The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  JP goes, ‘Hey, Ross, that Pikey’s some man for one man, isn’t he? Reminds me of you in your day,’ and I’m majorly pissed off now. He’s giving it the whole ladies’ man act, all these birds hanging on his every word, and I decide the goy needs to learn that he doesn’t know everything yet, so I walk over to him, roysh, and I can tell from his face that he hadn’t been expecting to see me. He’s like, ‘Ross!’ and I’m there, ‘This could probably have waited until training on Monday, but I might as well tell you now – you’re dropped from the team,’ and I wish I’d had a camera phone with me, roysh, just to get a shot of him being brought crashing to Earth. All the birds are going, ‘Oh my God!’ and ‘Oh! My! God!’ and ‘oh my God?’ flapping around, all confused, like when you scatter pigeons with a BB gun.

  Pikey’s like, ‘Dropped? But I’m the captain. And… you named the team on Wednesday. I was in it,’ and I go, ‘And now I’m changing it,’ and he’s there, ‘But… why?’ and I’m like, ‘Your lifestyle, frankly,’ and he holds up his glass and goes, ‘But Ross, this is, like, Diet Coke I’m drinking,’ and I’m like, ‘Hanging out in pubs, playing Jack the Lad…’ and he’s there, ‘It’s Saturday night.’

  I can tell from his boat race, roysh, that he wants to have a serious go at me, but he can’t, roysh, because that’d be him totally focked. He’s a smort boy. He goes, ‘You can’t beat Clongowes without–’and I’m like, ‘Without you? You think you’re Bertie Big Bollocks, don’t you?’ and he goes, ‘But you said yourself after the de La Salle match that I was the man,’ and quick as a flash, I go, ‘Well, now you’re the dropped man,’ and I head back over to the goys and I can hear all the birds going, ‘Oh! My! God!’ with the odd, ‘That’s, like, SO unfair,’ thrown in for good measure.

  Of course, I’ve no intention of dropping him, cocky as he is. Clongowes would wipe the floor with us without him, but it’ll stop him getting too up himself. I head back to the goys, with a big shit-eating grin on my boat. JP goes, ‘Ross, you look like a focking gynaecologist who’s just seen Cameron Diaz walk through the door,’ and I’m there, ‘Maybe I am, dude. Maybe I am.’

  I don’t know what it is, roysh, but I can’t stop thinking about Ronan. It’s probably the whole father–son thing, blah blah blah, but I wake up in some bird’s house in Booterstown this particular Sunday morning, roysh, and I bell Tina and ask her if it’d be okay to, like, call out to the gaff. She goes, ‘Jaysus, you’re not scared of out-staying your welcome, you, are ye?’ and I’m there, ‘Oh, but I just thought…’ and she’s like, ‘I’m only messin’ wi’ ye, Ross. Ronan tinks de wurdled of ye. Come on out for yisser breakfast.’

  So all of a sudden there I am, roysh, eleven o’clock in the morning, sitting in a kitchen in darkest Knackeragua, roysh, watching Tina’s old man make fried bread, or some other peasant food, listening to him crapping on about ‘de yoot of today, jaysus sakes’, while Ronan’s chatting away on his Wolfe, making all these, like, references to ‘supplies’ and ‘storage’ and ‘profit margins’, and every so often he looks at me and, like, mouths the words, ‘Little bit of business,’ and, ‘World of commerce never sleeps,’ and I’m sitting there just, like, staring at him, unable to believe that this kid is actually mine.

  Tina’s nipped around to one of the neighbours to get her hair done, leaving orders that we’re not to go out until she arrives back and, of course, I’m beginning to feel like I’m trapped in the ‘Fair City’ omnibus. Her old man’s going, ‘Problem wi’ de kids today is deev no respect, knowhorramean? You’d be too young to remember oul’ Lugs Brannigan. Now dare was a copper. Bate the fooken shite out of ya as quick as he’d look at ye, would oul’ Lugs, but you respected him all de sayim. If he cot yiz walkin’ down de roa-id tree- or four-abreast, he’d grab ye by the ear, trun ye down on de ground an’ pump six bullets into de back of yisser head. An’ if you went home cryin’ to yisser mudder or fadder, deed say ye musta deserved it so ye must, den deyd pump six bullets into yisser head as well. But he had de respect of de comyooo-nity, knowhorramean? Matter o’ fact, not tellin’ ye a word of a loy, he killt all moy family, me mudder an’ fadder, me brudders an’ sisters, shot ever last one of dem, but sure they were royt bowsies so dee were, an’ I respected um for dat. Not sayin’ he was an angel, or athin like it, but in dem days we knew de law was dare to protect ye. Sure nowadays the kids is runrun’ woyild.’

