by Paul Howard
I’m like, ‘Will you two shut the fock up? I’m suffering here.’ The old dear’s like, ‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘What are you, a focking doctor now?’ and she goes, ‘No,’ and I’m like, ‘Then drop the focking act.’
Then, all of a sudden, roysh, I realise that my mobile phone is gone, that it must have been, like, nicked in Soho last night and, to be honest, roysh, I’m not actually surprised, I was that ossified basically. Can hardly remember a thing. It was the usual crew, roysh, we’re talking me, Oisinn, Fionn, JP and JP’s cousin, Ryle Nugent, and we were all, like, knocking back the beers and giving it loads on the dance floor. Anyway, somewhere along the line, my phone must have been robbed, roysh, so I go into the sitting room, as far away as I can get from the two assholes, and I pick up the phone and dial my number, roysh. This total skanger answers it and basically, roysh, we’re talking TOTAL here. He’s like, ‘Stor-ee?’ I’m like, ‘What the fock are you doing with my phone?’ He goes, ‘Alreet, bud. Good noyt lass noyt, wasn’t it?’ I’m like, ‘One too many knackers out for my liking. What the fock are you doing with my phone?’ He goes, ‘Sorted. It’s sorted, bud. Someone’s after robbin’ it on ye and Ine after gettin’ it back for ye.’ I’m there, ‘Give it to me then.’ He’s like, ‘It’s gonna cost ye a finder’s fee. Fifty squids, bud.’ I’m like, ‘I am SO not giving you money.’ He goes, ‘Then you’ll never see yisser phone again.’ I’m like, ‘Alroysh, alroysh, you focking skanger. Where do I go?’ Surprise sur-focking-prise, roysh, the goy lives in Pram focking Springs, Tallafornia, and I tell him, roysh, that I’ll give him a hundred bills if he comes out my direction and meets me at the Frascati Centre instead, but he’s like, ‘I’ll meet you in de Square. In McDonald’s. Next to the pictures. Four o’clock. And bring yisser money.’
So I phone up Oisinn, roysh, and I tell him the story and he goes, ‘Ross, I can’t let you do this alone,’ which is what I was hoping he’d say, roysh, because the goy is a huge bastard. He’s like, ‘We’ll get, like, a bit of a posse together to go with you.’ So a couple of hours later, roysh, there we are in Oisinn’s old man’s Alfa Romeo, we’re talking me, Oisinn, JP and Ryle, heading out to the northside or wherever the fock Tallaght is. I keep, like, nodding off, roysh, still majorly suffering from the night before, and I wake up at one stage and I’m, like, looking out the window going, ‘Oh my God, what the fock is this place? Where have you brought us, man?’ and Ryle’s like, ‘Calm down, Babycakes. Take it, like, easy,’ and I’m there, ‘Are you telling me people actually live like this? Oh the poverty, the squalor. It’s focking inhuman,’ and Ryle goes, ‘Ross, this is Terenure. We haven’t got there yet.’
But ten minutes later, roysh, we’re in the middle of Tallaght and it’s, like, a total Beirut buzz. JP goes, ‘Oisinn, don’t stop at any lights. They’ll have the focking alloys off.’ And Oisinn’s like, ‘TOTALLY.’
We get to the Square and pork, roysh, but it takes ages to find McDonald’s. We’re all wandering around this focking shopping centre, roysh, basically seeing how the other half lives, and it’s all, like, Ken Ackers in twenty quid jeans and ninety quid runners trying to make eye contact with you for an excuse to kick the shit out of you, and AJHs in black leggings and bad perms, pushing prams around and going, ‘Ah, Jaysus, Howiya.’ It’s a complete mare. We take a wrong turn and end up in, like, a pound shop and JP’s there, ‘Hair gel for a quid a tub? Somebody needs to hold a charity concert for these people.’ And it’s all tinsel Christmas decorations that poor people have hanging from their ceilings and, like, forty Christmas cards for a quid. And in the window of this other shop, there’s this picture of, like, Jesus, one of those Sacred Heart jobs, roysh, and it’s got, like, a clock built into the heart, and I think about buying it for my old pair, just to piss them off, but we’re all, like, too tense to stort focking around. It’s all about getting in, getting what you want and then getting out without being wasted, a bit like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.
