And that should have been that, roysh, except that deep down, I knew there was trouble coming. It turns out, roysh, that this project he was doing on the effects of… well, whatever… basically involved him drinking six litres of Sunny D a day while, like, noting changes in his basic skin colour. I actually thought he looked a bit orange when I saw him in the dressing-room before the de La Salle match, but he had spent New Year in Colorado with his old pair skiing, roysh, and I just presumed he had a Peter Pan.
The night before our second-round match against Paul’s, roysh, he sends me a text, telling me he can’t play because he’s in, like, hospital. Of course, straight away, roysh, I peg it up to the Blackrock Clinic to see what the Jackanory is and there he is, roysh, sitting up in the bed like a focking Oompa Loompa, as in bright focking orange. Fionn is actually taking photographs of him.
Lorcan goes, ‘Hey, Ross, thanks for coming. I overdosed on beta-carotene. Isn’t it exciting?’ I’m there, I’ve no focking scrumhalf for tomorrow. How is that exciting?’ Fionn’s checking his last shot on the camera, one of those digital jobs, which I’m about to insert up his focking orse, and he’s like, ‘Lorcan’s been asked to present his findings at an international dermatological conference in Boston in August.’ I just flip the lid then, and who can blame me? I turn around to Lorcan and I go, ‘If you want to fock-up the most important year of your life, go ahead. Here, I brought you these,’ and I fock this bag of fruit at him. Of course, it’s only when I’m in the cor pork, roysh, that I remember they were oranges. They’re probably up there pissing themselves over that, like the tools that they are.
I’m actually pretty focked off, it has to be said, with Erika over what she did. Sorcha’s actually stopped replying to my texts, roysh, so Tuesday morning, the actual day of the Paul’s match, I ring her up, roysh, and I’m ready to give her a serious earful, but she ends up, like, totally throwing me by answering the phone like she’s actually pleased to hear from me. She’s like, ‘Hey, Ross, long time, no speak,’ and I end up going, ‘Er, hey, Erika. How are you?’ and it’s true, roysh, I am such a sucker for a pretty face and Erika is a ringer for Denise Richards.
She goes, ‘I’m great, Ross. I’ve an amazing new boyfriend,’ and I’m there, ‘So the stockbroker goy…’ and she goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, he’s, like, SO last month. I’m with Stephen now. He’s a lawyer. Going places. They’re saying he’s going to be the youngest Attorney-General in Ireland. Ever,’ and I’m there, ‘Cool.’ She’s like, ‘I’m in Fitzpatrick’s, Ross, trying on shoes. Was there something?’ and I’m there, ‘Oh, em, look, I just want to ask you a question, don’t have a knicker-fit, probably wasn’t you anyway, but I have to ask – you didn’t send that picture of me and Sorcha in to VIP, did you?’ and straight away she’s like, ‘Yes,’ and I’m there, ‘Oh, roysh, well… em… I presumed you were going to say no. Why? As in, why did you do it?’ and she’s like, ‘Because I’m a bitch, Ross. Does that come as a surprise to you?’
I actually don’t know what to say next. She goes, ‘I’m only disappointed they didn’t print the other one I sent, when that wan showed up – you know, the mother of your child? I suggested they use it as a before-and-after thing. Dublin’s Jerry Springer wedding. Oh my God, is it, like, possible anymore to buy shoes without a pointy toe?’ I’m there, ‘You’ve actually upset Sorcha,’ trying to sound tough basically, but Erika goes, ‘Ross, I’m going to be finished in town in about an hour. Would you like me to swing by the hotel on my way home and you can have sex with me?’ and I’m like, ‘Em, well… okay then,’ suddenly finding it in myself to forgive her. But then she just, like, laughs at me, roysh, and goes, ‘Yeah, you’re really worried about Sorcha being upset, aren’t you?’ and then she just, like, hangs up. And presumably she’s no intention of swinging by the hotel either.
My head is hopping, roysh, but when the phone beside the bed rings, I make the mistake of, like, answering it. It’s Knob Head. His first line is, ‘Watch out, a certain E. O’Sullivan of Moylough, County Galway, your job’s under threat,’ and I’m there, ‘What the fock do you want?’ He goes, ‘Just wanted to extend my congratulations. I was at the Paul’s match. You didn’t just beat them, Ross, you rubbed their noses in the dirt, which is what they deserved.’
