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

by Paul Howard

  I know how to play beach volleyball. I was focking glued to it during the Olympics. Cecile Rigaux. Natalie Cook. Danja Musch. All those birds rolling around in the sand. Hugging each other. What’s the point of the men’s event, though? Must be for benders. Anyway, roysh, what I’m saying is I know the ins and outs of the game, though I crack on to Candice that I don’t, so she’s there with her hands on my shoulders, showing me where to stand and the only thing I’m worried about, roysh, is if she looks down and cops the old Cyclops standing sentry. She’s going, ‘Okay, guys. This game is, like, rul easy,’ which it probably is if you could concentrate on the focking ball.

  Candice’s mates look like they’ve stepped out of the best wet dream you’ve ever had. Her best mate, roysh, she says her name is Heather, but there’s no focking way, it’s Caprice Bourret, I’m telling you. Hello, Liv Tyler. Oh, Leeann Tweeden, nice to meet you. They’re all, like, tanned and fit-looking, roysh, and we’re a pretty sorry sight by comparison, apart from yours truly, of course. Oisinn really shouldn’t take his top off. He’s got bigger baps than anyone here and he’ll give the birds a complex. Fionn, well he was too hungover this morning to get his contacts in and he’s, like, blind as a bat of course, so he had to wear his glasses, and what with them and his skinny white body he looks like what he is: Woody Allen in a pair of Speedos. So Christian is my only competition, which basically says it all.

  I can see all the birds checking me and I’m flexing the old pecs to give them a thrill. Leeann Tweeden actually turns to me and goes, ‘You work out a lot, huh?’ and I’m there, ‘Be a sin to be given a bod like this and not look after it,’ playing it Kool and the Gang, and I cop the four birds whispering away to each other, roysh, obviously trying to decide which one of them was going to try to be with me.

  The mistake me and the goys made, roysh, was having a few scoops at lunchtime. We popped into the New Yorker bor for a few straighteners, then filled this big fock-off Eskie with bottles of the Beast before hitting the beach. The birds say they don’t want any booze, roysh, that’s how, like, serious they are about the game, but we’re, like, half-trousered by the time it storts.

  Whoosh! Candice serves an ace. Whoop! Then another. Phissh! What the fock! We don’t even get a chance to move. After fifteen minutes of this, I call a time-out and we go into a huddle. I turn to Oisinn and I’m like, ‘Sorry, are we the same goys who were the backbone of the Castlerock senior cupwinning team of 1999? Are we a bunch of wusses?’ Oisinn goes, ‘It’s no good, Ross. I’m looking at them when I should be looking at the ball. I tell myself not to but …’ I turn to Christian and I’m like, ‘You could have returned that last serve. You hit it straight into the net.’ He’s there, ‘Sorry, young Skywalker. Watching them hugging and kissing each other every time they get a point, I can’t get enough of it.’ Fionn goes, ‘Ross is roysh, goys. Let’s show these admittedly attractive birds what we’re made of. We’re Rock, remember?’ and we burst into this chorus of, ‘You can’t knock the Rock!’

  But basically, they could. Ten more minutes it took. It was, like, one ace after another and we’re left there, pretty much in a crumpled heap on the ground, roysh, and the birds haven’t even broken a sweat, they’re cracking their holes laughing and then they tell us that they all play for, like, the University of Florida, which explains a thing or two.

  We sit around talking for a couple of hours, roysh, getting to know the birds, scoping their racks when they’re not looking and making pretty light work of what’s left in the Eskie. Then the birds announce that they have to, like, mosey and Candice turns around to me when no one else is listening and goes, ‘You wanna ride?’ and of course I’m like, ‘What?’ thinking, There’s no way it could be this easy. She goes, ‘You guys wanna ride somewhere?’ and I’m like, ‘How about my place?’ and she goes, ‘That’s great, Ross. You wanna give me directions?’ I go, ‘Are you sure about this? We’ve only just, like, met,’ and she goes, ‘Shees, it’s only a ride. No big deal,’ and I’m like, ‘I SO love American women. Happy days.’

  I go and tell the goys, roysh, that we’re in and they’re all giving it, ‘What a ledge,’ and, ‘You the man, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘Come on, we’re meeting them in the cor pork.’

