Ross O'Carroll-Kelly: The Teenage Dirtbag Years: 2 (Ross O'Carroll Kelly)
Page 21
I get home from work and there’s, like, post for me and it’s, like, a cord from Sorcha that the old pair have sent on. I stare at the front of it for ages, roysh. It’s, like, the Sydney Opera House, I can see that, and loads of other, like, skyscrapers and shit and on the front it says, City Skyline from Kirribilli, and I head into my room and lie on the bed and read the back ten, maybe twenty times. She says she’s basically having the time of her life, even though it’s pretty cold over there because it’s, like, winter at the moment. She’s working in, like, Golden Pages, roysh, or whatever the equivalent of it is over there, basically taking ads over the phone. She’s only going to be able to work there for, like, three months, roysh, unless they offer to sponsor her, which they probably won’t, but she doesn’t care because she SO wants to travel and see a bit of Australia, especially Cairns and the Gold Coast, which are supposed to be amazing, and Uluru and Darwin.
She says she might be doing the bridge climb next weekend, even though she’s, like, really scared of heights and she says she wouldn’t mind getting four or five bottles of Smirnoff Ice into her first, but they actually breathalyse you before they let you do it, and she says that Dorling Harbour is amazing, especially at night, but she was really disappointed with Bondi Beach, which is basically a dump and a bit of an Irish ghetto and that’s the reason she’s pretty much staying away from it.
I notice that she hasn’t mentioned that penis she went with once and at the end, roysh, she says she really misses me and after her name she’s put, like, three kisses. I hear the rest of the goys coming in from work, roysh, so I slip the cord into my back pocket. Oisinn says he’s got something he thinks I should see, but I tell him I’ve got to go to Foodrite because we need, like, beers and shit.
Instead I head down to Cindy’s, this diner down the road from our gaff, and I order coffee and sit there, in one of the, like, booths, reading the cord over and over again, then taking it line by line, trying to pick up, like, hidden meanings that may or may not have been there, then just studying her handwriting, trying to imagine what was going through her head when she said that she missed me, whether she put that on everyone’s cord, or whether she really meant it in my case, and what she was thinking when she put those, like, three kisses on it.
I stort thinking about going home, which I’m dreading, for loads of different reasons. And, of course, for one in particular. Christian’s old dear basically throws herself at me and I’m going to be the one who ends up taking the heat for her and Christian’s old man breaking up. I focking know it. Explain that one to me. I’m wondering whether anyone at home knows. Christian’s bound to find out, I know that. He can’t stay not talking to his old man forever and his old man’s not going to let his old dear be the one who comes out of this looking like the innocent porty. He’ll definitely tell him.
But she basically threw herself at me. If Christian doesn’t understand that, then he’s no kind of best mate.
But I know that things would be so much simpler if I never went home. Maybe I could stay in Ocean City. Keep taking the tablets, although I’ve been really badly constipated the last couple of weeks and it’s storting to worry me. I could stay here for a few more months, save up enough money to go to Australia myself and see how serious things are between Sorcha and this Cillian tosspot.
I take off my baseball cap and scratch my head and a huge clump of hair comes off in my hand. Might not be the tablets. Might be allergic to, I don’t know, coffee. I just, like, drop it onto the floor under the table and read the cord again, and suddenly I hear Cindy, the owner, going, ‘Stare at that any lawnga and the print’s gonna come awf. You want more cawfee?’
I tell her no, roysh, best be going and I head back to the gaff. Oisinn, Christian and Fionn are sitting around the table in the kitchen, staring at this piece of paper. Oisinn goes, ‘Ross, you really need to take a look at this.’
Straight away, of course, I’m thinking, It’s a letter from Christian’s old man, spelling the whole thing out, blow by blow, so I end up going, ‘One thing you have to understand, Christian. I tried to fight her off, but she was gagging for me.’
