by Paul Howard
I knock back the vodka and Red Bull that JP bought me and then this bird, Gemma, who’s, like, repeating in Bruce, passes by looking pretty amazing, and I can see what the goys mean when they say she looks like Ali Landry, and all of a sudden I look up and Sorcha is, like, standing next to me again. She goes, ‘She’s seeing someone, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Gemma? I wasn’t actually–’ She’s there, ‘I’m only kidding. She broke up with Ronan ages ago. Do stay away from her, though, and I’m telling you that as a friend. The girl has a serious attitude problem.’
I look over, roysh, and now Fionn and JP are talking to this knob of a boyfriend of hers, and I’m wondering do I have any loyal friends left. Sorcha goes, ‘How was the Florida salad? Mum made it. It’s, like, a secret family recipe.’ I go, ‘Sorcha, you didn’t come over here to ask me about Florida salad,’ pretty confident at this stage that deep down she wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her. That dress …
She’s there, ‘You’re right, Ross. I came over because I wanted to say sorry to you,’ and I’m like, ‘It’s cool.’ She goes, ‘You don’t even know what I’m saying sorry for yet. I misjudged you, Ross. I’ve just opened your present.’ I’m like, ‘Okaaaay. Go on,’ obviously not knowing what the fock I gave her. She goes, ‘Those suitcases are SO expensive, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Just a little token of my affection,’ and she goes, ‘Little? Hello? They’re Louis Vuitton.’
I’m like, ‘Forget about it. By the way, what did Becky get you?’ and Sorcha goes, ‘Do not even talk to me about that girl. Anyway, Ross, the reason I was so happy about your present is that you seem to have accepted what’s happening,’ and I’m like, ‘Happening?’ She goes, ‘Me and my boyfriend? Going away for the year? That’s why you bought me the case.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, of course. When, em … when are you going?’ She’s there, ‘The day after tomorrow. Though this is going to have to be goodbye, Ross. I have such a lot of packing to do, and she kisses me on the cheek, roysh, and she tells me she is SO going to miss me.
Fionn and JP arrive back over and stort going on about Cillian and how sound he is and how much money he’s earning and how he has an offer to play for Mary’s when he comes back. Christian throws his orm around my shoulder and asks me whether I know how long it is since we’ve been best friends, and I can feel tears in my eyes. And JP looks at me, roysh, and he asks me if I’m crying and I say of course I’m not focking crying, it’s the dry ice getting in my eyes, and he goes, ‘What dry ice?’
The radio’s going, ‘If you’re paying your home insurance to your mortgage company you could be paying too much,’ and all of a sudden this complete orsehole in a red Corsa, roysh, he pulls out roysh in front of me, no indicator, nothing, and I have to hit the brakes and drop down to something like third gear or whatever, roysh, and I am going to be SO late because ‘there’s focking raidworks in operation on the Rock Raid and the saithbaind carriageway of the M50 between Scholarstown Raid and the Balrothery Interchange is still claised, causing severe delays on all approaches to the Spawell randabite,’ and I’m wondering when the fock they’re actually going to sort out the roads in this country, and all of a sudden we’re stopped at lights, roysh, and I get out to have a focking word with the total penis in the red Corsa, and he sees me coming and, like, winds down his window and he goes, ‘I’m really sorry about that,’ and I’m like, ‘If you don’t know how to drive, you should have a focking L-plate on your cor, orsehole.’
Emer goes OH! MY! GOD! she cannot believe that Rachel slept with Ross again, especially after Monica warned her off, the girl is SUCH a bitch it’s unbelievable, and Fionn throws his eyes up to heaven and asks whether anyone’s, like, going to the bor. Emer says that if anyone is, would they get her, like, a pint of Budweiser and Sophie shoots her this filthy, roysh, and Emer goes, ‘You are not going to make me feel guilty about having a pint,’ and, of course, Sophie’s there, ‘I’m just wondering what happened to your diet, that’s all. You had a latte this morning,’ and Emer’s giving it, ‘So?’ Sophie’s like, ‘So … that’s, like, eight points or something. And a packet of peanut M&Ms.’ Emer’s like, ‘You are SO not going to make me feel guilty about having a pint,’ but when JP brings it over, roysh, she hordly even touches it.