  He puts a plate down in front of me with, like, two pieces of batch bread, deep-fried in grease. He goes, ‘Spose ye heard about young Anto, did ye? Tree year done ourruv his life. For wha’? A few oul’ bottles of cider.’

  Ronan gets off the phone. He’s like, ‘There you are, Rosser. Get some saturated fat into your arteries, no better start to the day,’ and I laugh and go, ‘How’s it going, Ronan?’ and he’s there, ‘I’m game ball, man. Let’s hit town, will we?’ and then he nods down at my plate and, like, winks at me, as if to tell me to eat it all up, so as not to hurt his granddad’s feelings. There’s, like, cigarette ash on it, roysh, but I eat it all, gagging after pretty much every mouthful.

  Tina arrives in. A frizzy perm – there’s a shock. She gives me a bit of a lecture – don’t let him wander off on his own, make sure he doesn’t hot-wire any cors, blahdy, blahdy, blah – then I throw on the old Henri Lloyd while Ronan bums a cigarette off his granddad, who goes, ‘Told ye befower, you shouldn’t be smokin’ till yer at least torteen. In anyway, didn’t I give ye tree dis mornin’?’ and Ronan’s like, ‘Go on ourra that, I’m fooken gaspin’, so I am,’ and he ends up giving him three more out of his box.

  We go outside and there’s, like, three kids washing my cor, as in washing it, not keying it, and they’re all, like, thirteen or maybe fourteen, and when they cop us, they go, ‘Howiya, Ronan?’ and Ronan goes, ‘How’s it goin’, boys?’ and he storts, like, inspecting the cor and then he goes, ‘A good shine.’

  I point the old GTI in the direction of the city. The big dilemma, of course, is which side of town do we hit. I’d sooner be boiled in my own spit than go anywhere near the O’Connell Street and Henry Street end of things, roysh, and I’m sure Ronan feels the same way about Grafton Street. It’s like he can read my mind. He goes, ‘What’s it gonna be, your soyid or mine?’ and before I say anything, roysh, he goes, ‘Let’s check out your soyid. Wouldn’t be safe for you north of the Liffey, not dressed like that. Any of my contacts see us together, you’re a social worker and I’m out on TR, capisce?’ and I just, like, crack my hole laughing.

  So we pull up at the lights next to Heuston Station, roysh, and totally out of the blue, Ronan says something that basically knocks me sideways. He’s there, ‘Who was that bird you were with in Annabel’s last night, then?’ and I’m thinking how well him and Sorcha are getting on – they’re actually texting each other now – so I think, Tell him nothing, he’s just fishing. I go, ‘What bird would this be then?’ and he’s like, ‘Small, red hair, nice set of jugs, pink top, denim skirt…’ and I end up nearly driving into the focking wall of the actual Guinness brewery.

  I’m there, ‘How the fock…’ and he goes, ‘Rosser, I’ve eyes and ears all over this town. You were with a bird in Lillie’s last Saturday as well. What are you playing at, Rosser?’ and I’m like, ‘Look, it’s complicated, Ronan.’ I look at him and he shrugs his shoulders and goes, ‘It’s complicated because you’re married and you’re roidin udder boords. You eeder love her or you don’t,’ and I crack up laughing and go, ‘What would you know about love? You’re, like, seven?’ He’s there, ‘Hey, I’ve one or two emotional scars meself, you know,’ and I crack my hole again.

  He goes quiet for a bit, roysh, then he’s like, ‘Was it over me, was it?’ and I’m there, ‘What? The break-up?’ and he just, like, nods. I look at him. He only acts like he’s hord as nails. I don’t think it would take much to hurt him, so I go, ‘Not you, as such, Ronan. It’s just that, well, she didn’t know anything about you until the day of the wedding. I didn’t know anything about you.’

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nbsp; He goes, ‘Doesn’t sound like a very good reason for you to be roidin udder boords. Has she got anyone else?’ I’m like, ‘No. I mean, she’s not the type to go… well, she’s not like me, I suppose. There is one goy sniffing around.’ Ronan goes, ‘Do you want me to sort it. I know a few heads,’ and I’m there, ‘I’m sure you do. No, I’ve got it in hand,’ and he nods and doesn’t say anything for ages and then he goes, ‘Fix it, but.’

  We hit BT2. I’m a bit worried about whether the security gords will let him in, but you could have, like, knocked me down with a feather, roysh, when the dude on the door with the walkie-talkie turns around and goes, ‘How’s it goin’, Ronan?’ as we’re going in. I turn around and I’m about to say something, but Ronan just goes, ‘Like I said, eyes and ears all over this town.’