Finally we find McDonald’s. I go in and the goys are sort of, like, waiting around outside, keeping a discreet distance, waiting for the knacker to arrive. I see this goy with what looks like my Motorola V3690, totally staring me out of it, so I go up to him, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Are you Anto?’ He goes, ‘Dat’s me nayim.’ I click my fingers and hold my hand out and go, ‘Phone. Now.’ He goes, ‘Price has gone up, bud. Fifty squids … and yisser jacket.’ I’m like, ‘This is a focking Abercrombie.’ He’s there, ‘I know what it fookin is, ye little poshie bastard. Gimme it.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh.’ And he goes to stand up, roysh, but suddenly the goys are standing right behind me and Oisinn goes, ‘Just give him the phone,’ and the skanger, roysh, he’s just about to say something when he cops Ryle and he goes, ‘Here, aren’t you dat fella what used to do ‘The Grip’?’ Ryle’s like, ‘Ten-four, Babycakes,’ and the goy goes, ‘Here, what’s dat Jason Sherlock really like? I’d say he’s sound as a pound, is he?’
Then everything happens really quickly, roysh. Oisinn uses the distraction to land one on the goy and totally deck him and there’s, like, blood and curry sauce all over the place, and in the confusion I grab my phone off the table, but all of a sudden, roysh, all these goys with Barry McGuigan moustaches a couple of tables down, they stort heading over, obviously the goy’s mates, so we have to peg it pretty sharpish, the old rugby training paying off in the sprint back to the cor, which by some focking miracle still has all four wheels attached to it, and then we’re all basically out of there. We’re, like, SO out of there.
I’m driving home from college, roysh, just broken up for the Christmas holliers, so I’m basically in great form, on the Stillorgan dual carriageway, cruising along in my cor – we’re talking an 01 reg Golf GTI, black, alloys – minding my own business, when this focking bitch in a white Peugeot 206, roysh, decides to move into the fast lane all of a sudden without checking what was behind her, and she ends up nearly running me off the road, the stupid wagon. I wouldn’t mind, roysh, but she’s not even going fast enough to, like, be in the fast lane. I blare the horn at her, roysh, then drive right up her orse and stort, like, flashing my lights at her to freak her out and then, roysh, when we hit the next red light outside Foxrock church, I get out of the cor and go up to her and she winds down the window, roysh, and says she’s really sorry. I’m like, ‘Your mirror’s not for checking whether you’ve got fake tan on your collar, you know.’ She goes, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.’ And I’m like, ‘Given that you’re a bird, you were probably thinking about shoes.’ She’s like, ‘What?’ And I don’t say anything else, roysh, just head back to my cor, which really pisses her off, because I can hear her still shouting back, ‘What did you say?’
Me and Christian, roysh, we hadn’t spoken for ages and basically I can tell you that they were the worst months of my life. Then Christmas Eve, roysh, I’m in Kiely’s, sitting at the bor, a few scoops in me, waiting for, like, Oisinn to arrive, when all of a sudden, roysh, Christian is suddenly sitting there beside me, as though nothing had, like, ever happened. He orders two pints of Ken without talking to me, roysh, then he goes, ‘Ross, you know a thing or two about women, don’t you?’ I’m like, ‘Christian, if this is about what happened between me and your old dear, I swear to you, she came on to me. Not being big-headed or anything, but basically–’ He goes, ‘I need advice, Ross.’ He takes off his jacket, a black-and-red Henri Lloyd. I go, ‘Hey, shoot.’ He goes, ‘There’s this girl and, well … I think I’ve fallen in love with her.’ I’m like, ‘Hea-vy! Name?’He goes, ‘It’s Zam. Zam Wesell.’
I have to say, roysh, I’ve never actually heard of this bird, but I presume it’s the German au pair his old man’s got working for him, and if that’s the case, roysh, then he needs more than advice, because his old man’s been knobbing her for basically the last six months, or so the rumour goes. I’m like, ‘How do you know it’s love, Christian?’ and he looks at me like I’ve
got, like, fifty heads or something. He goes, ‘You think I don’t know what it feels like? I know what people say about me, Ross.’ I’m there, ‘You do?’ He goes, ‘Yeah. “Oh, he’s just a vagabond space pirate, a mercenary spice smuggler with a death mark on his head.”’ I just nod. He goes, ‘I might well be the fastest space pilot in the galaxy, Ross, but I’m also capable of feeling.’ I’m like, ‘I know, I know, I’m hearing you. It’s just, like, you know, foreign birds, they’re, like, different and shit.’ He nods, roysh, as though I’ve said something, like, really deep, then he heads off for a slash.
