The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m actually really proud of them, roysh, and, bent and all as I sound, I end up texting Sorcha and going, Tought u wer gr8 on telE. Wen u comin home. Had no nosebag. I’m Hank and then I add an X roysh, but then think better of it and, like, delete it.

  No sooner have I sent the message, roysh, when all of a sudden Úna O’Hagan – I would, if you’re asking, in a hortbeat – is going, ‘Right-wing independent councillor Charles O’Carroll-Kelly was suspended from Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council today for thirty days following derogatory comments he made about people on low income. The local politician, famous for his outspoken views, was asked to leave the chamber this afternoon after saying that the swarm of one hundred million pink locusts that arrived in the Canary Islands at the weekend was God’s plague on Ireland’s package-holiday classes.’

  And I’m practically on the floor at this stage. I am seriously going to have to, like, wrap Sellotape around my waist to stop my focking sides from splitting. So they show these pictures of, like, Knob Features leaving the Town Hall in Dun Laoghaire, roysh, and the reporter’s going, ‘At this afternoon’s engineering and traffic management meeting, Councillor O’Carroll-Kelly was asked four times by the Chairman to withdraw a comment that God had brought down his wrath on tens of thousands of socially disadvantaged people who, he said, had turned the holiday sunspot into a type of Finglas-on-Sea. He refused to withdraw the comment and was suspended from the chamber for thirty days. Leaving the meeting, he had this to say…’

  And the camera just, like, focuses on him, roysh, and he goes, ‘I’m telling you – it’s justice, Old Testament style. The Lord’s way of telling people on social welfare that they shouldn’t be going on these, quote-unquote, package holidays. I make no apologies for saying it. Read your Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  My wife and my old man. I’m thinking, Is it any wonder I’m focked up?

  Ronan calls to the door with three of his, let’s just say for the sake of argument, friends the other night, roysh, all of them about ten years older than him and they’re called Whacker, Nudger and Gull and, of course, you don’t need me to tell you that they’re, like, totally CHV. I make no apologies for it, roysh, but I bring Ronan in and leave the three skobes out in the front gorden, where they just, like, stand around with their hoods up, smoking and making comments to any passer-by stupid enough to make eye contact with them.

  Ronan’s going, ‘I’m looking for four, Rosser,’ and I’m like, ‘Ronan, it’s out of the question,’ but he’s there, ‘You’re supposed to be me oul’ lad, for Jaysus sakes. And you won’t even do this one ting for me?’ but he’s, like pissing into the wind if he thinks he can, like, tug at my hortstrings.

  I go, ‘Lillie’s is no place for a seven-year-old on Christmas Eve night. Or any pub for that matter,’ and he’s there, ‘Ah, that’s a load of me bollicks, Rosser. Sure I’ve been drinking in the early houses this two year. I’m one of the faces down the docks,’ and I go, ‘Ronan, I know you only say those things for effect,’ then I go to the fridge in the kitchen, roysh, and pour him a glass of Coke and when I put it in front of him he asks me if I have an oul’ nip of something to go in it, which I ignore.

  I go, ‘I presume the four are for the cast of The Commitments out there. Ronan, would you not try and find some friends your own age?’ and he goes, ‘Friends? Nah, the boys are just working for me, Rosser. Need a bit of muscle around me right now. Some of me investments are the subject of, let’s just say, hostile take-over bids.’

  I’m thinking, Where the fock did he learn to talk like that? when all of a sudden, roysh, he’s staring out the window and going, ‘That doorty-looken doort boord’s gonna break Sorcha’s rosebush if he keeps doing that,’ and he jumps up and thumps the window and then just points at Gull, or Whacker, or whichever one it was making shit of the roses and the goy just, like, stops immediately and sort of, like, puts his head down, all, like, ashamed and shit?

  Ronan goes, ‘I put that down to lack of education. Left school when he wasn’t much older than meself. No social skills, has Gull. Bit tasty in a ruck but. And if you’re wantin’ any Tom fenced, he’s your only man. No names, no pack-drill,’ and then he sits down again and goes, ‘So, who’s going to this… party of yours?’ and I’m there, ‘No one, really. Gráinne Seoige. Sharon Ní Bheoláin. Caroline Morahan. Lisa Burke. Abi Titmus. Samantha Mumba. Rachel Stevens. Maybe Girls Aloud…’

  He goes, ‘Moy Jaysus, it’s no wonder you don’t want your saucepan hanging around. Let me level with you here, Rosser – I can do that, can I?’ and I’m like, ‘Of course,’ trying to keep a straight face. He’s there, ‘I’ve no interest in going to your party and that’s telling you the truth, although I’d fooken lash that Samantha Mumba wan out of it and I wouldn’t need to be asked twice. The plan was to come here tonight and see how much you’d be prepared to pay me and the boys not to turn up on the night.’

