would they?’

  JP asks me whether it’s true I’ve been texting Lana, this Daisy Donovan wannabe who’s doing fock-knows-what in Bruce. I go, ‘I wanna say this just one more time. I did not have textual intercourse with that woman,’ and everyone at our table cracks up, including Erika. Probably the funniest thing I’ve ever said.

  Usual crack in college, doing fock-all, just basically chilling, taking it easy and shit. I hit the sports bor in the morning, roysh, read Wardy’s report on the Clongowes match, play a few frames of Killer with, like, Oisinn and Christian, head down to 911 for the old rolls, then to the computer room for the two hours of free inter
net access, which is mostly spent downloading pictures of Rachel Stevens, Carmen Electra and Lisa Faulkner.

  After that, roysh, the afternoon’s basically my own, so me and the goys are, like, sitting around in Hilper’s with Chloë, who’s, like, first year B&L, and Clodagh, who’s repeating first year Orts, and everyone has, like, their mobiles, their car keys and, in the girls’ case, lip balm on the table, and Oisinn’s talking about some goy in first year Business who, he says, is a total faggot and we’re talking a total faggot here, and all of a sudden, roysh, Chloë goes, ‘What have you got against gay people?’ and Oisinn’s like, ‘Nothing,’ and Chloë goes, ‘You better not have, because I’ve got loads of friends who are gay.’ Clodagh says she has too, but Chloë says she doesn’t have as many as she has and they argue about this for, I would guess, fifteen minutes.

  I have to say, roysh, that Chloë is a total honey, we’re talking really well-stacked here, former Virgin on the Rocks, SO like Emmanuelle Béart it’s unbelievable, while Clodagh is a complete focking moon-pig, though Christian told me in Annabel’s last Friday night that he’d be prepared to take a bullet for me if I’d any chance of being with Chloë.

  So we’re sitting there, roysh, and Chloë is SO flirting her orse off with me it’s unbelievable. She’s there going, ‘Ross, would you be a complete dorling and go and get me a cup of boiled water?’ and I ask her why boiled water and she says that it’s, like, good for your skin and anyway cold water just, like, slows down your metabolism. I have to say, roysh, she looks totally amazing in her pink Ralph with the collar up and a baby blue sleeveless bubble jacket. She goes, ‘Would you be a complete dorling, Ross, and get it for me? And a packet of Marlboro Lights as well,’ and of course I’m there, ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

  After lunch, there’s, like, fock-all happening, so the five of us decide to head out to Stillorgan to, like, see a movie for the afternoon. Clodagh says she really wants to see Cast Away, roysh, and Chloë says that is SO a good idea. Clodagh says they actually filmed it in two sequences, roysh, and that Tom Hanks basically lost three stone in eight months to play the port of a goy who’s, like, shipwrecked on a desert island, and Oisinn says that three stone in eight months is nothing, that anyone from the cast of ‘Friends’ could do that in a long weekend, and even though I think it’s, like, really funny, roysh, I notice that Chloë isn’t laughing, so I tell him he’s a knob.

  So we’re about to head off, roysh, when all of a sudden this goy, Dowdy, who’s, like, second year Sports Management, ex-Clongowes boy and a total dickhead, he comes over and storts, like, chatting to the birds, asking them how they’re fixed for the exams and shit. Clodagh says she hasn’t done a tap all year and SO has to get her finger out of her orse it’s not funny, and then he turns around and asks us the same question, roysh, and we all, like, totally blank him.

  He’s there, ‘Oh, I get it, the old school-rivalry shit. All I’m saying, goys, is don’t leave it too late to stort studying. I should know,’ and I go, ‘Hello? We’re doing Sports Management.’ He goes, ‘I know. You’ve still got exams,’ and I’m like, ‘I’ve been training my orse off for, like, two weeks. I cannot believe they are pulling this shit on me now. How many exams are we talking? There’s only, like, three subjects on the course.’ He goes, ‘Well, there’s actually seven subjects on the course, goys. You must have done exams at Christmas?’ Oh my God, roysh, I’m storting to feel seriously dizzy. I’m like, ‘Seven subjects? Christmas exams?’ He’s there, ‘Yeah, we’re talking physiotherapy, computers, psychology …’

  Me and Oisinn are there, ‘OH! MY! GOD! you know what this means? If we’ve missed the Christmas exams, we’re going to have to sit the summer repeats.’ I’m there, ‘I am SO not cancelling Ocean City.’

  So we tell the birds, roysh, that we’re going to have to postpone the flicks because this is, like, a major emergency, and me and Oisinn end up hitting the sports bor and knocking back a few pints, to get over the shock more than anything, and by seven o’clock we’re totally shit-faced. We hit the M1 for a few more, then head into town to Mono.

  Pretty much the next thing I remember is being out on the dancefloor, giving it loads to ‘Beautiful Day’, roysh, and the bouncers telling me and Oisinn that if we can’t control ourselves we’re going to have to take it outside, and I look around, roysh, and I notice that Fionn’s here as well. That geeky-looking focker doesn’t have to worry because he’s doing Orts and he’s focking brains to burn and he’s chatting up this bird, blonde hair, big baps, a little bit like Stacey Bello, though not up close, and when I get up close she’s asking him where he’s from and he says Killiney and she’s, like, totally disgusted all of a sudden and she goes, ‘I am SO not getting involved in another Dorshline relationship,’ and she focks off.

