by Paul Howard
Sorcha gives me this look, roysh, we’re talking total disgust here, and she goes, ‘Spare me the character dissection,’ and I go, ‘I only asked what you thought of my baseball cap,’ and she goes, ‘Can we please change the subject?’
I nod at the borman, roysh, and he takes this as a signal that we want the same again and the lounge girl brings over a pint of Ken and a Diet Coke. I’m there, ‘It’s really nice to see you, Sorcha,’ and she goes, ‘We’re friends. When Dawson and Joey broke up, that didn’t stop them having their movie nights, did it?’ and I’m like, ‘Course not,’ even though I haven’t a focking clue what she’s talking about.
She tells me she’s, like, so chilled out these days and it’s SO because of the music she’s been listening to. She tells me she had Tchaikovsky’s ‘Scene from Swan Lake’ on in the cor on the way in and Bizet’s ‘Au Fond Du Temple Saint’, and even though the third CD takes a lot of getting used to, she’s really storted getting into Strauss, Holst, Prokofiev and Copland. I tell her I’ve been mostly listening to Eminem, the new U2 album and a bit of Oasis, and she tells me my taste is SO up my orse it’s unbelievable, and she offers to lend me her Saving Private Ryan soundtrack, which she says is SO easy to listen to and SUCH a good way to get into classical music, especially ‘Hymn To The Fallen’, ‘Wade’s Death’ and ‘Omaha Beach’, and I’m there going, ‘Cool.’
She stubs out a Marlboro Light, lights up another. I’m there trying to think of a way to bring up Australia, roysh, to ask her not to go. She goes, ‘You heard about Sophie’s exams then?’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, she was a bit freaked.’ She goes, ‘She said you called over to her that night. Said you were very nice to her,’ and I’m like, ‘Em, yeah.’ She goes there, ‘How nice, Ross?’ And quick as a flash, roysh, I’m there, ‘What do you care?’ and she storts breaking her shite laughing and goes, ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Ross. Do not flatter yourself.’
She takes off her scrunchy, slips it onto her wrist, shakes her hair free and then smoothes it back into a low ponytail again, puts it back in the scrunchy and then pulls five or six, like, strands of hair loose again. I go, ‘So you’re still heading to Australia?’ and she’s like, ‘In two weeks.’ I’m there, ‘With what’s-his-face?’ and she goes, ‘Cillian. You know his name’s Cillian.’ I go, ‘What’s he like, this goy?’ and Sorcha goes, ‘Amazing. He works for PriceWaterhouse Coopers,’ and I’m like, ‘Just want to make sure he’s treating you properly, that’s all,’ and Sorcha’s there, ‘For as long as we’ve known each other, Ross, you’ve treated me like shit. Why do you all of a sudden care?’ There’s no answer to that. I’m there, ‘I don’t suppose–’ and she goes, ‘I’d cancel my plans if you asked me? No, Ross. I wouldn’t.’
Sorcha changes the subject, asks me if I heard about Sadbh and Macker and I tell her no, and she says they broke up, which is, like, such a pity, she goes, because they looked SO cute together, even though they SO weren’t suited, and I can’t work out whether Sadbh and Macker are real people, or, like, television characters, it’s so hord to tell with Sorcha, but I agree with her because when we’re getting on like this she is just SO easy to talk to.
I ask her whether she wants another drink and she says it’s her round and when she comes back from the bor she asks me how Christian is. I tell her his old man’s moved out and she goes, ‘Mum said he’s living in Dalkey, in the aportment they own.’ I’m like, ‘Christian won’t go and see him,’ and she goes, ‘That is SO unfair on his dad. From what I hear, his mum wasn’t exactly blameless,’ and I’m like, ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ maybe a bit too defensive. Sorcha goes, ‘I’m just saying, Ross, that it takes two people to make a relationship and two to break one.’
When I think about Christian, it makes me sad. I’d love to have a big, deep conversation with the dude, but I find it, like, hord to talk to goys about shit like that when I’m sober, roysh, and whenever I’m locked Christian is always twice as bad as me and pretty much impossible to talk to. I’ve thought about sending him maybe, like, a text message, sort of like, R U OK? but it just doesn’t, like, seem enough or something. I’m there, ‘The States will take his mind off it, I think.’
