The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years

by Paul Howard

  Fionn goes, ‘In a hundred and fifty years time everyone in Ireland will talk with an American accent. That’s my prediction.’ All the girls are like, ‘Hello? Where is this, like, coming from?’

  Fionn and his theories.

  We only really sent Oisinn’s name into ‘Blind Date’ as a joke, roysh. We came up with the idea one night when we were all watching it totally ossified in Fionn’s apartment, so we downloaded the application form off the internet and filled it in without Oisinn knowing anything about it, never thinking of course that of all the millions of applications they get in that they’d pick his out. Anyway, they did, roysh, and he rings me up one afternoon and he’s like, ‘Ross, what the fock is going on?’ and I’m like, ‘Come on, Oisinn, it’ll be a laugh. No, it’ll be a lorra, lorra laughs,’ and I basically say it the way that focking kipper says it. He’s like, ‘They want me over in London the day after tomorrow,’ which is basically Paddy’s Day, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Hey, I’m with you. Every step of the way. We’ll all go over.’

  But basically, roysh, it takes me, JP, Fionn and Christian to persuade the dude to go over for the laugh, roysh. So the five of us head for the airport, roysh, check our bags in and, of course, hit the bor. So there we are, roysh, seven o’clock in the morning, basically skulling pints and we end up nearly missing our flight. JP’s there telling us we need to take a helicopter view of the situation and we’re all trying to work out what the fock he’s talking about when all of a sudden, roysh, we hear our names called out over the intercom thing, and it’s like, ‘Please make your way to boarding gate 4B. Your flight is about to close.’

  So we leave our pints there and peg it down to the gate, roysh, basically knocking people out of the way as we go, and we’re pretty much there, roysh, when I realise there’s only, like, four of us and we’ve lost Oisinn somewhere along the way. I tell the goys to get on board and I’ll go and look for Oisinn, and Christian goes, ‘No, Luke, it’s too dangerous.’

  Where else am I going to find Oisinn than the duty free shop, roysh, chatting away to the bird behind the perfume counter. I’m like, ‘Fock’s sake, Oisinn. We’re going to miss the flight.’ He grabs me by the arm, roysh, and storts sniffing the air. I’m like, ‘We don’t have time for this.’ He goes, ‘Can you smell that?’ I’m like, ‘Oisinn–’ He goes, ‘Green Tea, Ross. It’s Green focking Tea. Who else but Elizabeth Arden would come up with the idea of bottling tea and selling it to birds for twenty quid a pop.’ He shakes his head. He’s like, ‘Genius.’ I’m there, ‘Oisinn, you’re trolleyed.’ And the bird behind the counter, roysh, mid-twenties maybe, looks a bit like that Kimberly Davies who used to be in ‘Neighbours’, caked in slap, she’s like, ‘No, your friend is right. It’s a crisp, exhilarating fragrance that energises the spirit,’ and I look at her, roysh, and I look at Oisinn, and I know that they’ve both basically found love here today, and it pains me that I have to basically drag the two of them apart.

  As we’re pegging it down to the boarding gate, Oisinn’s going, ‘I wanted you to get your nostrils around Organza, Ross. Givenchy’s ode to the eternal woman, a scent with a velvety and mythical seduction.’ Of course, he’s still bullshitting on about this while I’m trying to persuade the birds at the gate to let us onto the plane. They’re there going, ‘Sorry, the gate is closed,’ and I’m like, ‘Hey, we’ve got a television show to record,’ and I stort telling them all about, like, ‘Blind Date’, roysh, and I have to say, I think one of the birds has the serious hots for me, so in the end they let us on.

  As we’re walking down the aisle, roysh, the rest of the goys are down the back giving it loads, cheering and chanting our names, while everyone else on the flight gives us, like, total filthies, and we’re talking totally here. We sit down, roysh, and then a minute later we’re in the air and knocking back the beers again. At one point Oisinn turns around to me and goes, ‘You didn’t even give me a chance to get her number, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘She wasn’t your type.’ He’s like, ‘Wasn’t my type?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah, she was thin and she was good-looking.’ He shrugs his shoulders and goes, ‘You can’t have everything.’ I distract his attention when the duty free trolley rolls by, roysh, but JP, the shit-stirrer, he buys him a naggin of, like, Glenfiddich and Oisinn focking necks the thing, and basically it’s from that point that the day storts to go out of control.

