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

by Paul Howard

  At first, me and the goys thought that this whole flying-his-kite thing was, like, slang for something, but we actually end up finding the dude down on the beach trying to control this big fock-off kite in the wind. He’s about fifty, roysh, we’re talking grey hair down to his shoulders, a big mad pointy nose and these crazy focking eyes which keep, like, darting all over the place. Fionn goes, ‘The goy looks like a photo-fit,’ which he actually does, roysh. I just march straight up to him and I go, ‘We need somewhere to stay.’ He doesn’t answer me, roysh, just nods his head and carries on looking up at the kite. Fionn steps forward then and he’s like, ‘We can pay you four hundred dollars a month. We’re talking each.’

  And the goy, roysh, he looks at us for the first time, his crazy grey hair blowing in the wind, and goes, ‘What kind of fricking shakedown merchants are you?’ and it’s like he’s going to deck us, so I turn to Fionn and I go, ‘Leave the negotiations to me, my man,’ and I’m like, ‘We’ll pay you five hundred dollars a month each. No more.’ He stares at me, no, it’s more through me, and goes, ‘I want three hundred and fifty dollars a month off each of you. No more, you leprechaun focks,’ basically haggling himself out of six hundred bucks a month.

  And ever since then, it’s been more of the same, the dude’s, like, the dream landlord. Doesn’t give a shit, roysh, that the basement where me, Fionn, Oisinn and Christian sleep is knee-deep in beer cans, condoms and dirty clothes and that it smells like the focking chimpanzee cage at the zoo. We basically only see him, like, a couple of times a week, when he comes in to hide drugs in our cistern and then focks off again, and whatever you say to him, roysh, whether you’re telling him that there’s a letter for him, or you’ve accidentally put your foot through another window, he always does exactly the same thing, laughs really loud, shakes his head and goes, ‘You goddamn Irish.’

  We all end up getting jobs in this local steamhouse, roysh, peeling prawns and crabs, and life is basically a laugh, except that the whole social side of things is, like, totally hectic, the old buck-a-beer nights really bringing out the pig in me and the rest of the goys. We’ve calculated, roysh, that we’ve been on the lash for, like, seven days running, roysh, basically spending every penny we earn on booze, so we decide this one night, roysh, that we’re going to, like, crash, recharge the old batteries, whatever, because we are seriously in danger of getting the sack if we’re caught falling asleep at work again, and we’re talking TOTALLY here.

  So there we are, roysh, sitting in, being very good, watching the wrestling, when all of a sudden Christian – who went out for a packet of Oreos four focking hours earlier – comes back to the gaff, off his focking tits, and tells us he’s won two hundred bills playing Kino, this, like, lottery game they have down in Pickles. Of course me, Oisinn and Fionn crack on that we’re really pissed off with the goy, roysh, and we tell him his tea’s out in the kitchen if he wants to lash it in the microwave, and we just, like, carry on watching telly. Scotty Too Hotty is lashing Stone Cold Steve Austin out of it. I turn around to Mad Mal from Monaghan, this Belvo boarder who lives upstairs, and tell him this SO has to be rigged, and he says I’m deluded and he reminds me that Stone Cold never had what you would term ‘great technical ability’ and was always overrated as a wrestler, principally due to his ubiquity as the WWF’s number one poster-boy.

  Fionn, in the corner, roysh, he goes, ‘Style is no substitute for substance, Ross,’ the smug bastard and he pushes his glasses up on his nose and, like, out of the corner of my eye, roysh, I can see Christian still standing in the doorway, all upset because he thinks we’re, like, in a snot with him. He goes, ‘I was on my way to get the biscuits and one drink just turned into another, you know what it’s like. Come on, I’ve brought you back a present,’ and I notice that he’s got a shitload of drink in a bag, we’re talking Stinger Lager, we’re talking twenty-four cans for six bucks or something, we’re talking total piss here, but fock it, it gets you shit-faced eventually.