I’m there, ‘Finished?’ which he ignores, roysh, and just goes, ‘Everything’s going goodo right now. Fionnuala’s got those frightful Funderland people on the run – they’ll soon be folding up their tents for where they belong, Tallaght, or Darndale, or one of those wretched places – my son is proving himself to be the best young coach Ireland has produced since, dare I say it, the Dagger himself, my short game is the best it’s been since the early 1990s, and Hennessy is looking down the barrel of a ten-stretch, quote-quote, thank you very much indeed.’
I go, ‘Oh, and don’t forget to mention how you focked up my marriage,’ and he’s there, ‘That’ll blow over, Coach. Don’t you worry your head about that,’ and in the background, roysh, I hear the old dear going, ‘Charles, your dinner’s going cold. It’s roasted salmon fillets with Pecorino and pesto topping,’ and then he goes, ‘Sorry, Ross, under orders to wrap it up this end. Well done, though. I mean, 30–12, that’s not a victory, that’s a massacre, with a capital M,’ and I manage to go, ‘You’re the world’s biggest penis,’ before he hangs up.
It was actually 31–9, roysh, not that I’d expect him to remember. It was a miracle we won by so much, roysh, what with Conall Gillen, our stand-in scrumhalf, having the mare that he did. We need Lorcan back, roysh, doesn’t matter whether the focker’s orange or purple with yellow spots. Our next match is against Clongowes, who might be tossers, but they’re no mugs, and they’ll totally destroy us if we’re as slow getting the ball out of the scrum again.
Pikey was out of this world. Didn’t miss a single kick and capped a Man of the Match performance with our fourth try, though if I’m being honest, roysh, I’d have to say that I have my concerns about him. Saw him after the game, roysh, surrounded by birds, we’re talking a lot of Mounties, giving him, ‘Congrats,’ and ‘Oh my God, you were, like, SO amazing,’ and ‘You played SUCH a good game,’ and it’s not, like, jealousy or anything, I just worry about where the goy’s head is at.
So there I am, roysh, lying in bed, trying to work up the energy to lash on the Atomic Kitten DVD and have an Allied Irish, when all of a sudden my mobile rings and it’s, like, JP. He’s there, ‘Dude, you’ve been offline for a few days. Everything okay?’ and I go, ‘Just busy – saw Ronan and then it’s, like, the team and shit?’ and he’s there, ‘A big ten-four on that one, Ross. I’m hearing you loud and clear. Hey, you fairly went to town on Paul’s, didn’t you?’ and I’m like, ‘Might do them a favour in the long run. Northside schools shouldn’t be playing rugby anyway,’ and he’s like, ‘Agreed – motion carried.’ Then he goes, ‘I saw Sorcha in Blackrock Shopping Centre this morning,’ and I’m there, ‘Really?’ probably sounding a bit too eager. I’m there, ‘Did she mention anything about seeing the result of the match?’ and he’s like, ‘Negative, dude. She was with Fionn, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘What do you mean, with him? As in with him with him?’ and he goes, ‘No, they were just coming out of L’Occitane. I think it’s, like, Amie with an ie’s birthday this weekend. Watch him like a hawk, Ross, that’s all I’m saying,’ and I’m there, ‘Hey, I’ve actually come up with a plan to fix him big-time,’ and I tell JP I’ll bell him back, roysh, because I’ve another call coming through.
Of course who is it, roysh, only Lorcan, and I can tell straight away from the tone of his voice that he, like, wants something. He’s like, ‘Hey, I’m out of hospital, Ross… I mean, Coach,’ and I’m there, ‘Why are you calling me Coach? What am I coaching you?’ and he goes, ‘Well, rugby,’ and I’m just there, ‘You obviously know something I don’t,’ and there’s, like, silence on the other end of the line.
It’s pretty obvious, roysh, that he’s been looking around at the other goys, seeing the kind of s
cenario they’re pulling and he wants a bit of that himself. I actually need the little focker – beating Paul’s is one thing but it’s, like, Clongowes in the quarter-final and you don’t beat Clongowes unless your scrumhalf is shit-hot – but I am SO going to make the little focker grovel.
