by Paul Howard
The only bit of crack I actually have, roysh, is watching Oisinn totally crash and burn when he chances his orm with Phenola, this complete fruitcake who’s, like, second year B&L. He’s chatting away to her, roysh, giving it loads, and that Destiny’s Child song comes on, roysh, ‘Independent Women’, or whatever the fock it’s called, music for cutting men’s mickeys off to, and all of a sudden he makes a lunge for her and she slaps him across the face and tells him that trying to be with a girl while that song is on is SUCH a no-no. It’s, like, SO funny seeing this big six-foot-five, seventeen-stone prop-forward getting slapped across the face by this little, like, squirt of a bird.
But then I end up getting cornered by Kate, roysh, this total knob who’s, like, first year Orts, and we end up having one of those pain-in-the-orse conversations which storts off with her asking me who I know in Orts and I go, ‘Lisa Andrews,’ and she goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I can’t believe you know Lisa Andrews. She’s one of my, like, best friends. Who else?’ and I go, ‘James O’Hagan,’ and she goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I can’t believe you know James O’Hagan. I was with him at the Freshers’ Frolic.’
I’m storting to lose the focking will to live when Fionn comes over and rescues me, roysh, and he points over to this bird, I think it’s Bláthnaid, who’s, like, repeating first year Counselling and Psychotherapy in LSB, and she’s wearing half-nothing, and Fionn turns around to me and goes, ‘Gardaí at Harcourt Terrace are seeking the public’s help in tracing the whereabouts of Bláthnaid Brady’s clothes.’ I laugh, roysh, but I tell him that I’m going to fock off home because I have to be, like, up early the next morning.
The next day’s a pretty big one for me. Castlerock College are playing their first match in the Senior Cup against the Logue, and Father Feely asked me to go back and give the goys on the S a pep-talk. I have to say I’m pretty nervous going back, roysh, especially with all the shit that’s going to come down about next week.
The thing is, roysh, by some focking miracle the goys don’t know this yet, but I’m making my debut for UCD next week and it’s against Castlerock RFC, with mid-table mediocrity in Division Two of the AIL at stake. Someone at the school is bound to have heard. It’s a mare. A total mare.
Anyway, as it turns out, roysh, I’d nothing to worry about, because I get an amazing reception at the school the next morning. I’m there giving the goys on the team my speech, roysh, all like, ‘THIS IS THE GAME OF YOUR LIVES’ and ‘KICK ORSE, ROCK,’ and as I’m leaving the stage, the whole assembly is there singing ‘Castlerock Über Alles’ and it’s, like, really focking emotional.
But then, roysh, over comes Magahy, this total dickhead, he’s one of the geography teachers, and he comes up to me, roysh, and asks whether it’s true that I’m going to be playing against Castlerock in the AIL next week. Now this goy, roysh, is a total orsehole. He coached the Junior Cup team when I was in, like, first year, a total club man, he goes to all the matches and sits up at the bor thinking he knows everything about rugby when in fact he knows fock-all.
I totally hate this goy and there’s, like, history between us as well. When I was in second year, roysh, I missed a pretty simple penalty and we ended up getting knocked out of the Junior Cup by focking Pres. Bray of all schools, and Magahy goes to me, as I’m leaving the pitch – now I probably should say I was a bit heavier in those days – he goes, ‘You’re going to be huge, Ross … especially if you keep eating the way you do.’
I SO haven’t forgotten that.
Anyway, roysh, he asks me if the rumours are true and I’m like, ‘What’s it to you?’ and he turns around and goes, ‘You’re going to be a turncoat, then?’ and I just, like, put my baseball cap back on, roysh, and go, ‘No, Magahy, you dickhead. I’m going to be focking sensational.’
The cor, we’re talking the black Golf GTI, with alloys, it’s in the garage at the moment – just thought if I’m getting serviced on a regular basis, roysh, then my wheels deserve the same pleasure – but the only downside is that I have to use the old public transport, the dreaded 46A. I’d totally forgotten how many Paddy Whackers use it. I’m sitting upstairs, roysh, and there’s this, like, total fleck beside me, and he’s smoking away there, roysh, and I’m thinking of saying something to him, not that I’ve any objection to smoking – Sorcha smokes, so do most of the birds – but I just want to basically say to the guy, Are you gonna be a knacker all your life?
