by Paul Howard
We go out and basically I ace the test, roysh, except for this one T-junction where I make the mistake of pulling out without, like, looking both ways and this stupid bitch in a red Ford Mondeo hits her brakes and then storts, like, beeping me. But it doesn’t matter, roysh, because the goy’s already made up his mind to fail me. And then I go and make my second mistake. We’re pulled up at the lights on Kimmage Road and I’m there, ‘How’s Elmarie?’ letting him know that I know his daughter in the hope that it’ll give me, like, an advantage, then realising that if she told him the full story, I’m focked. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me, and I SO regret saying it.
He goes, ‘Turn right here, then take the first right and show me your three-point turn,’ like he’s trying his best not to lose his cool with me. I’m so flustered, roysh, that I miss the turn and he storts, like, going apeshit. He’s there, ‘I TOLD YOU TO TURN! CAN YOU NOT FOLLOW BASIC INSTRUCTIONS?’ I’m like, ‘Hey, chill out.’ He goes, ‘Take the next left onto Whitehall Road!’ I take it perfectly, roysh, but not perfectly enough for him. He’s like, ‘DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR INDICATORS ARE FOR?’ I’m like, ‘There wasn’t anyone behind me.’ He goes, ‘YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO INDICATE AT ALL TIMES!’ I’m like, ‘Hey, I’m just about focking sick of the negative vibes you’ve been giving me.’ He goes, ‘Return to the test centre,’ like a focking robot. I’m like, ‘No, you listen to me. You had it in for me the second you laid eyes on me.’ He goes, ‘Return to the test centre. Now.’ I’m like, ‘What, so you can tell me I’ve failed? Fock that. Get out of the cor.’ He goes, ‘What?’ I’m like, ‘Get the fock out of my cor. Now!’ I reach across him, roysh, pull the handle on the passenger door and push it open. I’m like, ‘Get the fock out.’ And that’s when I realise, roysh, that it’s only, like, around the corner from where I threw Elmarie out, which is, like, such a coincidence it’s not funny. He goes, ‘The test centre is miles away.’ And I’m like, ‘Well, you know what I told your daughter.’
We’re in college, roysh – in theory I’m still repeating first year sports management in UCD, though I’ve only been to, like, four lectures since last September – and we’re knocking back a few beers in the bor and Críosa, this bird who’s, like, second year commerce, she asks me to go and get her smokes. So I head down to the shop, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Twenty Marlboro Lights.’ And the bird behind the counter, roysh, she’s there, ‘Excuse me?’ I’m like, ‘Marl-bor-o Lights. Twen-ty.’ And I know what her game is, roysh. Basically, she wants me to say please. She gets them, roysh, puts them down on the counter and she tells me it’s, like, eight euros or nine euros or whatever the fock they cost and I hand her a ten euro bill, roysh, and when she, like, gives me my change she goes, at the top of her voice, ‘THANK YOU.’ I’m just like, ‘Thanks,’ and as I’m walking out of the shop I can hear her going, ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’ Wench.
This chick calls to the door, roysh, and I can see through the glass that she’s actually pretty fit, so when I open the door, I’m like, ‘Well, hello there.’ Probably a bit sleazy, but fock it. I have to say I’m looking pretty well at the moment and I can actually see her checking me out. I’m there, ‘If it’s about that catalogue that came through the letterbox during the week, I’m still making my mind up on which purchases to make. Perhaps you’d like to come in for a coffee to discuss it?’ She looks at me like I’ve got ten focking heads. She’s very cute. She goes, ‘I’m calling about the election.’ I’m there, ‘What election?’ She goes, ‘The general election. At the end of May. Have you decided which way you’re going to vote?’
What a focking turn-off. I’m just like, ‘I don’t vote,’ and she looks at me real, like, disappointed. She looks a little bit like Kirsten Dunst actually. She goes, ‘Apathy is a terrible thing.’ I’m like, ‘You’re wasting your breath. I don’t even know what that word means and I don’t care either.’ She goes, ‘What if everybody took your attitude?’ I’m like, ‘Everyone does. Voting’s for old dears. I don’t know anyone my age who votes.’ She goes, ‘Oh right, so you don’t care about the kind of country you live in?’ I’m like, ‘The only thing I care about right now is how I’m going to get the vodka and cranberry juice stain off my beige chinos and how I’m going to get your phone number without having to listen to any more of your boring politics shit.’ I was pretty pleased with that. She wasn’t. Off she storms up the path, roysh. Her loss.