He looks at me like I’ve got ten heads and he goes, ‘Those drugs are really focking up your head, Padwan. I mean, I’ve lost some hair and I haven’t had a shit in a week, but nothing as bad as you.’
I’m thinking, Fock, it must be something else. Oisinn goes, ‘Have you been thinking much about Sorcha lately?’ I’m like, ‘Sorcha? No, she’s made her bed.’ Fionn goes, ‘And someone else is in it,’ and he straightens his glasses, which are going to be shoved up his orse in ten seconds flat. Oisinn goes, ‘Come on, Ross, what’s the scéal. It’s confession time. For the last week I’ve had this unbelievable urge to ring Emma Halvey. And Christian says he’s thinking about this Lauren bird again …’ Christian nods. I’m there, ‘I wondered why we were getting through so much bog roll,’ but no one laughs. Oisinn goes, ‘Fionn was on the Internet at lunchtime,’ – focking geek – ‘and he found this. It was in The Irish Times last week.’ He hands me the sheet of paper. Fionn goes, ‘Do you want me to read it out for you?’ but I ignore the focker.
‘Two members of a local sub-aqua club have recovered a stolen statue from the sea in Dún Laoghaire. Gardaí have confirmed that the statue of Eros, the God of Love in Greek Mythology, was stolen from the Classics Department in UCD some time ago. Gardaí kept news of the robbery and a subsequent ransom demand quiet in an attempt to flush the thieves out. The statue was found on the seabed, close to the West Pier, on Saturday morning. Gardaí admit they have no leads as yet, but have ruled out paramilitary involvement. Eros was the son of Aphrodite and was represented as beautiful but irresponsible in his infliction of passion.
‘It’s an absolute miracle to get the statue back,’ said Francis Hird, Head of the Classics Department. ‘We don’t know how, but they do say that love always finds a way.’
Fionn goes, ‘Very good, Ross. You managed to read it without putting your finger under each word,’ and I’m like, ‘Shut up, you geek.’ Oisinn goes, ‘Answer my question, Ross. Have you been thinking about Sorcha?’
There’s another message from Orsewipe on the answering-machine when I get home. It’s like, ‘Pick up if you’re in, Ross. It’s a disaster. Pick up if you’re in, Ross. Pick up if you’re in. It’s your mother’s car, Ross. The Micra. It’s failed the NCT. Again, stay where you are. There’s nothing you could do even if you were to come home. She’s heartbroken, though, Ross. Heartbroken. Capital H and everything.
‘I told her of course that I’d buy her a new one, but no, if she couldn’t have her Micra, she didn’t want anything. Took to the bed for a few days. Now I’m not what you would call, inverted commas, anti the environment, Ross, you know that, but this whole car-test business is nothing more than a money-making scam by the government. Force people to buy new cars. Dress it up as an environmental concern, fuel emissions and so forth, and nobody dares to complain.
‘Oh, I phoned up the so-called Department of the Environment on Monday morning, gave them a right earful. Asked to speak to the Minister, but ended up getting some bloody minion. As if the Government doesn’t get enough money out of me already, I said. I employ over two hundred people. “It’s the law,” he said. “But you made the bloody law,” I told him. Hung up on me, he did.
‘Such a pity Hennessy’s out of commission. Not sure if you heard, but he’s been arrested. In America, of all places, and not a million miles from you. They’re talking about extraditing him back. Go on, Hennessy, give the bastards hell. A witch hunt, that’s all this nonsense has ever been about.
‘But … oh yes … the car test. Oh the day of the test was painful, Ross. Like a funeral. And it was in bloody Deansgrange as well, appropriately enough. An 8.30am appointment, quoteunquote. I won’t bore you with the details, but we drove into the industrial estate, parked the car outside and this chap in green overalls came out, asked your mother for the keys. Of course getting them out of her hand
was a job in itself, but eventually, using a few stern words, not to mention the car-jack, we managed to loosen her grip on them and then the chap drove the car into this garage affair and I helped your mother into the office, where they asked for our details and the logbook.