  We land in London, roysh, and collect our bags. Oisinn, egged on by JP, decides to, like, sit on the carousel and go for a ride, while Fionn is chatting up some total stunner, telling her that he’s always liked Jung’s view of libido as an asexual, primal energy and he’s there giving it, ‘That’s where both of us differ from Freud,’ and the bird, roysh – I can’t focking believe it – she’s writing down her number on the back of Fionn’s boarding pass, the nerdy-looking sap. And Christian, well, Christian’s away in his own world, as usual, so it basically looks as though I’m going to have to take charge.

  I drag Oisinn off the carousel, roysh, then we grab the bags and head on through and – fair focks to Cilla – there’s, like, a limo waiting to pick us up and shit. So we all pile into the back and it’s, like, an hour between the airport and the studio and we spend the time getting totally lubricated, roysh, because there’s a whole focking drinks cabinet in the back, and there we are knocking back the VSOP brandies and smoking these big cigars and Oisinn is telling Christian about Green Tea by Elizabeth Arden and Christian is nodding really, like, thoughtfully, and I go, ‘Lads, do you not think we should lay off the sauce a bit until after the show?’ and they all just look at me, roysh, for ages, then they break their shites laughing and I laugh as well and pretend it was a joke.

  We hit the studio, roysh, and we’re all, like, herded into this, like, hospitality room, which is full of all the other, well, basically wankers who are going to be on the show. This big, English dickhead who thinks he’s It, but he’s basically a fat-headed rugby jock with no brain, he comes over and shakes our hands and tells us he was in Dubbalin once for a stag. Great city. He goes, ‘Bladdy ’ell, you Irish know how to drink, what?’ and Fionn mutters something like, ‘That’s such a stereotype,’ and the English goy goes, ‘Eh?’ and Fionn doesn’t say anything else.

  The other goy who’s going on is, like, Scottish, roysh, he’s with a couple of mates of his and he’s basically keeping himself to himself, and he’s wearing – surprise sur-focking-prise – a kilt. JP goes, ‘Saves them having to chat up birds. It’s like when they come over for the rugby internationals. The birds just come up to them and go, “What do you keep under there?” Very sad. But the birds, well, they fall for it every time.’ I’m like, ‘You shouldn’t have given Oisinn that whiskey. The goy can hardly stand. He’s not going to be able to think up funny answers for the questions.’ He winks and goes, ‘Makes it a win-win situation as far as I’m concerned.’

  The next thing, roysh, this producer comes in and goes through the, like, format of the show with us, but we’ve all watched it before. Then the three goys are asked for their answers to the three questions that the bird is going to ask them, roysh, which is when I find out for the first time that the whole show is, like, scripted. Bit of a disappointment actually. Oisinn manages to get his answers out and they’re, like, pretty cringey it has to be said, although I’ve seen him score with worse lines.

  Then Cilla comes in and she’s amazing, roysh, tells all the goys not to be nervous, it’s going to be fun – ‘a lorra, lorra fun’ – and remember to just be themselves, that’s what the public wants to see. It’s the last thing that Oisinn needs to be told.

  The next thing we know, roysh, he’s dragged off with the two dickheads to get the old make-up put on, and me and the goys are put sitting in the front row. There’s a bit of a cheer from the rest of the audience, roysh, when they see we’re all wearing our old Castlerock jerseys and we’re there giving it, ‘YOU CAN’T KNOCK THE ROCK. YOU CAN’T KNOCK THE ROCK,’ until the floor manager comes over and tells us to, like, settle
down.