  Candice’s cor is this big, fock-off soft-top, a beast of a thing, red with white leather seats. All eight of us fit in it, even though it’s a bit of a squeeze for the lucky bastards in the back. I’m in the front passenger seat, wondering whether Candice is on the Jack and Jill and listening to Brucie belting out, ‘Born in the USA, I was born in the USA,’ when all of a sudden, roysh, don’t know whether it’s the heat, or the running around, or too much booze – but I actually feel sick. I’m there, ‘Candice, em, I’m really sorry about this, but I think I’m gonna borf.’ She goes, ‘Shit, Ross, you coulda mentioned that before we got on the freeway. Can ya hold it?’ I’m there, ‘No, but don’t panic, I’ll lean out of the cor and do it. The G-force will take it away from the cor.’

  And just as she’s going, ‘No, wait!’ roysh, I lean out and – weeeuuuggghhh! WEEEUUUGGGHHH! – stort throwing my ring up. And of course the G-force doesn’t bring it away from the cor, it throws it back into the cor and it’s like – SPLAT! – all over everyone on the backseat and everyone screams, roysh, and I turn around to, like, say sorry and shit, but then my stomach just opens up and it’s, like – weeeuuUGGGHHH! WEEEUUUUUGGH! – and it’s like – SPLAT!SPLAT!SPLAT! – everyone in the back getting showered with, like, the gallon of beer I drank and the four shots of Wild Turkey and the pastrami-and-mozzarella panini I ate and the bottle of blackcurrant Sunny D. And the birds are all screaming, roysh, and the car swerves in the road and the goys are telling me they’re going to focking kill me and eventually Candice pulls off the freeway and we come to a stop and everyone’s just, like, silent. I turn around and I look at the goys and the three birds in the back and they’re all in, like, shock, roysh, and their faces are all, like, streaked with purple vom, with little bits of, like, half-digested meat and cheese and, if I’m not mistaken, coleslaw dripping from their hair and their faces and I’m thinking, How the fock did I fit that lot in my stomach in the first place?

  Candice, roysh, you can tell she’s trying to control herself, she’s staring straight ahead and doing these, like, breathing exercises, but it’s no good, she just goes, ‘Out!’ and I’m there, ‘Me included?’ She goes, ‘I’M TALKIN’ TO YOU!’ I’m like, ‘Sor-ee!’ and I get out of the cor and so do the goys. The birds take off and leave us there on the side of the road. None of the goys says anything. They’re still in shock. I go, ‘Let’s see can we thumb a lift back to the gaff. We’ll be lucky, though. Look at the state of you three.’

  Z … Y … X … We’re talking W … V … U … Oh yeah, you can forget pretty much every bit of advice they give to students going to the States for the summer, roysh, the only thing you really need to know is how to say the alphabet backwards, that and how to walk in a straight line with your finger on your nose. If the cops stop you with a few scoops on you, roysh, and they know you’re, like, Irish and shit, they are SO going to bust you unless you can show you’re not, like, totally wrecked.

  Oisinn is the undisputed master at – what does he call it? – feigning sobriety, and we’re actually talking total here. I’ve seen that goy knock back fifteen pints of the Beast, roysh, and then do the whole ZYX thing while walking on a white line in the middle of Ocean Highway, we’re talking with a full pint on his head. All these cors flying by either side of him, beeping and shit. Doesn’t spill a drop. The goy’s a legend.

  Anyway, roysh, the other night, we’re in the gaff and he’s teaching me the whole alphabet thing – backwards, I know it forwards – and suddenly I hear this voice giving it, ‘Will you two fags shut the fock up and go to sleep,’ and it’s, like, Gavin, who I should explain is a Gerard’s boy, The Yeti’s cousin and a total knob who arrived the day before yesterday.

  He’s actually bulling, roysh, because I ended up sco
ring his bird – or should I say ex-bird – Ciara, in Pickles the other night. Oh my God, what a total focking honey, we’re talking the image of Katherine Heigl here. But I suppose I should stort at the beginning.

  I go to work yesterday. Miracle of focking miracles, I’ve been here for three weeks and I’m actually still employed, though only just. Anyway, I’m wrecked as usual, roysh, not having slept for, like, three nights because it’s still, like, Porty Central at our gaff and the bod is storting to build up a bit of a tolerance to the old Max-Alerts.