I don’t get a chance to say anything, roysh, because past the shopping centre in Stillorgan, he suddenly jumps to his feet, reefs open the window and shouts, ‘Oi, Plugger. I fooked your mudder,’ and this Plugger goy, roysh, he’s standing near the bus stop looking up at the top deck, trying to spot who it was who shouted it, no doubt half of him thinking it’s probably true, then he sees the goy and he goes, ‘Alroy, Anto. Storee?’ and the two of them give each other the thumbs-up. Then Anto sits back down and lights up again.
What the fock is the deal with these people?
A few months ago, roysh, before I decided to lay off the sauce and go back training, me and the goys – we’re talking Christian, Fionn, Oisinn, all those – we were out on the lash, roysh, a Monday night in Peg’s, pound a pint, the usual crack and when it was over we all headed back to Oisinn’s gaff on Shrewsbury Road to get, like, food and a Jo Maxi. So there we were, like, in the kitchen, roysh, and I looked over at Oisinn – he’s had, like, thirteen or fourteen pints at this stage – and the goy’s eating a block of lard. We are talking focking lard here. At first, roysh, I thought it was the usual crack, you know, absolutely storving but too shit-faced to cook, I mean the goy would eat focking anything as it is, but then he tells us, roysh, that he’s in training, and of course we’re all there, ‘What for?’ and says the Iron Stomach contest that the C&E are holding.
To cut a long story short, roysh, Oisinn decided to enter after he met a bunch of Andrews dickheads in the Ass and Cart the previous weekend, all first year Commerce heads who recognised him and storted giving him loads about what a shit school Castlerock was, roysh, brave men it has to be said because Oisinn is a big focker. But it was all like, ‘How many points did you get in the Leaving?’ and, ‘How many former taoisigh went to your school?’ and what with one thing and another this goy, Keyser, who Oisinn came pretty close to decking, he ended up, like, challenging Oisinn to see who had, like, the strongest stomach.
So the day of the competition arrives, roysh, and we’re all there in our Castlerock jerseys, giving it loads, and there’s, like, seven people in the competition, all sitting in a row, a few from Commerce, a couple from Science, but all eyes are on Oisinn and Keyser, who are the big-time favourites, and we’re all there giving it, ‘You can’t knock the Rock. You can’t knock the Rock,’ totally intimidating the Andrews goys.
So first, roysh, all the contestants are given a can of Holsten, which is, like, six months past its sell-by date and, while they’re drinking that, they have to eat a Weetabix with, like, soy sauce and lemon curd on it. One of them, roysh, we’re talking one of the Science goys, he borfs straight away, so there’s only, like, six of them left and we’re all there giving it loads as they hand out the next thing they have to eat, which is, like, a pot of cold custard with a spoonful of baked beans stirred into it, we’re talking cold here, and a spoonful of treacle as well. Oh my God, I thought I was going to vom myself.
More Holsten. Then it’s, like, a double shot of tequila, roysh, and then they all have to hit the deck and do, like, twenty situps each. The next thing is a cold mince-and-onion pie with, like strawberry jam and Bonjela gum ointment on it, and this girl sitting beside Oisinn, a real Commerce head, she just goes totally green, roysh, and we’re talking totally here, and she spews her ring up all over Oisinn, all over his chinos, all over his Dubes, all over everything. At this stage, I’m convinced that Oisinn is going to borf as well, but he manages to keep it in.
Then, roysh, we see one of the Andrews goys in the crowd, Henno, this total dickhead who’s going out with Emma, not hocke
y Emma, we’re talking Institute Emma, who I was sort of seeing when I was doing grinds. I look over at him, roysh, and give him the finger and he comes over and goes, ‘Your goy is going to lose,’ and of course I’m there, ‘You seem pretty sure of yourself,’ and he goes, ‘There’s something you don’t know about Keyser. He has no taste-buds, man. Lost them a couple of years ago. An unfortunate accident involving a flaming Sambucca. Tragic really. He can’t taste any of that shit he’s eating.’