She tells me he’s SO lucky to have a friend like me and it’s nice to hear, even if it is total bullshit. I tell her she’s looking well and she tells me that’s the third time I’ve said that tonight.
The old dear asks me whether it was me who broke her John Rocha signature votive, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Oh my God, you are SUCH an orsehole. I cannot wait to get out of this country.’
I was never so loaded in all my life, roysh, as I was when me and Oisinn muscled in on the fake ID racket in UCD. The whole of, like, first year was heading to the States for the summer, roysh, and they all needed fake driving licences and shit to get served over there. Of course we end up totally up to our tits in work so it was, like, no surprise to me that I didn’t make it into any of my summer exams, although it was to the Dean of our course, who is SO trying to get me focked out of college it’s unbelievable. I’m like, ‘Hey, had things to do. People to see,’ and he goes, ‘I think you need to sit down and re-evaluate whether you’re serious about a career in Sports Management or not,’ and I’m just there, ‘Get real, will you?’
I basically didn’t give a fock, roysh, because I knew I was going to have to repeat anyway and suddenly I’ve got, like, eight hundred bills in my pocket and it’s, like, money for old rope. A couple of knobs from Ag. Science were actually doing it first, roysh, but Oisinn goes up to them in the bor – they were, like, playing Killer – and he goes, ‘You the goys dealing in the fake IDs?’ Oisinn had picked up a focking pool cue at this stage, roysh, and the goys are like, gicking themselves, giving it, ‘What do you mean, fake IDs?’
Oisinn goes, ‘Maybe I’m not making myself clear enough. What I’m asking you is whether they’re your flyers I saw stuck up in the Orts block? Outside Theatre L?’ You can see, roysh, that these goys are totally bricking themselves, and we’re talking TOTALLY. One of them goes, ‘Yeah … em, they’re ours,’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘Well, what I’m telling you goys now is that there’s a couple of new faces on the scene.’ He points over at me and I’m, like, trying to look really hord, even though there’s no need really because Oisinn is such a big bastard he could handle all of them on his own if he had to.
He goes, ‘Time to take early retirement, boys. Enjoyed it while it lasted though, haven’t you?’ I turn around, roysh – and I have to say I pretty much surprise myself with this one – I go, ‘Unless you want to face … involuntary liquidation.’
So basically that’s it, roysh. We put the word around the Orts block that we’re the men to see for all your fake ID requirements, then spend most of March and April in the bor, playing pool, knocking back beers and taking orders from people.
And fock, I’ve never been so popular in my whole life. Everyone loved us. The babes would come in, roysh, and we’d be giving it loads, looking at their passport photographs and going, ‘You look too well in this picture to put it on a passport,’ and, ‘You must do modelling, do you?’
We’re talking The Palace, Annabel’s, Mono, I have never seen so much action in my life and, like, not being big-headed or anything, but that’s really focking saying something. We’d get bored snogging one bird, roysh, and the next one was already queuing up behind her.
The goys loved us too, and I don’t mean in a gay way. We were, like, celebrities. I’m walking through the library, or I’m heading down to 911 for the rolls and total strangers are coming up to me and high-fiving me, telling me they’re getting the shekels together and they’ll be in touch.
And I’m like, ‘Yeah, whatever.’
Me and Oisinn, for six weeks we’re, like, totally Kool and the Gang. And it wasn’t only respect, roysh, there was a bit of fear thrown in as well. Every time Oisinn would hand over an order, he’d go, ‘You breathe our names to the NYPD and you’re fish food. Capisce?’
Sometimes, fo
r a laugh, roysh, we’d print the words, Póg mo thóin, in, like, really official-looking writing on the fake driving licences, roysh. Póg mo thóin is actually Irish for All Cops Are Bastards, which basically completely rips the piss out of them without them actually knowing. Everyone loved that little touch. They were like, ‘OH! MY! GOD!’
The work was a piece of piss. Oisinn, who knows a bit about computers, he downloads this thing off the internet, roysh, said it was a template for a driving licence, and he gives it to me on, like, a disk. So I go home, roysh, get onto the old man’s computer, add in the customer’s name, date of birth and all that shit, print it out, Pritt Stick the photograph onto it, then take them down to Keeva, this bird I know who works in the local video shop and she, like, laminates the thing.