  So there I am, roysh, standing over this big smelly barrel of, like, crabs and shit, having the crack with a few of the Haitians who work with me, and one of them – Papa Doc, they call the goy – he goes, ‘You no look so good, Ireesh. You whiter than white,’ which is when I tell him about the keg porties we’ve been having, we’re talking five of the focking things in the last, like, seven days and the old pace is, like, storting to get to me. He just goes, ‘I give you something for that,’ and he brings me down to the steamroom, roysh, where he’s got, like, twenty-four cans of the Beast stashed away. He goes, ‘I believe to you Ireesh this is called hair of dogs?’

  Happy days. So there’s me and Papa Doc, eleven o’clock in the morning, roysh, in the steamroom, knocking back a couple of quiet, social beers and the next thing, roysh, he pulls out the biggest focking reefer this side of, I don’t know, whatever the capital of Haiti is. I have to say, roysh, I’ve never been into, like, drugs and shit, too serious about my rugby, but this stuff was focking amazing. Had, like, three puffs of the thing and the next thing I know I’m waking up in the middle of the floor and who’s standing over me, roysh, only the boss, we’re talking Fatty Dunston himself, a complete dickhead, and he’s there giving it, ‘You focking Irish. This is the last year I employ any of you drunken focks,’ and he tells me I’m out of here, which is American for sacked, roysh, and I don’t know where I am at this stage and I look up at the clock and it’s, like, nearly five o’clock.

  Papa Doc comes over, roysh, and he goes, ‘Sorry, Ireesh. Thought I let you sleep. You tired, man. You tired,’ and I’m there, ‘Thanks very much. Now I’m basically unemployed as well.’ He goes, ‘Don’t worry. Fatty sack me many, many time. You come back tomorrow, he give you your job back, man,’ and I’m there, ‘How can you be so sure?’ and he stares off into space for, like, twenty seconds, and just when I think he’s going to say something really, like, deep, he goes, ‘Who else gonna work in this shithole for six bucks an hour?’ which is actually a good point.

  I’ll probably end up having to spend a week as the Trash Monkey, which is the job everyone hates, roysh, going through all the rubbish bags to make sure no knives and forks have been thrown out. The job is usually, like, rostered between about ten of us, but anyone caught acting the dick always gets given it.

  But anyway, roysh, the upshot of all this was that I obviously decided to go on the lash for the night, so me and Christian headed for Hooters, roysh, and the Belvo goys, Mad Mal, Codpiece, The Yeti, are already in there with a few heads they know, and this orsewipe, Gavin, who has just got off the plane and is totally trousered. He keeps going, ‘I can hold my drink. It’s the jetlag,’ and we’re all there, ‘Whatever.’

  This goy is a major pain in the orse with drink on him, and he corners me at one stage, roysh, and storts telling me all about his ex and how he’s only really out tonight because he heard she was going to be there and how he loves her, even though he blew it by being with her best friend Jemma at the Muckross pre-debs, and she still hasn’t forgiven him for it, even though that was, like, last year, but he’s convinced she still has strong feelings for him, which is why he ended up coming to Ocean City for the summer, even though most of his mates were actually going to Toronto, but he wanted to be close to her because he thinks there’s still a chance that blah blah blah.

  I’m there going, Hello? Get me out of here. And then he storts focking crying, roysh, going, ‘My head is SO wrecked, I focked up my exams and everything.’ I think he’s first year Commerce, UCD. He’s giving it, ‘I’ve got to go back to Ireland to sit the repeats and just the thought that she might be with someone else while I’m away is, like, killing me.’

  And while he’s saying all this, roysh, I’m not really listening, I’m looking over his shoulder at this bird who is giving me loads, we’re talking serious mince-pies here. I have to say, not being big-headed or anything, but I actually look really well at the moment, I always do with a tan.

  Gavin’s going, ‘Will you look after her when I’m away?’ and I’m telling him yeah, he can trust me, wondering when he’s going to fock off and leave me alone so I can chat up this bird. Eventually, roysh, after crying into my ear for, like, twenty minutes, he goes up to the bor to get a round in, pint of Ken for me and fock-knows-what for him, probably a Baileys what with him being such a focking woman and everything.

  So I’m about to go over and introduce myself to this bird, roysh, but she actually comes over and storts chatting to me, and the first thing I notice is that she’s actually Irish. She goes, ‘Are you a Yankees fan?’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry?’ and she’s there, ‘Your baseball cap. Are you a Yankees fan?’ I’m like, ‘Oh that. No, I just liked the cap. I’m not into American football at all. I’m more rugby,’ and she goes, ‘American football? OH MY GOD! Hello? I thought they were, like, a basketball team. I am SO dumb,’ and I’m like, ‘I don’t think you’re dumb. In fact, I think you’re really intelligent. And beautiful,’ which is total bullshit because I know her ten focking seconds.