  He takes a sip of his Coke and, like, pulls his top lip back over his teeth, like he’s just had a mouthful of, I don’t know, whiskey or something. I’m there, ‘Hang on, is this, like, blackmail?’ and he goes, ‘I prefer the word security, Rosser. You’re paying for security of mind, my friend. For a relatively small outlay, you can enjoy your night, safe in the knowledge that no one from the wrong side of town will come within 500 yards of your club and cause a scene that might make the newspapers.’

  I actually admire him, roysh, because he’s thought the whole thing through. I’m there, ‘And how much will this … service cost me?’ and he whips an envelope out of his Davy Crocket and a pen from behind his ear and he storts doing these, like, calculations, I suppose you’d have to call them. He’s going, ‘Got my overheads to think of… staff costs… insurance… travel…’ and then he crosses the last word out and goes, ‘Actually, that car we arrived in tonight was robbed. Be unfair to charge you for that… so add them up… blahdy blah… carry your one… you’re looking at a grand plus change.’

  I’m there, ‘Okay, fine,’ and he looks at me funny, roysh, and he goes, ‘The usual procedure, Rosser, is for you, the customer, to say you’re not paying that, then for me to get Nudger in to remind you of the consequences of not having this kind of cover,’ but I’m there, ‘Ronan, a thousand sheets is fock-all to me. You can have it. I don’t know what all this Goodfellas shit is about. When I want a grand off my old man, I just tell him I want a grand, call him a tosser, or a knob, or a dickhead and he ends up giving it to me,’ and I pull out a wad of fifties, roysh, and peel off twenty and hand them to him.

  He knocks back the rest of his Coke and goes, ‘I was raised on the mean streets but. It’s all I know.’

  It’s, like, three o’clock in the morning, roysh, and I can’t sleep and I end up just, like, tossing for an hour – though not in that way – but it’s no good, roysh, I just can’t go off. So I get up, roysh, go downstairs and ring the old man. He answers all sort of, like, groggy, like he’s been sleeping. I’m there, ‘Wake up,’ and he’s like, ‘Kicker? Is that you?’ and I hear him turning to the old dear and going, ‘It’s Ross.’ I’m there, ‘Have I told you recently what a complete and utter penis you are?’ and he goes, ‘Er, twice this weekend. Once on Saturday morning when I gave you your allowance for the week and then again yesterday afternoon when I offered you the money to go on the Lions tour next year,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s good. Don’t want you forgetting,’ and after that, roysh, I slept fine.

  The bouncers have their instructions, roysh, and it’s, like, no dogs, no riff-raff and no blokes who’re likely to give me and the goys competition or take the spotlight off us on our, like, big night, which is why I can’t believe it, roysh, when one of them bells me upstairs to tell me that Bono’s outside. I’m in the Jacuzzi with, like, four birds and we’re watching the CCTV footage of the front entrance on this, like, humungous, giant screen.

  I go, ‘Ask him who he is,’ and I see the bouncer saying something and Bono looking at him like the dude’s just done a Donald Trump in one
of his rhythms. Then the goy goes into his mouthpiece, ‘He says he’s the lead singer with U2, Mr O’Carroll-Kelly,’ and I’m there, ‘Tell him I’ve never heard of them. Then tell him to fock off,’ and me and the birds just, like, crack our holes laughing.

  The queue outside is un-focking–believable. There’s no doubt, roysh, that the All New Lillie’s is the place to be this Christmas Eve, and I’m in my element, of course, giving it loads, playing God with people’s social lives, deciding who gets in and who doesn’t. I’m going, ‘The one with the black hair and the slut wellies… steer her in… that’s it…’ and it’s like those sheepdog trials you see on the Liza, we’re talking ‘One Man and his Dog’. It’s like, ‘No, not the kipper with the trouser melons, her friend… keep going… easy does it.’

  The next thing, roysh, who walks into the Library only Oisinn and One F. Oisinn, hands me a glass of something that looks like a urine sample and goes, ‘It’s my new invention. Try it,’ and of course I splash a bit on my neck. He’s like, ‘It’s a focking cocktail, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘Oh, roysh,’ and I take a sip and it’s like, Whoa! and Oisinn goes, ‘It’s called A Slow Screw In A BMW Five Series. We’re talking brandy, Crème de Cacao, goat’s milk and diesel,’ and I’m like, ‘We’ll make it the house special.’