We didn’t cut her in on any of the profits. Oisinn said it was to protect her, roysh – he really gets off on that whole gangster thing – but the real reason was that she didn’t want any money. Not being vain here, roysh, but the girl did it for love. She’s been mad into me for years, ever since transition year actually when we both did our work experience in her old man’s architect’s firm. She’s actually pretty alroysh lookswise, a little bit like Jennifer Love Hewitt, from a distance.
So for six weeks, roysh, me and Oisinn, well, we have it all. We’re talking money. We’re talking babes. We’re talking fame. But all good things have to come to an end. As Christian always says, there’s always a bigger fish. So this day, roysh, we’re sitting in the bor, knocking back a few beers with this goy from second year Law, who we brought on the lash for being our five-hundredth customer, when all of a sudden these five Chinese goys come in and say they want a word with us.
Oisinn plays it totally Kool and the Gang, roysh, telling me he’ll handle this on his own, then following the goys over to a table in the corner and talking for, like, five or ten minutes. Then the Chinese goys fock off.
Oisinn comes back over, roysh, takes a long swig out of his bottle of Probably and goes, ‘We’re folding the business, Ross,’ and of course I’m like, ‘Who were those goys? And why did they all have their little fingers missing?’ He goes, ‘Why do you think, Ross?’ and I go, ‘Oh my God, they’re not from Newtown-mountkennedy, are they?’ He shakes his head and goes, ‘We’re not talking genetics here, Ross. Those goys are Triads.’ I’m like, ‘Triads! Fock!’ He gets three more beers in and goes, ‘You don’t fock with those goys.’
I’m there, ‘Good while it lasted though, wasn’t it?’ and he just, like, stares off into space. Eventually he goes, ‘Involuntary liquidation. I liked that. Have to hand it to you, Ross, you’re a stylish bastard.’
I meet Chloë in the Frascati Shopping Centre, roysh, and I ask her if she’s going to Sorcha’s going-away and she says OH! MY! GOD! she is, she SO is. She asks me whether I went out at the weekend and I tell her I was in Annabel’s and she goes, Oh my God, she was in The George and she had the most amazing time, and she went with Julian and Kevin, two friends of hers who, she says, are actually gay, but they’re, like, really, really good friends of hers, and that’s the thing about gay goys, they’re, like, SO easy to talk to and she says that even though she’s not, like, gay herself, roysh, going to The George is such a good night out if you’re a girl, because you’re not, like, getting constantly hassled by goys all night, and I’m thinking, You should be so focking lucky.
Sorcha has her going-away porty, roysh, and – typical of the Lalors – it’s a big, fock-off, black-tie affair in Killiney Golf Club, we’re talking free bor, the whole lot. Anyway, roysh, I only found out the night before that my old pair were, like, invited as well and of course I went ballistic. I’m there going, How the fock am I going to score with the old man and the old dear in the same room? I’m like, ‘You’re not actually thinking of going, are you?’ and the old dear’s there, ‘Mr and Mrs Lalor want us there. They’re friends of ours, Ross,’ and then she’s like, ‘I hope you’ve bought Sorcha something nice,’ and I go, ‘What I bought Sorcha is my business,’ which basically means I bought her fock-all, because I totally forgot, what with me going to the States in a couple of weeks and having to go to the embassy to sort out my visa and shit.
So I head out to Stillorgan that afternoon, roysh, and I end up getting her a fake Burberry bag in Dunnes, which is a bit scabby I know, but I only have, like, ten bills to spend, and I don’t want to break into my America money.
That night I meet the goys in the Druid’s Chair for a few scoops beforehand, roysh, and then we head down to the golf club, and there’s Sorcha’s old pair at the door of the function room, roysh, welcoming everyone as they arrive, and Sorcha’s sister, Afric, or Orpha, or whatever the fock name she has, she’s collecting all the presents and making a list of who gave what, which will no doubt be discussed in detail at the Lalor breakfast table tomorrow morning.
I’m, like, standing in the queue behind this bird, Becky, roysh, who’s, like, second year Commerce in UCD, a little bit like Jaime Pressly when she’s wearing her contacts, and she’s says she’s, like, SO bursting to go to the toilet, roysh, and she asks me to mind her place in the queue for her and her present. A big fock-off present it is as well. So she goes off looking for the jacks, roysh, and I’m standing there with this little scabby present from me and this, like, massive one from Becky, and all of a sudden I’m at, like, the top of the queue and Becky still isn’t back, so I switch the two cords, put her one with my present and my one with hers.