  But she sort of, like, blushes when I say that, roysh, and then she goes, ‘How do you know Gavin?’ which is when I cop it, roysh – this is the bird that the dickhead’s spent the last three hours crying into my ear about, and looking at her, roysh, I can understand why. She’s Jayne Middlemiss with short hair.

  I’m there, ‘I actually don’t know the dude. We’re just living in the same house,’ and she goes, ‘The goy is like a limpet.’ I’m like, ‘I didn’t know you were actually Irish until I storted talking to you,’ and she’s there, ‘Oh? Where did you think I was from?’ and I don’t have a focking clue what to say next, roysh, what country would, like, sound good – I’m useless at geography – so I just give it, ‘Who cares where you’re from, as long as you’re here now,’ and she must think this is good, roysh, because the next thing I know she’s making a move on me and I have to say, roysh, she’s an amazing kisser, and I can understand why this Gavin goy is trying to get back in there.

  I think I can also understand why he storts going totally ballistic when he arrives back from the bor with the drinks, roysh, and catches me and her wearing the face off each other. All of a sudden I open my eyes and he’s standing in front of us, screaming the place down and we’re talking TOTALLY here. He’s there going, ‘I trusted you, Ross. And this is how you repay me?’ and he’s about to throw a pint over me, roysh, when Oisinn arrives over, grabs him in a headlock and drags him out of the place, and Christian follows them outside going, ‘Be mindful, Gavin. Strong is the Dark Side. Seduce you it can.’

  Ciara tells me that Gavin SO needed to see her with someone else. I’m like, ‘Oh, thanks very much,’ and she goes, ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ and she smiles and goes, ‘I’m SO glad it was you.’

  I ask her for her number, and she gives it to me.

  The old man rings up when I’m out at work, roysh, and he leaves this message on the answering-machine. This is, like, word-for-word what he said, roysh. Now you tell me whether you think he’s losing the focking plot. It’s like, ‘Hi, Ross. Pick up if you’re in … pick up if you’re in … pick up if you’re in … If not, well, I was just ringing to find out how you are, tell you we got your, em … letter.’

  I’m like, ‘Fock.’

  He goes, ‘By the sounds of it, you’re, eh … having a good time. Just, you know … be careful. Em, that’s what your mother wanted me to say. Condoms and so forth. Oh, I posted you some money. And em …
That’s it really. No other news. Just boring old work stuff really. Bit of trouble in the office at the moment. With the staff. Nothing for you to be worrying about, though, Ross.’

  As focking if.

  He’s like, ‘Don’t, em … don’t be fretting about your old man, I can cope with these things. You keep on … em … you know, enjoying yourself. Okay, I’m not Bill Gates. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But I know how to run my business. That’s one thing I do know, Ross. And if I left it to some of the inverted-commas experts who work for me, where would the company be today? Nowhere. That’s where. With a capital N. Give these people a screen-break and the next thing you know they want a bloody crèche on every floor of the building.

  ‘Do you remember that management seminar I went to last year, Ross, where you are, in the States? It was New York, I went with Hennessy. It was ‘Say Pretty Please and Watch Your Profits Soar’. What a bloody waste of money that turned out to be. Hennessy and his little fads. Five thousand pounds I paid to hear some so-called authority on employer/employee relations talking about the connection between morale and productivity levels. Rubbish. And I did give it a chance, Ross. Your mother will vouch for that. I stopped referring to the people who work for me as employees and started to call them stakeholders. Quote unquote. But you see the problem was that they thought this new name actually entitled them to something, the grabby so-and-sos …

  ‘I personally had to sack four of these so-called stakeholders when they started campaigning for an extension to the half-hour lunch break, which has been the standard here for years, Ross. Years! Only takes one or two bad apples, of course.

  ‘Anyway, the whole office is up in arms at the moment. Up in arms, if you don’t mind, because I had the coffee machine removed. Now I don’t want to go into the whos, whys and hows of the whole affair, but the word has gone around the office that I did this to save the £60 a month that it was costing me to lease the machine, which is rubbish, Ross. Rubbish. With a capital R.