I go, ‘You’re cut from the team. I have to say, we seem to be doing pretty well without you,’ and he goes, ‘Oh. It’s just that, er, well, I heard you gave Conall a serious bollocking. Said he couldn’t pass off his left hand,’ and I’m like, ‘Well, he’s not Peter Stringer, but he has some good qualities,’ and I swear to God, roysh, the little focker sounds like he’s about to burst into tears. I’m there, ‘Must be hord for you?’ and he’s there, ‘What?’ and I’m like, ‘Watching from the sidelines while your old team-mates enjoy the spoils. They’re a pretty popular bunch with the ladies. And they’re only two games away from a Schools Cup final. Must be hord knowing you were port of that and, like, threw it away,’ and that tips him over the edge, roysh, and on come the focking waterworks. He goes, ‘Stop it! It’s been difficult enough hearing that from the goys in the Rotary Club,’ and I’m thinking, The focking Rotary Club? This goy has NERD written above his head in big focking neon letters.
He’s like, ‘Ross, please, I’m begging you, give me another chance,’ and I go, ‘I have doubts about you, kid, there’s no getting away from that. I have doubts about your… loyalty,’ and he’s there, ‘I am loyal, Ross,’ and I go, ‘Are you loyal to the team, Lorcan. Or are you loyal to your brother?’ and he’s like, ‘The team, of course,’ and I’m there, ‘If only I could think up of some kind of way of testing that? Some kind of, I don’t know, trial. To prove your loyalty to me over that… four-eyed freakshow,’ and he’s there, ‘Anything.’
I’m there, ‘Okay, get this. Your brother keeps a diary. It’s a big green ledger. I’ve seen it. He records all his, like, intimate thoughts in it, which I’m sure is really riveting stuff. I want you to get it for me,’ and he’s like, ‘Steal my brother’s diary? Ross, I couldn’t…’ and I’m there, ‘Enjoy your life with the Rotary geeks. I hear the Youth Leadership Awards are going to be a focking howl this year,’ and I leave him there hanging on the line for, like, ten seconds, roysh, then eventually he goes, ‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ and I’m there, ‘I’m picking the team for Clongowes at lunchtime on Wednesday. If I have that diary in my hand, you’ll be in the team.’
Fionn is one sick focking puppy. Get this, roysh:
Monday, 10 February 2003
Called to see S. She was upset about something Ross said to her and needed a friend. I brought her a present – Closing Time by Tom Waits. It was actually for Valentine’s Day but I didn’t want to give it to her ‘On the day’ in case it embarrassed her. I love that album for the same reasons that I love her – its sincere sentimentality. I told her to listen to ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You’ – for obvious reasons! – and also ‘Grapefruit Moon’, which is my song for her, though she doesn’t know it.
Then it’s like:
Friday, 4 April 2003
I’ve been trying to keep busy, but it’s still hard. S has only been in Indonesia for two weeks now, so why does it feel like two years? The truth is that the endangered species of the Sumatra region are almost certainly beyond saving, but I admire her spirit so much. And yet I miss her so much it hurts. I’m trying to be strong, but I can’t bear the thought of her being there with that… uncultured oaf.
And underneath it, roysh, he’s written this, like, poem, called ‘Sorcha’ and it’s like:
A rage that can’t be quieted,
A love unrequited.
What a wanker. You’d need a focking dictionary to understand half of this shit anyway. I’ll give him uncultured oaf when I see him. I turn around to the borman and I go, ‘Rack ‘em up again, will you? Make it another double,’ and he’s like, ‘Certainly, Sir. Shall I charge it to your room?’ and I’m there, ‘You got it.’
Thursday, 21 December 2003
The wedding is just days away now. I phoned S tonight with the intention of saying, ‘Don’t do it. Don’t marry him. Marry me instead,’ but, like the Danish prince, in the eye of the moment, my nerve failed me and, ‘Good luck on the big day,’ was all I could force through my lips. The only way I know of soothing this torrent within me is to put my feelings into verse.
Unending devotion,
Overwhelming emotion,
While life goes by
In slow motion
He really is a steamer. His focking glasses are SO getting broken when I see him.
Tuesday, 6 January 2004
Spent the night sitting with S, nursing her broken heart, i am balm to her wounds, as she is to mine. When I held her tonight, I knew something of how Rimbaud felt when he wrote:
Je ris au wasserfall blond qui s’échevela à travers les sapins:
à la cime argentée je reconnus la déesse.
I laughed at the blond waterfall that tousled through the
pines: on silver summer I recognized the goddess.
I’m in, like, Cocoon, roysh, in Trap One, as it happens, dropping a load, and I can hear these two goys outside, roysh, standing at the trough, going, ‘Did you see Pikey against Paul’s?’ and the other goy’s like, ‘He was un-focking-believable, wasn’t he?’ and the goy’s going, ‘They’d be SO focked without him this year,’ and the other goy’s like, ‘He da man,’ and then the two of them stort going, ‘He da man! He da man!’