Where the fock is Oisinn? I’m thinking. I realise my mobile is switched off. There’s, like, something wrong with my battery. I lash it on again. Check my messages. Michelle from Ulster Bank called and wants me to call her back urgently. And Oisinn has also phoned to say he’s going to be late because he’s calling in to see L’Air du Temps, as he calls her, some bird he’s seeing who works in the Frascati Centre. He goes to me last week, ‘You should see this bird. She … is … focking … huge,’ like he’s really proud of the fact. The Chubby Chaser, the goys call him.
Christian arrives back and he goes, ‘I used to be so different. Slapdash. Reckless. If I had everything in the world, I’d risk the lot on a half-decent sabacc hand. But now …’ I’m like, ‘Have you spoken to her?’ He looks at me like I’m mad and shakes his head. He’s like, ‘You make it sound so easy.’ I’m like, ‘It is easy. Just walk up to her and talk to her, man. Ask her out to the flicks.’ I order two more pints. He looks totally lost, roysh, and we’re talking TOTALLY here. He goes, ‘As if she’d be interested in a scruffy-looking nerf-herder like me.’ I’m like, ‘Christian, you’ve chatted up birds before.’ He goes, ‘Not like this one.’ I’m there, ‘What’s so special about her?’ He thinks for a minute, roysh, then he goes, ‘Her eyes … I might write her a letter.’ A letter, for fock’s sake. I’m like, ‘Not a bad idea.’ He goes, ‘Yeah, that way I can tell her exactly how I feel, like I’ve been waiting for her all my life and shit.’ I’m like, ‘Don’t lay it on too thick, though. You want to knob this girl, but you also want to keep your options open.’ He goes, ‘No, Ross, I don’t. She’s the one.’
I don’t know why, roysh, but I feel really, like, protective of the goy. I’m like, ‘Christian, I don’t want to see you get hurt here.’ He goes, ‘Hurt?’ and I’m like, ‘Look, are you absolutely sure your old man isn’t – how do I put this – already in there?’ He goes, ‘My old man? And Zam Wesell? Ross, where the fock do you get your ideas from?’ I’m like, ‘They were seen, Christian. Holding hands. Coming out of The Queens. We’re talking three weeks ago.’
He goes, ‘Zam Wesell was in The Queens? You’re bullshitting me.’ I’m like, ‘Christian, why do you think the goys call your old man Chris de Burgh?’ He goes, ‘What?’ I’m like, ‘Do I have to spell it out for you? He’s banging the au pair.’ And Christian’s like, ‘Hildegard? I know that. Everybody knows that. What’s that got to do with Zam?’ I’m like, ‘Oh sorry, Christian. Our wires were crossed there. I thought … I thought Zam was the name of the German bird. Who’s this Zam then? Where did you meet her?’ He goes, ‘I saw her for the first time on the cover of a magazine.’
I’m like, ‘Bullshit. Are you saying she’s a model?’ And he looks me up and down again, like he’s trying to work out what planet I’ve just come from, and he goes, ‘Zam Wesell, Ross. ZAM WES-ELL. She’s the bounty hunter in the new Star Wars movie.’ And he pulls out this, like, movie magazine, roysh, with a picture of this bird on the cover, wearing these purple, like, motorbike clothes, a veil and a focking colander on her head, and she’s, like, pointing a gun at the camera.
All of this sort of, like, catches me unawares, you have to understand. I want to tell him what a focking spacer he is, but I don’t want to hurt the goy’s feelings. And she is actually a bit of a lasher. He goes, ‘You’re not interested in her yourself, Ross, are you?’ suddenly all, like, worried. I’m there, ‘Christian, I won’t get in your way. I can promise you that.’ He nods. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. He goes, ‘She might have a friend. For you, like. Wouldn’t be as good-looking as her, of course.’ I’m like, ‘I don’t mind. I’d take a bullet for you, Christian.’ He takes a long drink out of his pint and neither of us says anything for ages. I can’t believe I’ve got my best friend back. Best Christmas present I’ll get this year. He goes, ‘You mean laser blast, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘What?’ He goes, ‘You said you’d take a bullet for me. You mean laser blast.’
Christmas. I do not want to talk about it. It was a real, like, family affair, roysh, the old pair, all lovey-dovey as usual – borf, borf – all presents and turkey and mulled wine and midnight Mass and mascarpone and charades and the Queen’s speech and Baileys and Buckaroo and sherry focking trifle and Noel Edmonds and mind the Waterford Crystal and plum pudding and red candles and BT luxury crackers and You Only Live Twice and paper hats and bullshit conversation and Belgian chocolates and smoked salmon and asshole relatives and hot port and brandy butter and Charlotte Church and wrapping paper and ‘Oooh, I love you so much, darling,’ and pass the focking sick bag. I am SO not going to be here for it next year.