  So anyway, roysh, to cut a long story short, the four of us and the three Belvo heads who’re sharing the house, we all end up tucking into the cans while we’re watching the wrestling, and what happens? Half-an-hour later and the beer’s all gone and Christian’s there going, ‘Come on, young Skywalker. Let’s go to the battle-cruiser,’ and I’m like, ‘Christian, I am SO not going out tonight,’ but, of course, ten minutes later, roysh, just as Stone Cold is talking us through his amazing comeback against Scotty Too Hotty, we’re out the focking door to Ipanema, this club where we spend the whole night knocking back bottles for, like, a dollar a pop.

  The Belvo goys – we’re talking this Mad Mal dude, Codpiece and The Yeti – they’re sound, even if they did go to a crap school, and we get a bit of a debate going about the time we lashed them out of it in the senior cup and whether the penalty try we were awarded in the last minute was, like, fair or not. Then we move onto, like, birds we all know and birds we’ve been with, with me dominating the conversation, of course, and all of a sudden Oisinn has that funny look in his eye. The nose is, like, twitching and Fionn’s playing along, going, ‘What is it, boy? You smell something?’ like he’s a dog or some shit. Oisinn’s giving it, ‘A fragrance that explores the essence of (sniff, sniff) honeysuckle, gardenia and (sniff, sniff) ylang ylang. Blended with notes of vanilla, (sniff, sniff) nutmeg and, unless I’m very much mistaken, sandalwood. It can only be …’

  He suddenly, like, whips around on his stool and goes to this bird sitting behind him, he goes, ‘An ode to the eternal woman,’ and of course the bird – American, twenty-four or twenty-five, looks a little bit like Kate Groombridge – she’s a bit, like, taken aback and she goes, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘You’re wearing Organza. By Givenchy,’ and the bird smiles and looks really impressed and Oisinn goes, ‘I apologise. I’m a sucker for its velvety and mythical seduction,’ the smarmy focker, and he turns around to face her and the goy is in. He is SO in. Fifteen minutes later they leave together and we’re all there going, He got over that Emma Halvey pretty quickly.

  No such luck for the rest of us. By the end of the night we’re too locked off our faces to even think about scoring, no golden goals tonight, we’re totally horrendufied, and we end up getting kicked out of the place when Codpiece and The Yeti get up on the tables and stort singing the Belvo song.

  We decide to head back to Pickles then, roysh, but we can’t get in because one of the goys on the door cops that Codpiece’s ID is fake, and as we’re walking off, roysh, basically telling the bouncers what a bunch of dickheads they are, I look at Codpiece’s driving licence and it’s a real, like, Fisher Price effort, and I’m going, ‘This is a piece of shit. It’s so obviously a fake,’ and he goes, ‘You focking sold it to me,’ and what could I say to that? I go, ‘Come on, let’s get a tray of the old National Bohemian and hit the Laundromat,’ which is what we basically do.

  I’m totally in the horrors at this stage, roysh, and I’m there giving it, ‘This whole buck-a-beer-night thing is bang out of order. I’ve a good mind to sue that place,’ and Fionn’s going, ‘It’s socially irresponsible to sell drink so cheaply,’ always has to try and sound more intelligent than me. But he’s even more locked than I am, so to get him back for being such a focking Know-Everything-Glasses-Wearing-Tit, I convince him to climb into one of the spin-driers and have a crack at Codpiece’s long-standing record of forty-two rotations. Never in a million years would he do this sober, but Fionn’s a useless drinker and you can pretty much persuade him to do anything when he’s shit-faced.

  I take off his glasses, roysh, and he goes, ‘Someone phone Norris McWhirter,’ whoever the fock he is, ‘I’ve a line for his next book,’ and he curls up inside the thing and I slam the door, roysh, and The Yeti, who is a big, hairy bastard, as you’ve probably guessed, he drops, like, four quarters in the slot and the things storts spinning. Fionn ends up lasting what I tell him is a very brave thirty-four rotations – a Castlerock record – before he boots the do
or open, slides out onto the floor and borfs his ring up all over the place and Codpiece’s Dubes. He’s going, ‘I’ve laid down a morker.’

  I hand him back his glasses and we head off, and all of a sudden we realise that it’s, like, bright outside. Ocean City is, like, waking up and we’re all sobering up and suddenly everyone has gone really quiet, remembering what a shitty job peeling shellfish is when you’ve got a hangover, roysh, and you’ve had no sleep and you’ve got that skanky smell in your nostrils all day with your dodgy New Delhi. Coming home at that time of the morning, it’s a straight choice between heading back to the gaff for an hour’s kip or hitting the nearest 7-Eleven for a cup of black coffee and a packet of Max-Alerts, these pills that the long-distance lorry drivers take when they’ve got to drive, like, coast to coast.