Sorcha’s old dear air-kisses me, roysh, and looks over her shoulder to some friend of hers, maybe from the ladies’ golf club, and goes, ‘This is Ross. He was on the Castlerock team that won the cup,’ and Sorcha’s old man shakes my hand, real, like, formal and shit, and then Afric – I think that’s her name – kisses me on the cheek and storts giving me the serious eyes, obviously jealous that her sister’s getting all the attention tonight and deciding that being with me again would be the best way to piss her off. I hand her Becky’s present, roysh, and I go, ‘This is from me,’ and she’s there, ‘Oh my God, what is it?’ and obviously I haven’t a focking bog, but I go, ‘Something special,’ and she’s like, ‘Full of surprises, aren’t you, Ross?’
And she looks at the other present, roysh, the wrapping paper all ripped and just, like, turns her nose up at it. The goys were, like, focking the thing around on the way down from the Druid’s Chair, practicing their line-outs with it and shit. I’m like, ‘That one’s from Becky. I think she was too embarrassed to give it to you herself.’ Afric says she doesn’t blame her and, as I go to head inside, she puts her hand on my orse and tells me I SO have to promise to dance with her later.
I get inside, roysh, and even though it’s, like, totally jammers, who’s the only person in the room I can see? Sorcha. I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks in-focking-credible. She’s wearing this little black dress, roysh, which I heard Emer say is a copy of the one that Jennifer Lopez wore to the Grammies and, I have to say, I’ve never seen her looking so well. Every goy in the place is, like, hanging out of her, but she comes over to me, roysh, and she air-kisses me and oh my God she smells amazing, Issey focking Miyake.
She goes, ‘I didn’t know if you were going to come …’ and I’m like, ‘You look amazing,’ and she goes, ‘… I’m glad you did.’ I look into her eyes, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Did you hear I might be playing for Blackrock next year?’ and she turns away and goes, ‘Don’t, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘Jim Leyden invited me down to Stradbrook. Check out the facilities.’ She’s like, ‘You’re wasting your time. I’m going out with somebody. I don’t want any trouble.’
Off she storms, roysh, and ‘Stuck In A Moment’ comes on and Oisinn comes over and grabs me in a headlock and goes, ‘She is gagging for you tonight, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Told her I’m not interested, but she just can’t seem to get her head around it.’ Fionn goes, ‘Would anyone with any information on the whereabouts of Ross’s self-respect please contact Gardaí at Shankill,’ and I just give him, like, dagg
ers.
So we’re there for the night, roysh, knocking back the pints, and about eleven o’clock Zoey and Sophie come around telling us all to go and ‘get food’ because there’s, like, loads of it there and we can’t let it go to waste, which, as Fionn says, is a bit rich coming from Calista Flockhart and Geri focking Halliwell. But we join the nosebag queue anyway, roysh, and who’s standing roysh in front of me only the old man and he’s chatting away to some total knob about, I don’t know, the federal reserve, whatever the fock that is. He sees me and goes, ‘Ross, have you met Cillian? He’s with PriceWaterhouse,’ and the goy – a knob in a suit – goes to shake my hand, roysh, but I just look him up and down and go, ‘Wow, Sorcha’s done real well for herself,’ and I turn around and join in a conversation with JP and Oisinn, who are talking about Formula One.
I’m heading back to where I was sitting with my food, roysh, and I pass the old dear and she’s engrossed in conversation with Sorcha’s old dear about Stella McCartney and some place in Greystones that is, like, the only shop in Ireland that sells her stuff, and they see me as I’m trying to squeeze past and the old dear goes, ‘Ross, did you meet Cillian? Sorcha’s new boyfriend. An absolute darling. He’s with PWC,’ and I tell her she’s a sad bitch.
It’s, like, an hour later, roysh, and I look over the far side of the bor and the old man is still there talking to the goy, and I feel like going over and asking him whether he still considers me his son at all. Christian is basically off his face. He keeps reminding me that we’ve been best friends since we were, like, five years old, roysh, and that I’m a great goy and that’s not the drink talking, and I’m the best focking friend any focker could hope for, and even though I turned to the Dark Side for a little while, he always knew, blah blah blah.
