by Paul Howard
I meet the goys for a few old scoops, but I don’t, like, tell them the craic. JP will know soon enough. Oisinn says he was with one of the ugliest girls he’s ever seen in his life last night in Howl at the Moon. He goes, ‘I focking love J’adore. The fragrance that celebrates the rebirth of ultimate femininity, a sparkling, fresh, floral bouquet that expresses the outburst of a woman’s inner emotions.’
I hit the bor to get my round in. Fionn tells Oisinn he’s going to, like, help me carry the drinks, which is weird because we’re all drinking, like, bottles. When we get up to the bor, I’m like, ‘Fionn, I’ve a focking amazing idea. Let’s go on the total lash today and, like, carry on drinking right through, we’re talking Christmas Day, the lot. Me, you, Christian …’ He goes, ‘I’m having Christmas at home. With my family.’ The specky focker. I’m like, ‘Oh, roysh. Yeah.’ He goes, ‘Me and Christian called you a taxi. Or a transport, as Christian calls it. We did it that time when you went to the jacks. It’s outside. Go and see your old pair, Ross. They miss you.’
I don’t actually remember the journey, roysh. The next thing I know I’m standing at the front door, staring at this, like, wreath that the old dear puts up every year, she got it from her mother, who got it from her mother, who got it from her mother. And I don’t actually know whether I’ve rung the bell or not, but I must have done, roysh, because through the glass I can see someone coming, and the door opens, roysh, and it’s the old man and he’s like, ‘Darling, come quickly. It’s Ross … look, it’s Ross … he’s come home … for Christmas.’ And I just, like, burst out crying. I’m like, ‘I’ve focked things up, Dad. Focked things up big-style.’ He hugs me and goes, ‘But we can put them right, son. We’ll put them right.’
And next door, roysh, I can hear carols being sung and it’s like,
Oh such a wonderful saviour,
To be born in a manger,
So that I can share His favour,
And my heart be made anew.
Listen to the trumpets,
Shouting through the darkness,
Crying ‘Holy, Holy,’
The Night that Christ was born.
About the Author
Paul Howard didn’t go to Blackrock College. He has never played rugby. He has never lived in Foxrock, or been involved with a girl called Sorcha. He has never owned any item of clothing that cost more than fifty quid. He has many axes to grind. He likes his coffee black, if you’re asking.
Other books by Paul Howard
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, The Miseducation Years
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, The Teenage Dirtbag Years
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, PS, I Scored the Bridesmaids
Hostage, Notorious Irish Kidnappings
The Joy, Mountjoy Jail – the shocking true story of life inside
The Gaffers – Roy Keane, Mick McCarthy and the team they built
Celtic Warrior
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: [email protected]
Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 2003
eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–442–0
Text © copyright Paul Howard 2003
Copyright for editing, layout, illustrations, design
© The O’Brien Press Ltd
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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this title is available from The British Library
Editing, typesetting, layout and design: The O’Brien Press Ltd
Cover and internal illustrations: Alan Clarke