Fionn, roysh, he stands up and goes, ‘Look at this, everyone,’ and he grabs the waistband of his chinos and, like, pulls it out and there’s enough room to fit Sophie and Emer in there. Sophie goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! that is, like, SO unfair. You eat like a pig,’ and Emer’s basically like, ‘How come your trousers are falling off you?’ and Fionn’s like, ‘I just moved up from a 34” to a 38”,’ and he, like, cracks his shite laughing, roysh, and highfives Christian and JP and then goes to high-five me, and when I don’t respond, Fionn goes, ‘Anyone with any information on the whereabouts of Ross’s life, please contact Gardaí at Harcourt Terrace.’
JP goes, ‘Yeah, what gives, goy? You’re very quiet,’ and I’m like, ‘I’m cool. Leave it.’ Then he goes, ‘Hey, let me run something past you guys. Your reactions are requested. Why don’t I call the old man, tell him that Hook, Lyon and Sinker is going to have to function without my considerable presence tomorrow, and the lot of us can go on the serious lash tonight. You goys are going to the States the day after tomorrow. Last chance.’ Everyone nods, roysh, and Christian goes, ‘I knew I should have put a toilet roll in the fridge.’
JP looks under the table, roysh, to see are any of us wearing, like, runners, then he says he thinks he could get us all into Lillies, he knows one of the bouncers, and Emer says OH! MY! GOD! we will never guess who was in there last Saturday night, we’re talking that goy off ‘Don’t Feed The Gondolas’, and Emer goes, ‘And don’t forget Niamh Kavanagh.’
Erika, who’s in a snot as usual, says she’s not going anywhere if Beibhinn is going to be there and Emer asks what her problem with Beibhinn is and Erika says it’s because she’s an orsehole and because of that stupid skanger accent she puts on. She goes, ‘That whole knacker-chic thing is, like, SO sixth year.’
I’m having a mare of a night, and I really can’t bear any more of this shit, so I tell the goys I’m hitting the bor, roysh, but I don’t, I actually just fock off home.
Sorcha has been gone for, like, ten days and I never thought I’d miss her so much. I spend the rest of the night at home, basically going through old stuff, looking for the Mount Anville scorf she gave me one of the first nights I was with her. We’d beaten Clongowes in the cup, roysh, and her and all her friends came over to me after the game. It’s like it was yesterday. We were all like, ‘Here they come, goys. Mounties, looking for their men,’ but she seemed so, like, sincere, if that’s the roysh word. She goes, ‘Congrats, you’d a great game,’ and of course I’m like, ‘Thanks,’ playing it totally Kool and the Gang. She goes, ‘Did you hear I got onto the Irish debating team?’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah,’ even though I didn’t.
I go looking for the Valentine cord she sent me last year, telling me she would always love me no matter what, but I can’t find it, though I do find the menu from her debs, the one that she wrote on saying she’d never met a more amazing person than me before and if there was, like, one goy she’d like to spend the rest of her life with, then it would be, like, me. It’s funny, roysh, I don’t actually remember ripping it in half, but I must have at some stage because it’s in, like, two pieces.
I check the time, roysh, and it’s still only seven o’clock. I decide to drive out as far as the Merrion Centre. It’s, like, Thursday evening, we’re talking late-night shopping. As I pull into the cor pork, I’m thinking about the morning she went away, when I called up to her and made a complete tit of myself asking her not to go and she just, like, put her head in her hands and went, ‘Ross, I cannot deal with the soap-operatic implications of what you’re saying right now.’
I get out of the cor and go into the shopping centre. Don’t know why, roysh, it’s not like I’m going to see her or anything, but I walk by her old dear’s boutique and
have a sly look in. Her old dear’s not in there either, just some other bird who works for her.
I wander around, not knowing what the fock I’m doing here, maybe it’s just to feel close to her. I go into the chemists, roysh, head down the back to the perfume counter and pick up a bottle of Issey Miyake. I spray some on the palm of my hand and stort, like, sniffing it, roysh, and the woman behind the counter goes, ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ and of course I just blank her.
I spray some on my other hand, roysh, and it’s weird. So many memories suddenly come flooding back and the bird in charge of the perfume suddenly comes out from behind the counter, roysh, and goes, ‘Excuse me, Sir, do you know that that’s ladies’ perfume you have there?’ and I’m like, ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ in no mood for this bullshit at all, but then she tells me to leave the shop or she’ll, like, call security. Of course I’m there, ‘I’m going nowhere,’ but then this big fock-off security goy comes in, so I basically stort heading towards the door, and he tells me he never wants to see me hanging around the shopping centre again.