I’m like, ‘OH! MY! GOD! that is it,’ and I storm up to the front and tell Oisinn that me and the goys are pulling him out of the competition. He’s like, ‘No focking way.’ When he says this, roysh, he has a mouthful of, like, beetroot and yoghurt, most of which ends up all over my jacket, we’re talking my red Henri Lloyd sailing jacket here. I go, ‘Oisinn, Keyser’s a freak. The goy has no taste-buds,’ and he thinks about this for, like, five seconds, roysh, swallowing what he has in his mouth, and goes, ‘So? We’re Castlerock, remember? We never quit.’
I have to say, roysh, I feel pretty emotional at that moment, but then I have to take a few steps backwards because all the other contestants stort, like, spewing their guts up all over the place, and suddenly there’s only, like, Oisinn and Keyser left in it, we’re talking a two-horse race. More Holsten. More tequila. A twenty-second squirt of, like, ketchup into each of their mouths. Oh my God, how they don’t borf there and then, I don’t know. Another double shot of tequila. Hit the deck, twenty press-ups and then, like, twenty sit-ups. Then they’ve got to, like, put their heads back while one of the C&E goys comes up behind them and feeds them, like, a raw fish. He holds it by the tail and just, like, drops it down their throats.
Keyser is looking so cocky at this stage, roysh, dancing to the music and everything. A glass of cooking oil with a squirty cream head. Pickled onions with ice cream. Mussels. A catfood sandwich with toothpaste and ketchup on it. Down they go. Keyser looks like he could go on at this all day, but Oisinn looks in trouble.
He’s knocking back the beers, though, probably to take the focking taste out of his mouth, and when he finishes another – it’s, like, his eighth – he turns around to Keyser and goes, ‘Are you not drinking?’ So Keyser, roysh, he’s suddenly handed two cans by one of the C&E goys, who’s noticed that he’s only drunk, like, six, and Keyser decides he has to show off, he can’t be seen to be drinking less than a Rock boy, so he shotguns the two cans and downs them.
Next thing, roysh, you can actually see that the goy is going to borf, his face goes white and it’s like he can’t catch his breath, roysh, and he just leans over and spews his guts up, we’re talking all over the gaff, we’re talking all that shite he’s just eaten, and we’re talking undigested here.
We all just, like, mob Oisinn, singing ‘Castlerock Űber Alles’, the whole lot, then we’re like, ‘SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!’ and eventually, roysh, when he’s, like, composed himself, Oisinn goes, ‘Thank you very much. I have to tell you that I knew all along about Keyser having no taste-buds. It didn’t bother me. For I also knew that Andrews goys can’t drink for shit, therefore I believed that I could eat more than Keyser could drink. It was a gamble, but it worked.’
Christian turns to me, roysh, and goes, ‘The goy’s a focking legend, Ross. A legend.’
Oisinn heads off to Vincent’s, roysh, and we peg it into town and tell him we’ll meet him in the Temple later on. Ten o’clock, we’re all still sitting around waiting for the man of the moment to arrive, and I think Fionn speaks for us all when he goes, ‘How long does it take to pump a goy out?’
There’s, like, loads of birds hanging around our table and shit and it’s just like the night we won the Senior Cup, except they’re actually wrecking our heads a bit because this should be, like, a night for the goys. And I’m just pretty much savouring this moment, roysh, because it’s only a matter of time before the goys find out I’m going to be playing against Castlerock next week and I get the feeling that things are going to change.
The second Oisinn arrives, it’s definitely going to be a case of ditch the bitches. The saps are actually, like, in competition with each other to see who’s going to end up being with him when he arrives. Sarah Jane, who’s, like, repeating first year Law in Portobello, she goes, ‘My cousin actually knows Oisinn’s sister really well.’ And the other bird, Bryana I think her name is, looks a bit like Naomi Watts, she goes, ‘Hello? I was in Irish college with Bláthnaid for two summers. She’s one of my best friends.’
Chloë, roysh, who’s, like, second year International Commerce with French in UCD and, like, really good friends with Sorcha she asks me what Oisinn had to eat and I tell her, roysh, about the cold custard, the beans, the Weetabix and the raw fish, the mince-and-onion pies and the strawberry jam, and she goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! that is SO gross. Can you imagine how many points that is?’