“When will you know?” your mother asked the lady behind the desk. “Forty-five minutes,” the lady said. It was an hour at least. Your mother spent the whole time pacing up and down the floor, asking me every five minutes what I thought was keeping them. “They have a lot of checks to make,” I told her. “Sit down. Read a magazine. Look, VIP have done an eighteen-page feature on ‘At Home with IFA farm leader Tom Parlon.”
‘Well, the bad news was that the chap returned after what seemed like an eternity, all full of himself with his clipboard, and delivered the verdict. Wheel alignment, front axle – FAIL. Wheel alignment, rear axle – FAIL. Shock absorber, front axle – FAIL. Shock absorber, rear axle – FAIL. Brake test, front and rear axle – FAIL. Service brake performance – 40% and FAIL. Parking brake performance – 10% and FAIL. Exhaust emissions – FAIL. Right indicator, steering lock, tyre pressure, windscreen wipers – all defective, FAIL. Dip beam, full beam, fog lights – FAIL, FAIL, FAIL.
‘It was too much for your mother, of course. She collapsed. And while the staff tried to resuscitate her, I got on the phone, called the bloody gangster we bought the car from in the first place. “Good morning,” he says, without a care in the world. “I haven’t got time for good-mornings,” I told him. “I think you know why I’m phoning.”
“Who is this?” he said, just out with it like that. I told him I’d a complaint to make about a car he sold me. “What’s the matter with it?” he said. What’s the matter with it, ladies and gentlemen. Well, I gave it to him. “Pretty much everything except the radio, according to the NCT people. And even that chewed one of my Phil Coulter cassettes.”
“When did you buy the car?” he asked. “It was 1993,” I said. “Sorry,” he says, “did you say 1993?” “That is what I said, yes.” “Well,” he says, “it’d be out of warranty by now.” I said, “Don’t give me blasted warranty. You told me the car had one previous owner. An elderly lady, you said. Used it to go to the shops and back.” He says, “Yes.” I said, “Where were these bloody shops? Kabul?”
‘Had to hang up on him in the end, Kicker. Could see I was getting nowhere, and anyway your mother was starting to come around at that point. I offered the car-test chap a couple of hundred pounds to, well, basically pass the car, but he got all offended, told me that was called bribery and that he was going to report me. Bloody tribunal culture has a lot to answer for. Are you listening to me Mister G Kerrigan Esquire, Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1?’
I actually nod off for a few seconds, roysh, but then when I hear the next bit, I’m suddenly sitting up straight in the chair and my whole body goes cold.
He goes, ‘There’s also something your, em, mother wanted me to put to you, Ross. Em, it’s delicate. Bit embarrassing. But there’s a certain rumour going around about, well, Christian’s mother and father, or, well, Christian’s mother mostly. Oh, it’s nothing of course, just rumours, I told her, I’m sure there’s nothing in it. It’s just that people are, em, people are saying that the reason they broke up, or one of the reasons they broke up – it’s never really one thing that breaks up a marriage – the reason was that, well, you might have something to do with it, shall we say. You know the way people like to gossip, Ross. Especially at those coffee mornings your mother goes to. But maybe give her a call. Put her mind at rest.’
I’m in the jacks in work, roysh, sitting in Trap Two having a shit, basically trying to get a few bills together for the weekend, when all of a sudden I hear the door open and then Christian’s voice going, ‘What are you doing, Luke, ones or twos?’ He goes into Trap One and I hear him, like, undoing his belt and his trousers and sitting down. I presume he’s talking to me. I go, ‘Em, twos.’ He goes, ‘Panning for gold, huh?’ and I’m there, ‘Think I’m constipated again. Looks like I’m staying in this weekend.’