I really can’t wait to get out of this country.
I mosey back downstairs to the cor pork and I think about texting Sorcha. But of course it’s too late for that.
I turn off the engine and check the time and it’s, like, four o’clock in the morning. I ask Oisinn whether he’s planning to talk all night and he goes, ‘I’m having a conversation here,’ then turns back to Christian and goes, ‘Not a bad question, Christian. I would say Padme Amidala would be a Nina Ricci kind of bird. Probably something like L’Air du Temps.’ Christian goes, ‘Explain that to me,’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘It’s a floral, spicy fragrance that emanates a mysterious power of seduction. Hauntingly sensuous,’ and Christian nods his head really, like, slowly and he goes, ‘Like Her Highness herself.’
I go, ‘Is that it, goys? Or is there any more of this shit?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘Hey, Ross, take a chill pill. You’re lucky we agreed to come at all,’ and I go, ‘Sorry. Just a bit stressed, that’s all.’ Christian goes, ‘I still don’t see why we’ve got to fock the thing off Dún Laoghaire pier. Can’t you just stick it back in the Classics Deportment when nobody’s looking?’ I pull the balaclava down over my face and go, ‘Too risky. And anyway …’ and Oisinn straight away goes, ‘Now don’t stort with all that focking juju nonsense again,’ and I’m like, ‘I’m telling you, Oisinn, that thing has put a spell on my old pair. It’s making me vom. It’s put a spell on me as well. It’s like I’m focking jinxed or something.’
We get out of the cor, roysh, I open the boot and the three of us look in. I pull back the blanket and Eros is there, smiling up at me. I’m sure that thing had a sad face when I robbed it. I go, ‘It’s brought me nothing but bad luck, goys. Look at Erika. Six months ago, I’d have been in like Flynn there. But she doesn’t want to know me. Explain that.’ Oisinn goes, ‘Maybe she thinks you’re a penis,’ and I stare at him, roysh, give him total daggers, and he goes, ‘Might come as a shock to you, I know, but not every bird in the world wants to sleep with Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.’
I go, ‘Are you two benders just gonna stand there, or are we gonna get rid of this focker and split?’ Oisinn grabs one end and me and Christian grab the other. Oisinn goes, ‘Seriously, though, Ross. You heard what Fionn said. Eros is the Fertility God. If anything, he’s going to help you get your rock and roll.’ I go, ‘That’s another reason to get rid of it then. The old pair don’t need any more focking encouragement, and I’m certainly not splitting my trust fund with some mistake of a focking brother or sister. This thing weighs a focking tonne. Probably should have porked closer to the end of the pier.’
Christian says that Padme wasn’t born a Royal, roysh, she was in fact the daughter of common parents from the mountain village of Theed and she never forgot her roots, fair focks to her, she used to take off her make-up and dress down to roam around her old village anonymously, see how the other half lived. I go, ‘Cool,’ because Oisinn’s roysh, they’re doing me a favour by being here.
We get the thing halfway down the West Pier and I tell the goys we’ve gone far enough. Oisinn goes, ‘Well, let’s get rid of it now before someone sees us,’ and the three of us grab it, roysh, and – one, two, three – fock it over the edge and – gloop – it sinks roysh to the bottom of the sea.
And that’s when I stort to feel weird, not weird in a bad way, roysh, just weird in a weird way. Strange things stort happening. The thing is, roysh, suddenly I couldn’t give two focks about Erika, but I can’t stop thinking about Sorcha. I get this amazing urge to, like, ring her, but then I remember that it’s after four and she won’t, like, thank me for it.
But I can’t stop thinking about her. How she’s a ringer for Gail Porter when she’s got her hair down. How her mouth goes all, like, pouty when she’s trying to be angry with me. How she never, ever orders dessert but always ends up eating pretty much all of mine. How she pays seven lids a week to Concern by direct debit to sponsor some focking African kid she’s never gonna meet. The girl is amazing. And now she’s ten thousand focking miles away in Australia, with some knob called Cillian. And she might never come back.
I sit down on this little concrete pillar thing, roysh, and I send her a text and it’s like, DRNK 2MORO NITE? and I sit there for, like, ten minutes, staring out to sea and just, like, thinking about her. She tried to dye her hair once when we were about sixteen, roysh, and it ended up going orange. She used to work at weekends in some focking animal sanctuary, cleaning the shit out of the kennels, and when I found out she wasn’t getting paid, I went, ‘What a waste of time.’ She used to have a Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle.