I’m in Kiely’s with the goys, roysh, we’re talking Christian, we’re talking JP, we’re talking Oisinn, who reckons that he’s actually only, like, weeks away from putting the finishing touches to Eau d’Affluence, which he then reckons Hugo Boss is going to give him a million squids for.
He’s going, ‘Today was a big day, goys. See, for months I couldn’t understand what it was that was drowning out the citrus notes. But I figured it out – it was the amber accords,’ and we’re all nodding, roysh, like we know what he’s talking about. It’s actually pretty funny, roysh, to call around to his gaff and see him there in his, like, long, white lab coat, with all these bottles with, like, funny-coloured liquids in them, bubbling away over all these, like, Bunsen burners, which he, shall we say, borrowed from the science lab in Castlerock. He’s been doing it for, like, the guts of a year now and I suppose you have to admire him for, like, sticking with it.
Christian gets his round in – always does, fair focks to him. I go, ‘Haven’t seen you in a while – how’s the job going?’ and he’s like, ‘Good, but… see, the problem is, I never manage to get my wages, like, out of the shop? Spent four hundred bills today on a five-foot model of IG-88,’ and he can tell from my expression that I haven’t a focking bog what he’s talking about because then he goes, ‘The droid assassin turned bounty-hunter?’ and I’m like, ‘Oh, that goy.’
He turns around to me then and he goes, ‘Is it true you’ve been to see him, as in Ronan?’ and I’m like, ‘Twice now,’ and he’s like, ‘Whoa! What’s he like?’ and I’m there, ‘Well, old,’ and he’s like, ‘You mean for his age?’ and I’m there, ‘Scarily so,’ and he goes, ‘You’d want to get his midi-chlorian count checked out,’ and I end up going, ‘That’s a good point,’ because it’s actually easier than getting into it with him.
Fionn – the focking snake – arrives in, roysh, with these four birds, one of whom I think is called Julie-Ann, nice enough rack, but she’s got a brace on her Taylor Keith, and what does she do, roysh, before I’ve had the chance to, like, check her out properly, only shoots me a filthy, a total filthy, basically, and goes, ‘Sorry, you’re Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?’ and I’m like, ‘The one and only,’ still playing it like Steve Silvermint in the face of unbelievable hostility, if that’s the word. It’s nice to be nice. She goes, ‘You might remember my sister, as in Carragh?’ and I’m there, ‘It’s not ringing bells for me, Babes,’ and she goes, ‘Oh, think horder. She brought you to her debs. You puked all over her dress, then scored
her best friend,’ and I’m like, ‘Doesn’t exactly narrow down the field. What school are we talking?’ and she’s like, ‘Muckross,’ and it’s actually coming back to me now. It’s like, There may be trouble aheeeaaad… I go, Yeah, she was, like, head girl,’ and she goes, ‘Deputy. You are SUCH a wanker,’ and – tired of playing Mr Nice Goy – I end up going, ‘Hey, that was, like, two years ago. Tell your sister to get herself laid, then get herself over it.’
So off they go, roysh, in a total strop, and Fionn turns around to me and goes, ‘That was a tad harsh, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Why, is she la noyau de mon monde?’ and I watch his face go totally red, because it’s actually straight out of his diary, roysh, as in:
Monday, 13 October 2003
I’m sitting on the DART, watching the graffitied walls zip by, and I’m beginning to feel that Rimbaud is shadowing my life:
In the wheelhouse there are lewd
Graffiti, ithyphallic, crude.
O let my heart be cleaned, renewed
By wondrous waves immersing it!
Oh, S, you are la noyau de mon monde.
Of course, he’ll peg it home tonight and check if his diary is still there, which it will be. I gave it back to Lorcan yesterday after getting the Keira Knightley bird at reception to, like, photocopy the entire thing for me; she’s actually developing a bit of a thing for me. Anyway, it shuts Fionn the fock up. So there I am, roysh, just sort of, like, idly looking across the far side of the battle-cruiser, and who do I see, only Pikey, as in Andrew Pike, surrounded by scenario – total lashers most of them, and we’re talking totally here – and he’s making out like his shit doesn’t smell just because Eddie O’Sullivan tipped him as, like, a stor of the future on television the other night.
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress Page 6