  Oisinn goes, ‘Kool Plus Significant Others. You staying up here in The Library all night, Ross? It’s, like, heaving downstairs, we’re talking wall-to-wall Pavarotti,’ and I’m like, ‘Any sign of Bianca yet?’ and Oisinn shakes his head sort of, like, sadly and goes, ‘Probably doing the married thing. The goys are under strict instructions to let us know if she arrives. They’re playing an actual blinder down there. They’ve just told Brian with an i McFadden to try Slapper-face Jacks,’ and I crack my hole laughing.

  I tell the birds they’re going to have to excuse me, roysh, that there’s babes downstairs wanting me to bring pleasure into their lives and I climb out of the tub and grab an old Jack Rowell to dry myself off. I can see the goys checking me out; not in a gay way, roysh, they’re just, like, clocking my pecs and abs and obviously thinking, That goy could SO get on the Leinster team if he only pulled his finger out.

  As I’m throwing the old threads on, one of the bouncers buzzes up again and he goes, ‘There’s a girl called Sorcha here. Says she’s your wife. Shall I let her in?’ and I turn around and I’m like, ‘HELLO? Do you even need to ask that question?’ and he goes, ‘Er…’ and I’m there, ‘Tell her to fock off!’

  The thing is, roysh, for some reason, Sorcha’s stopped

  putting out the last few weeks and I’m thinking I’m going to have to get it somewhere else, and I’m never going to be hotter than I am tonight.

  Oisinn turns around to me and he’s like, ‘Ross, I know you don’t want her cramping your style tonight, but that wasn’t very festive,’ and I go, ‘I’m sorry, Oisinn, I just couldn’t come up with a festive way of saying it,’ and then, into my mouthpiece, roysh, I go, ‘Actually, tell her there’s no room at the inn,’ which the bouncer actually does, roysh, he actually uses that focking phrase, and on the screen I can see Sorcha mouthing the words, ‘oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ while her friends – I can make out Chloë, Aoife and the lovely Erika – are just in total shock, like their Visas won’t swipe in Nine West or something.

  I tell the goys to come on and we head downstairs and there’s this, like, big cheer when we arrive, roysh, three members of the Echo and the Moneymen consortium who now own the joint, and it’s basically nice to see that everyone knows what side their bread is, like, buttered. Birds are coming at us from every angle, giving it loads, telling me I’m the man, it’s a disgrace that Decían Kidney keeps ignoring me, blahdy blahdy blah, but I’m going around looking around for Christian, roysh, because I haven’t, like, seen him all night.

  Then I cop him, roysh, basically canoodling in the corner with Lauren, and as I get closer I can hear him telling her that Jawas has forty-three different terms for the word relationship and she’s going, ‘Forty-three? Wow!’ and when Christian cops me he goes, ‘Ross, you’re here. Great. Look, we wanted you to be the first to know…’ and I look at him, roysh, and I look at Lauren and she, like, holds up her left hand and she’s wearing, like, a ring.

  I fight the urge to go, ‘YOU FOCKING SAP!’ and instead I give it, ‘That’s incredible news,’ and I kiss Lauren on both cheeks and give Christian a hug and I go, ‘I have to say, roysh, having made the trip down the aisle myself, I can totally recommend it,’ and of course in my Davy Crocket, roysh, the old Wolfe’s ringing away and it’s, like, ‘Darth Vader’s Morch’, and I actually stort to feel a little bit, I don’t know, guilty I suppose.

  Lauren goes, ‘So where’s Sorcha tonight?’ and I’m like, ‘She’s, em, I don’t know, helping people. Homeless people. Homeless unmarried mothers. With Aids,’ and Lauren says I’m lucky to have married someone with such a big hort.

  Christian says he has something to ask me, roysh, and of course I’m expecting him to go, ‘Do you think we could get Figrin D’an and the Mos Eisley Cantina band to play at the wedding?’ but instead he goes, ‘I want you to be my best man,’ and I swear to God, roysh, I actually burst into tears, roysh, because what with that whole thing between me and his old dear – me knobbing her basically – I know how, like, awkward it’s going to be for him having me as, like, his best man.

  I tell them I’m, like, SO happy for them, which I am, roysh. I used to, like, worry about Christian, about whether he’d ever find someone on the same – I was going to say level, but I actually mean planet – and I order a large bottle of pop and it’s great, roysh, just the three of us, sitting in the corner, basically toasting the future.