  We stort looking at threads. I try to interest the kid in a few things, roysh, but anything I show him he just goes, ‘Bent… bent… bent…’ I’m buying a pair of chocolate-coloured Sonetti chinos and new rhythms – we’re talking Hugo loafers here – and there I am, roysh, standing in the queue, when all of a sudden I notice the bird behind the counter basically giving me the mince pies on a grand scale. She’s a total honey, roysh – her and Beth Ostrosky must have been, like, separated at birth – and when I get to the desk, before I even have a chance to use any of my killer lines, she goes, ‘You’re Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, aren’t you?’ and bear in mind, roysh, she hasn’t even seen my credit cord at this stage. I’m there, ‘No prizes for guessing which paper you’ve been reading,’ thinking she probably saw John O’Sullivan’s profile of me in The Irish Times.

  She goes, ‘Sorry, paper?’ and I hand her my credit cord and I’m there, ‘Hey, don’t be embarrassed about making the first move,’ playing it cooler than Huggy Bear’s frigid sister. She’s there, ‘No, you don’t understand,’ and I nearly fell over when she turned around and went, ‘I’m Jessica. Andrew’s girlfriend. As in Andrew Pike?’

  He does well, I’ll give the focker that. Quick as a flash, roysh, I’m like, ‘His girlfriend? How many other girls are saying that at the moment?’ and she ignores this, roysh, but rips the receipt out of the little credit cord machine like she’s imagining tearing off my dick. She goes, ‘So why was he dropped?’ and I’m like, ‘That’s strictly team business,’ and she’s there, ‘He’s the best player you have. What about the two tries he scored against Blackrock last year? And he was only in, like, fifth year then.’

  As I’m signing the receipt, I’m going, ‘If you must know, I dropped him because I didn’t like the way he was living,’ and she gives me this look, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Out practically every night of the week, playing Jack the Lad,’ and she’s goes, ‘Oh my God! That is SO not the case. He trains, like, SO hord. He only goes out, like, one night a week. HELLO? He lives for rugby, Ross,’ and I go, ‘Hey, passions are running a little high here. Why don’t I treat you to a cappuccino? What time do you get your break?’ and she looks me up and down and goes, ‘You must be joking,’ but there’s an attraction there, roysh, and there’s no doubt she feels it as much as I do. I pick up my bag and go, ‘Later,’ and she gives me this, like, scowl, I suppose you’d have to call it.

  Ronan’s waiting for me at the bottom of the escalator. He goes, ‘Jaysus, I’d have to be dug ourra that boord,’ and I’m laughing, basically thinking, like father, like son.

  My phone rings and I check the time and it’s, like, ten o’clock in the morning, roysh, and I’m going, ‘What kind of a focking lunatic…’ and I answer it, roysh, and this voice goes, ‘This is Thaddeus Pike,’ and even though I’m still half-asleep, roysh, I know what’s coming next, so I just go, ‘And?’ and he’s like, ‘Justice Thaddeus Pike,’ and I’m there, ‘I know who you are. What do you want?’

  He’s a pompous tosser, this goy. He’s like, ‘I would like an explanation, please, as to why you’ve dropped my son from the school team,’ and I go, ‘Because I decided to drop him. Look, I don’t come down to your courtroom and tell you who to throw in the slammer, so you don’t tell me how to run my team.’

  He’s there, ‘You really enjoy this, don’t you? Playing God with people’s lives?’ and I’m there, ‘I’m not playing God. As far as Pikey’s rugby career is concerned, I am God,’ and I hang up on him.

  The bird I was with in Annabel’s on Saturday night, the bird Ronan was talking about, is actually called Leilani, roysh, and it was the usual crack, chatted her up, back to her gaff in Dalkey, do the business, casual sex and whatever you’re having yourself but – unusually for me, roysh – I actually hung around for an hour the next morning, didn’t try to moonwalk out of there without giving her my mobile number.

  I’ve got, like, no real interest in her – she’s got red hair and I’ve never really been into kippers – but the one thing she does have going for her, roysh, is her knowledge of computers, she’s doing, like, computer science in Trinity, and that was the whole idea of putting in the extra couple of hours on Sunday morning, roysh, basically to keep her sweet. As I was focking off out the door to go to pick up Ronan, I told her I’d like to see her again, though she wouldn’t have thought I meant eleven o’clock on Monday morning.