I bump into Erika in Finnegan’s Break and she’s, like, sipping a glass of hot water, roysh, I ask her what she’s doing for the afternoon and she throws her eyes up to heaven and says she’s going to the orthodontist, and I’m like, ‘Have you heard I’m back playing serious rugby?’ and she stubs out a Marlboro Light and goes, ‘This affects me how?’
I ask her what time she’s going to be finished at the dentist, and she says it’s the orthodontist and I’m like, ‘Same thing,’ and she just looks me up and down and goes, ‘Hordly.’ Then she focks off.
I ring Oisinn on his mobile but there’s, like, no answer. I ring Christian and it’s, like, switched to his message-minder. I get the Star Wars theme tune and then it’s like, ‘A long time ago, in a Galaxy far, far away … was a man with a message to leave. Beep.’ I don’t bother leaving one. I phone Fionn and he’s not answering either. And it’s obvious. Basically, the goys know about the match.
Simon is the first one over. Feel a bit sorry for Simon. He was captain of the S the year we won the cup and now he’s the youngest ever captain of Castlerock RFC at, like, twenty years of age. The club is his life, and we’re talking totally. But he comes up to me, roysh, and he goes, ‘So it’s true then?’ and I’m like, ‘What’s true?’ and he’s there, ‘You are stabbing us in the back.’ I’m there, ‘You are SUCH a sad bastard,’ and he goes, ‘I seriously didn’t think you’d play. I knew you were training with UCD, but I presumed this was a game you’d skip. Out of loyalty. Looks like I was wrong,’ and then he, like, pushes me in the chest, roysh, and calls me a turncoat and I switch my gearbag to my other shoulder, basically getting ready to deck the focker if he touches me again.
He goes, ‘Whatever happened to Castlerock above all others? “We’ll shy from battle never. Ein volk, ein Reich, ein Rock”?’ I’m just there, ‘We’re not at school anymore, Simon. I’m playing for UCD now.’
He storts, like, shaking his head, roysh, going, ‘No, no, no,’ we’re talking tears in the stupid sap’s eyes here, the whole works, and he’s giving it, ‘You never leave Castlerock, Ross. And it never leaves you.’
I’m trying to reason with the goy, roysh, telling him that playing for UCD is, like, one of the conditions of my scholarship and shit, but he keeps bullshitting on about how pretty much all of my old team-mates off the S went on to sign for Castlerock and now, just when they’re looking like pulling themselves out of the bottom four of the Second Division of the AIL, along comes one of their own to stab them in the back. He goes, ‘You haven’t played rugby all season, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s why I’ve got a point to prove. Show them that the old magic is still there.’ He goes, ‘But why now? Why this game?’ and I go, ‘I’ve grown up, Simon. I think it’s about time you did, too,’ and I stort, like, heading towards the dressing-rooms and he shouts after me that I’m totalled, we’re talking totally totalled and he’s talking TOTALLY.
I get into the dressing-room and all the other goys are already there and Hendo, our coach, is giving this, like, major pep-talk about how we’ve, like, striven all season to finish mid-table and we can’t let it slip through our fingers now.
It’s just like the old days, roysh, except that outside the door there’s a couple of hundred Castlerock fans giving me total filthies when we go out, instead of, like, cheering me on, but I do see one friendly face in the crowd and it’s, like, Christian, and I walk up to the dude and go, ‘Hey, Christian. Looks like I’m public enemy number one around here.’ He goes, ‘Anyone hurts you out there today, man, and I’ll focking kill them.’ I go, ‘I knew you’d understand. Us college heads have to stick together, eh?’ and he’s there, ‘No, that doesn’t mean I’m on your side, Ross. I won’t stand by and watch you get hurt, but that doesn’t mean I agree with what you’re doing.’
I’m like, ‘What am I doing, Christian?’ and he goes, ‘You’re turning to the Dark Side.’ Then he unzips his jacket, roysh, we’re talking his red-and-blue Armani sailing jacket here, and underneath it he’s got his old Castlerock jersey on and he just looks me up and down and goes, ‘The Emperor has won,’ and he walks off.
I can see, like, Fionn and JP and Oisinn, all my so-called mates, over the other side of the pitch and they’re, like, giving me filthies, and we’re talking total filthies here.