I can hear him opening a newspaper. After a couple of minutes of rustling, he goes, ‘When he said they pay for stool samples, do they pay for each one, or is it based on, like, tonnage?’ I’m there, ‘He didn’t say,’ and he’s like ‘You’d think he would have, wouldn’t you? Could save an embarrassing court case some way down the line.’
Christian goes back to reading his paper and I go back to reading the graffiti on the wall. There must have been, like, loads of Irish students working here before us because there’s a couple of names I think I recognise and the rest is, like, bands, the usual shit, Therapy?, Marilyn Manson, U2, AC/DC, all that stuff, and then a couple of old jokes that I’ve seen loads of times before, Dyslexia rules KO, shit like that.
I think being away from home has really, like, helped the dude. I mean, yeah he’s still a spacer, roysh, but he just seems a lot happier. I’ve been able to, like, reach him, if that doesn’t sound too gay.
I still can’t shit.
Christian goes, ‘Home next week. You looking forward to it?’ and I think about our friendship and how it’s about to come to an end and I go, ‘No. Wish I could make time stand still.’
But then I think to myself, fock it, I amSO not taking a hit for this one. His old dear, roysh, she threw herself at me. She was gagging for it. I can’t help it if I’ve got the looks. What am I supposed to do – sit at home all day in a focking darkened room? She wanted me. And she had to have me. Couldn’t control herself. I just took what was going. Like any goy would. Fed my needs. Use and abuse is the name of the game. If Christian doesn’t understand that, then fock him. He can get himself a new best friend.
I go, ‘You finished with the sports section?’ and the next thing it comes flying over the wall between the two traps. I flick through it. It’s full of focking American sport, which I hate.
I hear the door into the jacks opening again, roysh, and someone coming in. I hear footsteps and then they stop. I can see a shadow under the door. Whoever it is knocks on the door of Trap One. Christian goes, ‘This one’s taken. And I may be some time.’
Then I hear, ‘Christian, we need to talk,’ and I’d recognise that voice anywhere. And this, like, shiver runs up my spine. Holy fock! Not here. Not now.
Christian goes, ‘Dad?’
His old man’s there, ‘I had to come, Christian. Couldn’t leave it a day longer.’ Christian’s like, ‘What the fock are you doing here?’ and the old man goes, ‘There’s things I have to say to you.’ Christian’s there, ‘I told you already. I have nothing to say to you.’ But his old man goes, ‘I know you’re upset at what’s happened between your mother and me, but there’s things you need to know.’ I close my eyes and get ready for the worst. He goes, ‘There’s things you need to know. And some of them you’re not going to like …’
And suddenly, I’m not constipated anymore.
About the Author
PAUL HOWARD is as working class as curry sauce, processed cheese slices and borrowing money from the credit union. He wouldn’t know one end of a rugby ball from the other and has been turned away from Lillies a record forty-seven times. This is the first book he’s written with more than five hundred swear words in it. His parents think he works in a bank.
Other books by Paul Howard
Celtic Warrior
The Joy, the Shocking True Story of Life Inside
The Gaffers, Roy Keane, Mick McCarthy and the team they built
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years
Copyright
This eBook edition first published 2012 by The O’Brien Press Ltd,
12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, Ireland
Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777
E-mail: books@obrien.ie
Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 2003
Originally published in 2001 (without new material) as Roysh Here, Roysh Now, The Teenage
Dirtbag Years by the Sunday Tribune.
eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–441–3
Text © Paul Howard 2003
Copyright for typesetting, layout, editing, illustrations, design © The O’Brien Press Ltd
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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Howard, Paul, 1971-
Ross O’Carroll Kelly, the teenage dirtbag years. - 2nd ed.
1.O’Carroll Kelly, Ross (Fictitious character) - Fiction
2.Students - Ireland - Dublin - Fiction
3.Dublin (Ireland) - Social life and customs - Fiction
I.Title
823.9’14[F]
Editing, typesetting, layout and design: The O’Brien Press Ltd