I shut the door, roysh, and the old man’s standing right behind me and he gives me the focking fright of my life. He goes, ‘Well said, Kicker. Well said.’ I’m like, ‘Shut up, Dickhead.’ He ignores this. He goes, ‘I can feel it, Ross. I can feel it.’ I’m there, ‘What are you bullshitting on about?’ He goes, ‘The elbow in my ribs. Hint, hint. You wanted me to run in this election, didn’t you?’ I’m like, ‘You are such a knob.’ He goes, ‘Oh, I considered it alright. Considered it for the sake of people like you. You and all these other non-voters who are disillusioned with politics. Disillusioned with a capital D. Hennessy thinks I’m the one to capture the youth vote.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh. Get real,’ and I head into the kitchen. He follows me and he’s there going, ‘I had policies, make no mistake about that. I had policies coming out of my ears. I’d have had no problem propping up a minority Fianna Fáil administration either, but it would have cost Bertie. An end to all this nonsense about rugby at Knacker Park for starters, a clear statement from the Government that Funderland is an eyesore and an evil that is eating away at the fabric of society in Ballsbridge and Sandymount, as well as a total ban on the sale of batch bread on the southside of Dublin.’ I’m like, ‘What the fock is batch bread?’ He goes, ‘Something that poor people eat.’ I’m like, ‘Well, I’ve never heard of it.’ He goes, ‘Of course you haven’t. That’s why I’ve been working so hard all these years, Ross. To keep you from it. How do you think all this bloody tribunal nonsense started?’ I’m like, ‘Look, you’re totally boring me now. I’m going out.’
I bump into Amy coming out of French Connection. She air-kisses me and asks me if I heard that her old man got her membership for Riverview for her twenty-first and I resist the temptation to go, ‘And this affects me how?’ and instead I just go, ‘Cool.’ And she goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Faye is, like, TOTALLY jealous.’ I ask her if she’s, like, coming to my twenty-first next week, roysh, and she goes, ‘Definitely.’ Then she says she has to go because she has a sunbed session booked for, like, three o’clock.
‘What do you want for your birthday?’ That’s all anybody’s been asking me for the last, like, three weeks, roysh, and I told everyone the same thing. I was like, ‘Bianca Luyckx.’ Birthday came and guess what? No Bianca Luyckx, same as focking last year. No cord from Sorcha either. I know she’s in Australia, but it wouldn’t have killed her to send me one. I did have this big, fock-off marquee in the garden and, like, twenty kegs of Ken for my porty. The theme was, like, Rappers and Slappers, roysh. All of the blokes came as either Eminem or P Diddy, and all of the birds came as, like, hookers. Except Erika, roysh, who wouldn’t lower herself. She arrives wearing a pair of Karen Millen beige suedette trousers, roysh, and an Amanda Wakeley mesh top with, like, gold and bronze sequins, both of which she’s apparently borrowed from Claire. None of us could understand why she was borrowing clothes from her. I mean she could basically buy threads like that with her pocket money and still have enough left over to buy half of focking Nine West. Claire goes up to her about, like, ten minutes into the night and she goes, ‘Hello? You were supposed to dress up as a slapper. You’ve just put on my clothes.’ And Erika just, like, smiles at her, roysh, and Claire’s jaw just, like, hits the floor. Erika goes, ‘The penny drops.’ So a few of the birds had to drag Claire off to the jacks to calm her down, which sort of, like, suited me, roysh, because me and the goys had decided that tonight was a night for, like, serious drinking and we didn’t want to be bothered with that whole chatting up birds thing, not until the end of the night anyway.
So there we were kn
ocking back the pints, roysh, and we’d basically come to the part of the night, roysh, when the mince pies and the toilet rolls usually come out, when all of a sudden, roysh, who walks in only my old man with a couple of his mates from the golf club, we’re talking Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, that asshole of a solicitor of his, and a few others. I’m just like, ‘Sorry, what the fock are you doing here?’ The old man’s, like, speechless. He goes, ‘Just, em, wanted to pop in, see how you were, er, getting on. See if there’s not too much, em … damage.’ And then he storts, like, laughing, trying to be my best friend again. I’m like, ‘This is my focking porty. I don’t remember saying you and your dickhead mates were invited.’ He’s about to answer me, roysh, when all of a sudden I notice the old dear coming in with, like, loads of her mates. I’m like, ‘Oh, great! The whole focking world’s invited.’