I sit there for ages. It’s, like, agony waiting for her to text me back and in the end she doesn’t. Then I remember the goys. I walk back to the cor. Oisinn is outside, chatting to some bird by the sounds of it. He’s going, ‘What are you wearing? No, no. Let me guess. Something totally modern. Totally original. You might almost say a fragrance for the new millennium,’ then he sniffs the air and goes, ‘I can smell that blend of spicy, floral and Oriental notes from here. Hmmm, hmmm. Ultraviolet. Paco Rabanne’s finest ever fragrance, in my humble opinion.’
I get into the cor and I look at Christian in the rear-view. I go, ‘So focking clear to me now. Christian, I’m in love with Sorcha,’ but he doesn’t say anything. Oisinn gets into the passenger seat. He goes, ‘Don’t know why, just felt the urge to ring that bird I was with in Annabels last Friday. Emma Halvey.’ I go, ‘She was–’ and he’s there, ‘Bet-down, I know. That’s how I like them.’
Christian goes, ‘Your old man’s solicitor, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘Hennessy? What about him?’ He’s like, ‘What was that blonde bird’s name we met the night of his fiftieth?’ I’m like, ‘Lauren, wasn’t it?’ and he goes, ‘Lauren,’ and he sits back in his chair and goes, ‘Lauren,’ again and sort of, like, stares off into space.
I stort the engine and I go, ‘Something weird has happened here tonight, goys,’ and no one contradicts me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Ross SO can’t hold his drink.’
Discuss.
I’m standing at the check-in desk when my mobile rings and I’m like, ‘Y’ello?’ And who is it, surprise sur-focking-prise, only Knob Head himself. He goes, ‘Hey, Kicker, where are you?’ and I’m like, ‘The airport.’ He goes, ‘You never said goodbye,’ and I’m like, ‘Get focking over it, will you?’
Our landlord in the States, roysh, turns out to be a goy called Peasey Pee, which isn’t actually his real name, he’s called Peasey Pee because basically he does a lot of drugs and PCP just happens to be the drug he does most. I’ve been told, roysh, on pretty good authority, that it’s, like, an animal tranquilliser, but that means fock-all to Peasey, who snorts, like, thirty or forty lines of the shit a day. He’s always offering it to us as well, but the goy looks totally wasted – Fionn goes, ‘Think Iggy Pop with a coat-hanger in his mouth’ – so he’s not exactly a good advertisem
ent for the shit.
But Peasey’s actually sound, roysh, and we’re pretty much talking totally here, because without him we would be SO up Shit Creek it’s not funny. We basically arrived in Ocean City, Maryland, with, like, no jobs, nowhere to live, nothing. We had enough money to stay in, like, a hotel for the first few nights – we’re talking the Howard Johnson, roysh – but the money soon runs out, especially when you’re, like, drinking for Ireland, as we’ve been. After four or five nights in the hotel, roysh, we check our bills using the old television remote and Holy Fock! you should see how much we owe for our mini-bars alone. Mine’s, like, five hundred and seventy lids. Fionn’s is, like, four hundred and eighty. Oisinn’s is, like, six hundred and nine. And Christian’s is, like, over a thousand. So there’s no other alternative, of course, but to peg it without paying.
So there we are, roysh, wandering around Ocean Highway with nowhere to live, place probably crawling with Feds looking for us, and all of a sudden we stumble on this, like, agency, which basically finds accommodation for students. We go in, roysh, tell the dude behind the counter we’re Irish lads, just over, like, looking for work for the summer, blah blah blah, and we need somewhere to live. He tells us, roysh, that pretty much all of the accommodation in the town is already gone, that we’ve left it very late to be, like, arranging anything and I go, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’
He goes, ‘Are you going to be working while you’re here?’ and I’m like, ‘Eh, you could say that, yeah,’ and I just, like, break my shite laughing in the goy’s face and Oisinn, Fionn and Christian, roysh, they’re, like, cracking their shites laughing as well and they both high-five me, but when we turn around we notice that the goy hasn’t got the joke – Americans have basically got no sense of humour – and he’s in a bit of a snot now. He tells us that our only hope is this goy, Peasey Pee, who can usually be found down on the beach, flying his kite, and then he’s like, ‘Next, please.’