  And that’s pretty much the last thing I can remember, except I think I ended up being with this bird Carol, who’s, like, first year accountancy in Bruce, really good-looking, so like Estella Warren you would actually swear it was her, but I wasn’t with her for long because I could hordly stand, and I was so off my face I ended up giving her my number – we’re talking my real number here – though that isn’t the thing I was most worried about the next morning.

  I don’t know whether I imagined this because I was so horrendufied, and I can’t get through to the goys to find out whether it really happened, but I could have sworn, roysh, that I was walking down Grafton Street, just before I blacked out, and I bumped into Hendo, the UCD coach, who said he’d been trying to contact me all day and seeing the state of me now he’s wondering why he bothered at all, but I’m on the team for next week’s match if I can manage to stay off the drink for that long and I’m a disgrace to the game of rugby and it’s a pretty sad day for UCD that the team has to rely on the likes of me and I should get myself sobered up and get my act together and this is my, like, last big chance. And maybe it was the drink, probably was, but I could have sworn that he said the match was against, like, Castlerock RFC.

  And of course I’m like, ‘Fock.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Ross thinks he’s, like, too cool for school.’

  Discuss.

  JP, roysh, he persuades Oisinn to borrow his old man’s cor, we’re talking a big fock-off Beamer here, and they head out to Tallafornia and drive around these real skanger estates, with JP sticking his head out through the sunroof, shouting, ‘AFFLUENCE! AFFLUENCE!’

  Valentine’s Day was the usual crack – got four cords, two from, like, secret admirers, roysh, one from Jessica Heaney who’s, like, second year Actuarial and Financial Studies in UCD, a big-time flirt and SO like Natasha Henstridge you’d swear they were twins, and one other addressed to ‘The goy with the smallest penis in UCD,’ which is obviously from Keeva, or Amy, or some other bird I’ve given the flick to and is having a problem getting over it, maybe Emma, or Sinéad. Or Cara, or Jill. One of those orseholes. Or Sadch. Or Abhril. Or Teena with two Es.

  Anyway, roysh, the good news was that Fionn got his hands on tickets for the Valentine’s Ball, so there I am in my gaff getting ready, roysh, looking pretty well, I have to say, in my new beige chinos, light blue Ralph and Dubes, when all of a sudden there’s this, like, ring at the door. I open it, roysh, and surprise sur-focking-prise, who is it only Sorcha, who hands me this cord, roysh, and this present and goes, ‘Friends?’ and I just, like, shrug my shoulders and go, ‘Whatever,’ thinking, Hello? Has this girl no, like, self-respect? Then she gives me a hug and goes, ‘You smell SO nice. What are you wearing?’ Everything with this girl comes with a focking hug. I’m like, ‘Emporio He,’ and she goes, ‘Giorgio Armani?’ and I just, like, nod at her.

  She’s totally dressed to kill, roysh, and we’re talking totally here, and she’s there giving it, ‘You going out tonight?’ and I’m like, ‘Going to the Valentine’s Ball,’ and she goes, ‘Oh my God, where is it on this year?’ and I just go, ‘Town.’ She is SO trying to get back with me it’s embarrassing. She goes, ‘Are you not goi
ng to open your present?’ so I tear open the wrapping and it’s, like, the new Radiohead album, which I’ve basically wanted for ages, and she goes, ‘I hope you haven’t already got it,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, I have actually,’ and she says, OH MY GOD! she’ll change it, but I tell her not to bother, that I’ll give it to Megan, and she’s like, ‘Who’s Megan?’ and I go, ‘This bird I’ve been seeing. She’s, like, first year B&L. You wouldn’t know her. Looks like Holly Valance,’ completely making it up, and the sad bitch nearly bursts into tears.

  The next thing, roysh, the old dear decides to stick her focking oar in, she comes out to the hall and goes, ‘Sorcha! Come in, come in. Ross, why have you left her standing at the door?’ and the two of them air-kiss each other and then, like, disappear off into the kitchen together, talking about the sale in Pamela Scott and whether or not Ikea will ever open up a branch in Dublin.

  I’m just glad the old dear has managed to tear herself away from Dick-features. They actually bought each other Valentine cords, roysh, how focking twisted is that, they’re in their, like, fifties. It’s that focking statue, I know it is. I just, like, grab the cor keys. The old dear tells me to drive carefully and I tell her to focking cop herself on, and as I’m leaving I notice that Sorcha has actually got, like, tears in her eyes and she’s hordly even touched the cappuccino the old dear’s made for her and I’m like, What a total sap.

  The Coyote Lounge is totally jammers, roysh. There’s, like, a queue halfway up D’Olier Street when we arrive and everyone’s there going, ‘WE HATE C&E. WE HATE C&E,’ and the Commerce and Economics Society goys are, like, totally bulling. After about an hour, roysh, we finally manage to get inside, but I end up having a pretty shit night, probably because I’m only drinking Diet Coke, what with me back playing serious rugby and all.