  My phone beeps and it’s, like, a text message. It’s from, like, Sorcha, the defiant wench. It’s like, Wher r u? OMG d bouncrs wont let us in! Can u cum dwn? and I just, like, delete it and head off to look for JP.

  He’s in cracking form, it has to be said. It’s, like, the first time I’ve actually seen him since he storted in Maynooth and he seems really, I don’t know, at peace or something. He’s, like, chatting away to Caroline Morahan and Gráinne Seoige and they’re having this, like, really deep discussion about whether Mel Gibson’s take on The Passion portrayed the Jews in a fair light, all pretty interesting, I’m sure, if that’s your basic vibe.

  The unbelievable thing is, roysh, he’s actually back on the Britneys. Have they no Baileys? That’s what I go to him. I come up behind him and I’m like, ‘Have they no Baileys, JP?’ and when he turns around he doesn’t look pleased to see me at all, roysh, he actually gives me a filthy and goes, ‘Ross, I joined the consortium on the understanding that there’d be a chapel where patrons could go for a moment of quiet repose and perhaps speak to God,’ and I’m thinking, The goy has totally flipped this time, and I have to think on my feet, roysh, and I end up going, ‘We couldn’t get planning permission for it.’

  He stares at me, roysh, and he obviously knows it’s a lie because I can’t actually look him in the eye, but then all of a sudden he storts cracking his hole laughing and he goes, ‘Ross, I’m yanking your chain,’ and I’m like, ‘Oh my God, you focking had me there, JP. That’s if I can still call you that. I mean, you’re not a priest yet, I take it?’ and he goes, ‘It’s JP, Ross. And it’ll always be JP to you and the goys.’

  So all of a sudden we stort, I don’t know, reminiscing I suppose you’d have to call it, about the time we borrowed his old man’s cor, drove out to Terenure and totally wrecked the Gick’s pitch, doing, like, wheelspins and handbrake turns all over it. Then we did Mary’s and Blackrock on the way home. He’s there, ‘Happy days,’ and I’m like, ‘Are you happy now, dude?’ and he goes, ‘Unbelievably happy, Ross. It’s a content I never thought I’d know,’ and I just, like, raise my glass to him and I go, ‘Hallelujah to that,’ and he goes, ‘Amen.’

  He’s like, ‘Everyone’s happy. Christian has Lauren. Oisinn’s a millionaire, doing what he wants to do. Fionn se
ems really keen on that Debra – he’s talking about going to a Kibbutz next year. Looks like things are working out for all of us. And you – you’re happy, aren’t you?’ and I’m there, ‘Pretty much. Hit me with some of that Bible shit. Some of that stuff you said to me before, it got me thinking…’ and he goes, ‘Ross, it was wrong for me to try to force my beliefs down your throat. It’s an abuse of your friendship,’ and I’m like, ‘Come on, JP. Hit me with something. Give me a thought for the night.’

  So he thinks, roysh, then he goes, ‘Okay, Proverbs 5:15,’ and I’m like, ‘What one’s that?’ and he’s there, ‘Find joy with the wife you married in your youth, fair as a hind, graceful as a fawn. Let hers be the company you keep, hers the breasts that ever fill you with delight, hers the love that ever holds you captive.’

  I’m like, ‘No, give me something else,’ and he laughs and goes, ‘Where is Sorcha tonight?’ and I’m there, ‘She’s helping out with some, I don’t know, homeless… one-legged… gay… junkie… refugees,’ and he laughs because he knows that I’m basically ripping the piss.

  I have to, like, excuse myself then, roysh, because out of the corner of my eye I see – I don’t believe it, roysh, I don’t actually focking believe it – Ronan’s turned up and he’s leaning up against the bor, eyeing up birds and drinking from his hipflask. I just, like, storm over to him and I go, ‘How the fock did you get in?’ and he’s like, ‘Storreee, Rosser? Didn’t I tell you I was connected in this town?’ and I go, ‘I focking paid you good money to stay away. What happened to that?’ and he’s like, ‘There I was tonight, Rosser, looking forward to a nice night in front of the oul’ box, when Sorcha rings. Said she was outside of here. Couldn’t get past the bouncers. Said you weren’t answering your mobile. Well, she knows I’m a man of influence – and I owed her a favour after Ibiza – so says I, “I’ll be down. Gimme fifteen minutes, Doll”.’