  I grabbed a Jo into town, roysh, rang her and arranged to meet her in The Buttery. Not being bigheaded or anything, but the girl can’t believe her luck. She’s going, ‘OH MY GOD! I can’t actually believe you called to see me. That’s like, Aaarrrggghhh!’ and I’m there, ‘That’s my number one problem, Babes. When I, like, really like someone, I have to let it show,’ and she’s just lapping it up, the sap.

  Then she goes, ‘What have you got there?’ and she nods at this, like, stack of paper under my orm. I’m there, ‘Oh, this? It’s just stuff. To be honest with you, I’ve been running around town all morning looking for someone to set up a website. I suppose there is Gail, who’s in UCD, but she has it pretty bad for me and I don’t want to lead her on,’ and straight away, roysh, Leilani goes, ‘I’ll do it for you,’ and I’m there, ‘No! You wouldn’t, would you?’ and she’s there, ‘It’s actually very easy, Ross. What kind of a website is it?’

  We join the queue and we order two coffees, which Leilani insists on paying for, the total focking walkover that she is. I’m there, ‘I want to put a diary online, if that’s the word,’ and she goes, ‘Whoa! You don’t mind the world’s four billion people having access to your secrets?’ and I’m like, ‘Not my diary. Someone else’s,’ and she’s there, ‘Whose?’ and I go, ‘It’s a friend of mine.’ We sit down and she looks at me all confused. She goes, ‘Why would you want to put your friend’s diary online?’ and I’m there, ‘Because he’s a focking tosser,’ and she sort of, like, pulls away from me, like she’s weighing the whole thing up, and I know she’s going to turn around, roysh, and say it’d be unethical – like that doctor’s receptionist I scored when I tried to persuade her to let me see Fionn’s medical file.

  I can tell she has a problem with it, roysh, so I go, ‘I was thinking of asking you out for dinner. I see Peploe’s has a new menu,’ and eventually she goes, ‘Okay, I’ll do it. I do NOT want this traced back to me, though,’ and I’m there, ‘Hey, it’ll be Kool plus Friends, I promise.’

  She storts, like, flicking through the pages of the diary and she stops and reads the entry that’s like:

  Tuesday, 2 December 2003

  Only S understands the precocity of the boy poet in me.

  HE – Your breast on my breast,

  Eh? We could go,

  With our nostrils full of air,

  Into the cool light

  Of the good morning that bathes you

  In the wine of daylight?

  When the whole shivering wood bleeds,

  Dumb with love

  I’m there, ‘Bent, isn’t it?’ and she goes, ‘Oh my God, no! I love Rimbaud. I studied French literature in Paris,’ and I’m thinking that these two – as in Fionn and Leilani – focking belong to each other. She goes, ‘He must really love this girl, S?’ and I’m
there, ‘Yeah, whatever! Can you put these on the website as well?’ and I give her these pictures, roysh, of Fionn the time we all went to Playa del Ingles and he looks like a weedy little focker in his glasses and his Speedos.

  She goes, ‘Sure. And his name’s Fionn?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah,’ and she’s like, ‘I could call it Fionn’s Blog,’ and I go, ‘I don’t care what you call it. Just get it out there on the World Wild Whatever the fock you call it,’ and I get up to leave. She goes, ‘Em, what night were you thinking for, you know, Peploe’s?’ I’m there, ‘Maybe the weekend. Just get that done, then call me,’ and she goes, ‘It should only take me a couple of days,’ and I’m there, ‘Whatever. Quick as you can,’ and then I fock off.

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, Ross.’ I’d know my old man’s big focking foghorn voice anywhere. He’s like, ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, Ross.’ He’s coming out of Avoca with the old dear in tow, the stupid focking weapon, and I was unlucky enough to be walking past on my way to The Bailey. I’m there, ‘Enjoy what while I can?’ and he goes, ‘Your last few weeks of being able to walk around this city unmolested. Because when Castlerock win that Leinster Senior Cup, Year of Our Lord 2004, there’ll be no one in the country who hasn’t heard of the great Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, if that situation doesn’t already pertain,’ and I just go, ‘You are the world’s biggest penis, do you know that?’

  The old dear holds up this bag and goes, ‘I got some of that champagne shallot mustard you like, Ross. Why don’t you come out for your dinner next weekend? I might do a marinade,’ and the old man’s all smiles and I’m just there, ‘Didn’t I tell you after the wedding that I actually never wanted to focking see you two again. What port of “I never want to focking see you two again” do you not understand?’

  The old man goes, ‘Everything’s working out wonderfully well. Ross here is on his way to becoming the best coach Ireland has had since our friend the schoolteacher from the West. And next week, Hennessy goes on trial. Ten years is Eduard’s bet. The courts have got to send out a strong message, you see – no more Ray Burkes and what have you.’