The old dear goes, ‘Ross, we’re just bringing in some food for you and your friends.’ And all of a sudden, roysh, they stort putting out all these plates of, like, goats cheese and spinach roulade, crab-meat wrapped in filo pastry, roast vegetable tartlets and whatever. I’m there, ‘Hello? None of this shit, like, goes with beer.’
JP, roysh, he comes over and, like, puts his arm around my old dear and he goes, ‘Mrs O’Carroll-Kelly. Looking pretty fine, it has to be said.’ He looks at me as he says this and, like, raises one eyebrow, the sleazy focker. He looks more like a pimp than a rapper in the tux he wore to the debs, his old dear’s fur coat and his old man’s trilby. But he’s focking loving my embarrassment. Then Oisinn decides to get in on the act. He comes over and he’s like, ‘Hey, JP, let’s bring some happiness into the lives of these beautiful young ladies,’ and the lads link arms with the old dear and her friends and head off towards the bor. I think I’m going to basically borf.
I find a quiet corner and stort, like, knocking the beers back, listening to Christian, who’s chatting up this complete focking stunner. We’re talking Dani Behr-gorgeous here. I don’t know who invited her, but I’d like to shake the goy’s hand. Christian’s explaining to her how the Clone Wars turned Boba Fett into a mercenary soldier, an assassin and the best damn bounty hunter in the Galaxy and that if she ever has any doubt about that fact then she should consider the record 500,000 credits he earned for catching the Ffib religious heretic Nivek’Yppiks for the Lorahns. And this bird, roysh, she’s actually totally into it, she goes, ‘They should send that goy after Osama bin Laden.’ And Christian goes, ‘Everybody thinks he’s dead. They think the Sarlaac got him, in the Pit of Carkoon. You think the Sarlaac could bite through Mandalorian armour? Oh sure he was injured, but he survived. Dengar found him, when he went back to look for Jabba the Hutt’s remains.’ The next time I look around, roysh, the two of them are, like, bet into each other.
I turn away and stort wondering whether someone’s going to organise the whole twenty-one kisses thing before I’m, like, too off my face to enjoy it. Then this bird comes over, roysh, Danielle’s her name, or Measles as the goys call her, basically because everyone’s had her once and nobody really wants her a second time. Anyway, she storts, like, boring the ear off me about some goy I’ve never even heard of who apparently has such a commitment problem that he’s never going to be happy with, like, anyone, and we’re talking anyone.
I end up knocking over my pint accidentally on purpose just to get away from the psycho bitch and I head back up to the bor, where the old man is locked and shouting his mouth off about rugby. He’s there going, ‘Doesn’t matter what score we lost by to England and France, we’re heading in the right direction.’ And JP and Oisinn are, like, lapping this up, really egging him on, determined to humiliate me tonight. JP’s there going, ‘Eddie’s the man, eh Charles?’ And the old man’s like, ‘Eddie’s the man alright. I’m with Hooky on this one.’ I’m just there, ‘You said last year that Warren was the man,’ which doesn’t throw him one little bit. He goes, ‘Warren Gatland, my eye! Eddie was always the brains behind the team. And I can tell you that a certain G Thornley of D’Olier Street, Dublin 2, will be eating his words before too long, thank you very much.’ And Oisinn, roysh, he’s really storting to take the piss now, he goes, ‘Why don’t you give Gerry a ring?’ And for one second, I can see the idea flash across the old man’s face because he turns around to see if the old dear’s listening. Then he thinks better of it. He goes, ‘No, he’s changed his number.’ I’m like, ‘Are you focking surprised?’ He goes, ‘Do you know how many years I’ve been buying The Irish Times, Ross? Readers are entitled to their opinions.’ And I’m like, ‘And he was entitled to blow that pest whistle down the phone.’ He turns around to Hennessy and he’s like, ‘I couldn’t hear anything for about a week, you know.’
The goys are all lapping this up and I’m pretty much beginning to lose the will to live at this stage. But then suddenly, roysh, it’s time for business. A chair is dragged out into the middle of the floor and I’m told to, like, sit on it and all of a sudden Christian stands up and makes this speech about what an amazing hit I am with the chicks, which is true; what an amazing rugby player I am, which is half-true; and what an amazing friend I am, which is total bullshit. When he finishes, roysh, I just high-five the goy and tell him I don’t deserve him. He tells me to shut the fock up and sit down and then he goes, ‘Okay, ladies, you want to kiss the Corellian, form an orderly queue. If you can control yourselves, that is.’