  Christian tells me he’s so nervous he feels like he’s just staked the Naboo Royal Starship on the outcome of the big pod race on Boonta Eve, and then the music storts up, roysh – it’s like, Doo-Doo, Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo, Doo-Doo … – and Cilla comes out, roysh, and when the applause dies down, she’s there, ‘Well, chucks, have we got a show with a real British Isles feel to it this week. Our first contestants are an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman,’ and there’s loads of, like, laughter from the audience, and she goes, ‘It’s norra joke, chucks,’ and everyone breaks their holes laughing again and JP turns to me and goes, ‘She’s the consummate professional, isn’t she?’ She goes, ‘So without further ado, let’s meet our lovely lads. Tell us, number one, who are you and where do you come from?’ The English goy’s like, ‘’Ello, Cilla. My name’s Scott and I’m from Dagenham,’ and the audience go wild, roysh, even though it’s probably a shitehole. Cilla asks him a whole load of boring shite, then moves on to the second goy and he’s like, ‘Hiya doon, Cilla. My name’s Andy and I’m fae Edinburgh,’ and there’s loads of, like, whooping and, like, hollering in the audience again. She throws in a few questions – ‘What do you keep under there, chuck?’ – and then she moves on to number three and I’m looking at the goy, roysh, and he’s trying to focus on Cilla, but his eyes are, like, totally gone, but he does manage to get the words out, he’s there, ‘I’m Oisinn. I’m from Ballsbridge and Castlerock rules.’ Big cheer from the front row. Cilla’s like, ‘Oooh, a rugby player. You’ve got some of your team-mates with you here today as well.’ He gives us the thumbs-up and we’re all like, ‘Go, Oisinn. Go, Oisinn.’ Cilla turns to the audience and she goes, ‘Now, Oisinn, your friends tell me that you’re something of a connoisseur when it comes to ladies’ perfume, is that right?’ And Oisinn’s like, ‘That’s right, Cilla. And can I just say, I don’t care if people say Chanel No 5 is passé, it’s a classic fragrance that combines traditional accords with fresher, more modern notes.’ Cilla’s like, ‘Chanel No 5, he’s right ladies and gents,’ and everyone laughs and Cilla goes, ‘Oooh, that Irish accent. Makes you all goose-pimply, doesn’t it,’ and everyone laughs again. JP was right. What a professional.

  Fionn leans over to me and goes, ‘Result! Cilla likes him. When Cilla likes you, it’s like getting the thumbs-up from a bird’s mother. It’s cruise control all the way now. He just has to avoid saying anything stupid.’ Cilla goes, ‘Now let’s meet the lovely lady who’ll be going out with one of these lucky, lucky lads on a blind date. She’s gorgeous and she’s from Wales. Come in Claire,’ except the way she says it, it sounds like Clur. So Clur comes in, roysh, and I have to say she’s a focking stunner – we’re talking Molly Sims here – and Oisinn’s sort of, like, looking at us to get our reaction and me and JP make, like, gyrating motions with our hips. Cilla’s like, ‘Oooh, you’ve lovely hur, Clur,’ and Clur’s like, ‘Thank you. I take after my mum,’ thick as a focking ditch obviously. Cilla goes, ‘What do you work at, Clur?’ and she goes, ‘I’m a credit controller with a LEADING CERAMICS MANUFACTURER!’ and everyone cheers and claps as though it was something worth cheering and clapping about. Cilla goes, ‘And what do you do in your spur time, Clur?’ and Clur goes, ‘Look for love.’ Cheer! Cilla goes, ‘What do you look for in a man, Clur?’ and Clur’s like, ‘Sensitive. Funny. Good-looking’ – Oisinn has his work cut out, JP helpfully points out – and Cilla goes, ‘Oooh, she’s not fussy, is she, chucks? Well, we’ve got three lovely lads behind that screen and I’m sure you’re going to have a helluva hard time choosing between them.’

  Then it all storts to go wrong. I’m looking at Oisinn, roysh, and I know from his eyes that he’s totally horrendufied at this stage, and we’re talking TOTALLY here. And this Welsh bird, roysh, she goes, ‘I am quite a confident and outgoing person and I often like to make the first move in relationships. If I approached you in a bar and asked you for a light, what would you say? That question to number one.’ And the English goy, roysh, he’s like, ‘Hello, Clur. Well, if you was to ask me for a light, I’d probably ask you where you get your energy to light up a cigarette and the room at the same time.’ And Cilla and the Welsh bird, they look at each other, roysh, and they’re going, ‘Oooh, yeah, not bad.’ Next it’s the Scottish goy. The bird goes, ‘Same question to number two, please.’ He’s there, ‘Hello, Clur. If ya came up tae me in a pub and asked me for a light, I’d probably say excuse me while I go ootside and pick one ay the stars outae the sky for ya, doll.’ And Cilla and her are there going, ‘Oooh, it’s already so difficult to choose.’ Then she goes, ‘And number three, same question.’ And Oisinn, roysh, he gets down off the high stool and he staggers forward and you can see, like, the producer and the floor manager and everyone else, they want to stop him but it’s like they’re frozen to the spot. And there’s, like, total silence in the audience, roysh, and he walks around the other side of the screen and you can, like, see the shock on Cilla’s face, and on Clur’s as well, but it’s nothing compared to the shock they’re about to get, when Oisinn goes, ‘If you asked me for a light … I’d say I’ve no matches …’ – while he’s saying this, roysh, he’s unbuttoning his chinos and whipping out his lad – ‘… but how does this focking strike you?’