  I am seriously hanging, roysh, my head is thumping, I feel like I’m going to focking vom any minute and Christian has his orm around my shoulder and he’s telling me he doesn’t know why Vader ever bothered with Bossk, he was more of a slave-trader than a bounty hunter and was only ever good for catching Wookies and even at that the three-fingered Trandoshan was in the halpenny place compared to Chenlambec, and I tell him that even though he’s my best friend, I need him to shut the fock up roysh now.

  I get a coffee and wash down a couple of pills, roysh, then borf my ring up in some random doorway. Then the four of us – we’re talking me, Christian, Fionn and Oisinn – we just trudge on with our heads down, none of us saying anything, in the direction of the steamhouse.

  I’m moseying down the boardwalk, roysh, eating a Payday, checking out the scenario, amazing-looking birds wearing half-nothing, we’re taking big nids everywhere you look, when all of a sudden, roysh, I cop this bird who’s looking straight at me and, like, smiling at me. She’s working in this gaff, roysh, making fudge, using this mad shovel thing to turn over these big fock-off slabs of the stuff on this, like, hob. I give her this little wave, which is a bit gay, roysh, but she doesn’t seem to mind, just goes, ‘Hey there. You from outta town?’ She looks like Sofia Vergara except with even bigger bazookas, if you can imagine that. Of course I’m playing it cool like Fonzie. I’m there, ‘Yeah, I’m from Ireland. Just having a look around. And I like what I see.’

  She goes, ‘I’m Candice.’ I thought Candice was an STD. I go, ‘I’m Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. You from round here?’ She goes, ‘No, I’m a stoodent. I’m from Jacksonville, Florida. Just came here for the summer to, like, work. You working too?’ Of course I didn’t want to tell her about the steamhouse, because, let’s face it, how un-focking-sexy is shellfish? I’m there, ‘Yeah, I’m a dolphin trainer.’ Birds love dolphins. She goes, ‘No shit?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah, seriously, I train dolphins. For, like, shows and shit.’ She goes, ‘That is, like, SO cool.’ It’s funny, the American accent’s just like the Irish one.

  I go, ‘So what do you get up to at the weekend, Candida?’ She goes, ‘Well, me and the girls mostly play, like, volleyball down at the beach. Have a couple of beers and, like, hang out and stuff. Hey, you wanna come along this weekend?’ I’m like, ‘Saturday good?’ She goes, ‘Sure, Saturday’s swell. Bring your buddies. We’re dying to meet new people.’ I’m there thinking, I bet you are. I go, ‘See you Saturday then,’ and she goes, ‘Sure,’ and I’m like, ‘Later.’

  I have to say, roysh, after that I’m pretty much on top of the world, too cool for school, and I decide to hit the Drinklink, see did Penis Head put that two grand he promised me in my credit cord account. Turns out he did, luckily for him, and I take out two hundred bills, roysh, thinking about maybe going out on the lash later to, like, celebrate.

  The next thing, roysh, I’m suddenly getting this whiff, we’re talking piss and B.O. and I turn around and there’s this, like, goy standing beside me, roysh, looks like a tramp, or vagrant as they call them over here. He tries to shove this, like, book in my hand, roysh, and he goes, ‘Have you heard God’s news?’ I’m there, ‘I don’t believe in God. I’m a Catholic.’ He goes, ‘A Catholic? Well, you evah thought of changing ya religion?’ I’m like – and I’m pleased with this – I go, ‘You ever thought of changing your deodorant?’ The goy doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s like, ‘I … em …’ I’m there, ‘You don’t have all the answers then, do you? Try this one out. You believe in God. You look like a tramp, you smell of piss and you sleep, I presume, under the boardwalk here. I don’t believe in God. On Saturday I’ve been invited to play beach volleyball with a bunch of supermodels. I suggest you have a word with that God of yours.’

  I give the bum a buck and fock off.

  Coming to the States is, like, such a culture shock. ‘Judge Judy’ is actually on in the mornings over here. Fock-all about that in the USIT brochure.