First up is Danielle. A bit too John B for my liking. She basically tries to have sex with me. Second is Amie, the make-up monster, still mad into me, trying not to show it in front of her boyfriend, but the suit is definitely going to need a dry-clean now. Then it’s, like, Zoey, third year commerce with German in UCD, a bit like Mena Suvari and the first tongue of the night. Number four is Claire, as in Dalkey-wannabe Claire, mascara all over her face after her row with Erika, it’s like being kissed by a focking Saint Bernard. Number five is Oisinn taking the piss. Next up is Georgia, my ex who used to do the weather on RTÉ, puts the ‘boiler’ in the word bunnyboiler. Seven is Frederika, JP’s ex, second year Russian and Byzantine Studies in UCD, a bit like Charlize Theron. JP’s still mad into her, so I pull her onto my knee and make it a big, long one, just to, like, get back at the focker for earlier.
But I don’t really enjoy it, roysh, because I can hear Emer and Sophie, numbers eight and nine, talking about how much weight Sorcha has lost since she went to, like, Australia, that’s if the photographs are anything to go by. Kissing Emer is like kissing a mate, no fun. Sophie puts both hands around the back of my head, roysh, and gives me what we usually call an ‘Ibiza Uncovered’ kiss. Then, without batting an eyelid, roysh, she just, like, slips back into her conversation with Emer and she asks her whether there’s any points in, like, toothpaste.
Ten is Erika. Sensual is the only way to describe it. When she’s finished, she stays sitting on my lap and goes, ‘You’ve wanted that for ages, haven’t you?’ and I’m sitting there like a focking nodding dog. She goes, ‘Happy Birthday,’ and I’m so flustered, roysh, that I can’t remember eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen, but video evidence later confirms them as Melanie, as in Institute Melanie, Ana with one n, Sara with no h and Jessica with no tits. Fifteen is JP ripping the piss. Sixteen is Danielle again. Somebody call security!
Seventeen is this bird Neasa, a Whore on the Shore who gave me, like, a peck on the cheek after we won the Schools Cup and then told all her friends she had been with me. Mind you, I told all mine that I shagged her. Eighteen is this bird, a real BOBFOC job – Body Off ‘Baywatch’, Face Off ‘Crimewatch’ – don’t know her name and don’t want to, she kisses me like she’s kissing a focking corpse. Nineteen is Christian’s new squeeze, whose name is Lauren and who, it turns out, is Hennessy’s daughter, and I wonder how an ugly focker like him could produce something as beautiful as her. I’m still thinking about it while I’m kissing Chloe, number twenty, who gives me two pecks on the lips and, in between, mentions totally out of the blue that the leather coat she’s wearing tonight
is a Prada and cost, like, two grand, and it dawns on me that after twenty-one years on this Earth I know some totally focked-up people.
I’m wondering what the story is with the twenty-first kiss. Who’s it going to be? I see Danielle thinking about it – whoah, horsey! – but Fionn manages to, like, shepherd her into a corner. And then Aoife steps forward, roysh, and I’m thinking, ‘Aoife? Sorcha’s best mate? This is going to be like kissing, I don’t know, my sister, if I had one.’ But all of a sudden, roysh, she pulls out this photograph of, like, Sorcha, and slaps it on my lips and she goes, ‘She’s sorry she couldn’t be here to give it to you in person, Ross. I’ve got a cord for you from her as well.’
And everyone is just, like, clapping, going mental. She probably ripped the idea off one of those stupid American programmes she watches, but basically I couldn’t have been happier, even if they had got me Bianca Luyckx.
CHAPTER THREE
The One Where Ross Gets A Babe Lair
In the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre, roysh, I’m on the escalator, coming down from the cor pork and this bird is on the next escalator, on her way up. She’s a focking cracker, roysh, a little bit like Uma Thurman up close, and she’s with this complete dickhead, a real focking skateboard geek, long-sleeved Nirvana T-shirt, the whole lot, and as our two escalators are passing, roysh, I catch her eye and she’s, like, looking straight at me for, like, five seconds and she sort of, like, smiles. And the goy, roysh, he cops this because when we’ve passed each other, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him looking back, totally paranoid now.