Orlaith, this bird I know, roysh, works in a PR firm, Brown Nose and Schmooze Public Relations as we call it, she’s a pain in the focking orse, roysh, but a ringer for Kate Beckinsale. She rings me on my mobile and storts telling me all about what a great New Year she had. She says that a bunch of them rented, like, a cottage on the Aran Islands, roysh, and OH! MY! GOD! you should have seen the state of Sara with no h, who drank, like, practically a whole bottle of vodka after Conor, her ex, ended up going off with, like, Keeva – Hello? – the girl who’s supposed to be, like, her best friend. I pretty much switch off while this is going on, roysh, and when she eventually lets me get a word in edgeways, I’m like, ‘So, what was the weather like?’ Not that I actually give a shit, you understand. I’m just basically making conversation. Scoring Orlaith is, like, a long-term project of mine. She goes, ‘It was okay. But there was no coverage, though. It was, like, SO frustrating not being able to text. And OH! MY! GOD! they changed over to the euro as well. I didn’t think they would. Though I suppose the Aran Islands are pretty much Ireland, aren’t they?’ Then she’s like, ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I’m like, ‘Cinema. You?’ She’s there, ‘Might go for a sauna later on. Hey, I met Faye and Amy in Crunch last weekend. On the sunbeds. Those two seem to be as thick as thieves.’ And I’m just like, ‘Yeah, cool.’
She goes, ‘Speaking of cool, OH! MY! GOD! I saw your mum on Six-One.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, making a total tit of herself as usual.’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, she SO didn’t, Ross. I thought she was SO good. I didn’t even know she was involved with the … what do they call it?’ I’m like, ‘The Move Funderland to the Northside Campaign. A couple of her friends live in Sandymount, you see.’ She goes, ‘Some of Mum and Dad’s do too, and oh my God, the knackers it brings into the area. Total CHV. It’s like, OH! MY! GOD!’ I’m like, ‘Yeah.’ She goes, ‘Your mum is such a good speaker. What was it she said? “Funderland is fun for everyone – except if you happen to live in Sandymount.” That was such a clever thing to say.’ I’m like, ‘Well, she is, like, PRO for the group.’ She goes, ‘And when she stood in front of that bomper cor, OH! MY! GOD! she was, like, SO brave.’ I’m like, ‘I wish it had focking hit her.’ She’s like, ‘You can’t say that, Ross. I mean, there’s no room for something like Funderland in the New Ireland. Fair play to her for saying that to the gorda. I mean, why don’t they put it in Ballymun? When they knock down all those, like, flats and shit.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, maybe–’ She goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! isn’t your twenty-first coming up?’ I’m like, ‘Not until May.’ She goes, ‘Cool. What are you doing for it?’ I’m like, ‘Porty in the gaff, probably. The old pair are putting up, like, a marquee and shit. Should be cool.’ She’s there, ‘Cool.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, cool.’ She goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! ‘Sex and the
City’ is on tonight.’ I’m like, ‘Is that the one with the–’ She’s like, ‘Lesbians, yes. Ohmy God, you are actually worse than Oisinn. Anyway, she’s not a lesbian anymore. It was actually just a phase.’
The conversation is storting to bore the orse off me, roysh, but with girls like Orlaith you really have to put the work in if you’re going to get anything out of it at a future date. She carries on blabbing for, like, twenty minutes about nights out she had over Christmas, roysh, and how she is turning into such a Samantha, whatever the fock that is, and she storts telling me about all these goys she was nearly with. Nearly, I stress. Orlaith, I’ve noticed, is never actually with anyone, which makes her a bit of a challenge. I chanced my arm with her in Tram Co one night about a year ago, roysh, she was basically coming on to me all night, so I moved in for the kill and she just, like, pulled away. I was like, ‘Hey, you’re being offered the chance to be with Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. Might not come around again.’ She goes, ‘No, I’m, em, seeing someone.’ I’m like, ‘Who?’ She’s there, ‘Rob.’ I’m there, ‘Rob who?’ She goes, ‘Rob … O’Brien.’ Now I may have failed the Leaving three times, roysh, but I’m not stupid. Nobody’s called Rob O’Brien, that’s the kind of name you make up when a copper catches you pissing up against an ATM in Donnybrook at four o’clock in the morning after an international match. So that was the night I put Orlaith’s name alongside Erika’s in the file marked, ‘Long-term Projects.’