  When we arrived in Ocean City, roysh, I think I mentioned we went on the total lash for the first few days. Anyway, I got up the first Saturday afternoon, roysh, totally hanging, and we’re talking TOTALLY here, and somehow managed to write, like, two letters. One was to JP, who I feel a bit sorry for, being stuck at home working for his old man, though he’s raking it in so fock him. The other letter was to the old dear, which sounds sort of gay, I know, but the thing is, roysh, I thought that if I let her know straight away that I was, like, settled in and whatever, she’d leave me the fock alone for the rest of the summer and I wouldn’t end up hearing from either her or Dick-features again until I needed money sent over.

  So the letter, roysh, it was just like:

  Greetings. Having a great time in Ocean City, which is on the east coast of the States. I’ve had a good look around the place, checked out some of the local history and stuff and found it really interesting. Christian, Fionn and Oisinn are really into it as well. We’ve been to about twenty museums so far. It really is a beautiful place, much quieter than Martha’s Vineyard and Montauk apparently, which suits me because I’m planning to really knuckle down and work hard this summer because, to be honest with you, I’d like to come back with at least a few hundred bills in September. If I’m going to repeat first year, it’s not fair that I ask you to pay for it.

  Speaking of money, I was wondering was there any chance you could send me some. Not much. Only like four hundred or something, because the rent is due and I’ve actually been so busy that I haven’t even had time to ring Dad’s friend about that job. Oh, hey, that’s four hundred lids, not dollars. Anyway, I have to go now. We’re off to see, I don’t know, a castle this afternoon.

  Later, Ross.

  About, like, four days later, roysh, I get this e-mail from JP, roysh, and it’s like, ‘What the fock are you on? What castle? Not fair to ask me to pay your way through college. You guys must be doing some serious drugs over there. Lucky fockers,’ which is when I realised, roysh, that I’d actually put the two letters in the wrong focking envelopes and the old dear ended up getting JP’s letter, which was like:

  Yo, you are missing the best focking crack ever over here. You should have seen the state of us last night. Oh my God, three nights on the total rip and I can hordly remember a thing. Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t even talk, for fock’s sake. I arrived here with the eight hundred bills that the old man gave me and I actually haven’t got a focking cent left to my name. Spent the lot in the first three nights. Most of it actually on the first night. The beer is amazing. Total rocket fuel. Milwaukee’s Best or, as we call it, The Beast. Twelve pints and I was totally shit-faced and ended up in some focking illegal gambling joint with the goys, lost about four hundred notes on the blackjack table, then got thrown out by the bouncers for singing ‘Castlerock Über Alles’, giving it LOADS, roysh, really letting Ocean City know we’d arrived.

  Ended up hitting this nightclub then to drown our sorrows. Off our focking faces. We’re talking totally here. Met these two birds, Barbara and Jenna with a J. They were as shit-faced as we were. They were like, ‘So, what do you guys do for a living?’ and I’m giving it, ‘Christian’s an actor, Fionn’s a geek and Oisinn’s a bouncy castle,
’ and they’re like, ‘And you?’ and I’m there, ‘I’m a Navy Seal. I never talk about it, though. What about yourselves?’ And Jenna with a J goes, ‘We’re the President’s daughters,’ and we all broke our shites laughing.

  Got focking nowhere, of course. Ended up pulling this bird, I don’t know if you’d call her a hooker, but the deal seemed to be that I basically bought her drink and fags all night and she came back to the gaff with me for a rattle, no questions asked, no names exchanged, a bit like some of the birds from UCD I suppose.

  Anyway, the important thing is I christened the old bed. I was telling the goys I’m joining Shaggers Anonymous. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up looking for my bit. Just means I’m doing it under a false name. Must avoid Klingons at all costs. It’s a short enough summer and there’s a lot of birds out there who need pleasing.

  Anyway, must go. I’m about to get pissed again and hopefully laid. There’s a lot of beer out there as well and it’s not going to drink itself. Rock rules, Ross.

  And fock it, the old pair will have a knicker-fit when they read it. I’m not answering the phone and I’ve told the goys that, if they ring, roysh, I’m not in. They probably won’t even send me the money now, wait’ll you see.