  All hell breaks loose, roysh, and basically, to cut a long story short, we’re all focked out of the studio, Oisinn shouting his head off, giving it, ‘The bird was a dog anyway,’ as these, like, bouncers drag him out of the place and throw him out on the road. No limo back to the airport either. And believe it or not they end up not showing it on television.

  I get up really early on Monday, roysh, grab a bowl of cornflakes, catch the end of ‘Neighbours’ and then go looking for the old man, who’s, like, in the study, bullshitting away to one of his asshole mates on the phone. He’s there going, ‘A levy, Hennessy. On plastic bags. Never mind your Lawlors and your whatnots, this is a scandal and you won’t be reading about it in your Irish Times.’

  I’ve been standing in the doorway for, like, five minutes, basically trying to catch the knobhead’s attention, so eventually I just go, ‘Are you focking deaf?’ and he’s like, ‘Just a second, Hennessy,’ and he turns around to me and he’s like, ‘Hey, Kicker. What’s up?’ I’m like, ‘Deaf and stupid. Hello? I’m doing my driving test again today.’ He goes, ‘That came around quickly. Doesn’t seem like two years since you applied. Well, best of luck,’ and he goes back to talking again. He’s there going, ‘The shop girl, she said it had nothing to do with Superquinn. No point getting angry with her, she said. Something to do with the environment. It’s like that bloody National Car Test business, Hennessy. Using people’s concern for the planet to extort more money out of them. Well, I told her. For every bag that these so-called Department of the Environment people ask me to pay for, I’m going to buy a can of deodorant, step outside the shop and spray it into the air. My wife is right behind me on this, so are the chaps from the club and I need you on board, Hennessy. I need you, that’s absolutely mandatory with a capital M. Great big CFC parties in the car park of the Frascati Centre. And we’ll see Bertie’s face when there’s a bloody great hole in the ozone layer over Dun Laoghaire. How do you like that, Mister Stadium?’

  I’m like, ‘Will you shut the fock up and listen to me?’ He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and goes, ‘Ross, please, I’m talking politics here.’ I’m like, ‘And I’m late for my driving test. I need a hundred bills.’ He’s there, ‘But didn’t I pay for the test when you applied? What do you need a hundred euros for?’ I’m like, ‘To focking celebrate. What do you think?’ He hands me the shekels like it’s a big focking struggle for him, roysh, then he goes back to talking shite and I head off, making sure this time to switch off my mobile because I think that may have had something to do with me failing last time. I’m actually not that orsed about sitting it again, roysh. The old man pays my insurance, so it’s no skin off my nose whether it’s four grand a year or forty. But the fockers won’t give me a third pr
ovisional unless I, like, sit it again, so this time I didn’t make the mistake of applying to do it in Wicklow. Everyone says it’s a piece of piss to pass it in a bogger test centre, roysh, but actually it’s not, so this time I lashed my application in for Rathgar. And basically, roysh, I was pretty well prepared. Drove the test route a couple of times with Christian the night before and did a serious amount of cramming for the whole, like, quiz part of the test. And I’m pretty confident I’m going to pass, roysh. That is until the examiner walks out.

  I don’t know the goy’s name, roysh, but I went out with his daughter a couple of years ago. Didn’t end well. Never really does with me. She was pretty alroysh looking, I have to say, went out three or four times and got on fine, until this one particular day, roysh, when we were driving back to her gaff after being at the cinema and she said those dreaded words: ‘I don’t believe in sex before marriage.’ I basically told her to get the fock out of the cor. Don’t get me wrong, roysh, I pulled over first. She was there, ‘Ross, I live miles from here.’ And I was like, ‘There’s a bus stop over there. Use it.’

  I admit it was a pretty shitty thing to do – I hope I’ve grown up a bit since then – and it probably explains why her old man is so, like, hostile to me when he’s asking me the questions. It’s like, ‘What’s the speed limit on a national road?’ I’m like, ‘Ninety?’ He goes, ‘In a built-up area?’ I’m like, ‘You’d want to be dropping down to about sixty, sixty-five.’ Then he goes, ‘How do you approach a yellow box?’ This focker would give Anne Robinson a run for her money.