The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m like, ‘Are you telling me she’s actually inside?’ and he goes, ‘Of course. I know two of your lads on the door out there,’ and I’m thinking, bang go my plans for a bit of extra-curricular tonight. Ronan goes, ‘Do a disappearing act, will ye? I’m looking at boords and you’re cramping me style,’ but I’ve decided to make myself scarce anyway, roysh, before the storm arrives.

  I manage to find Oisinn and Fionn, who’re, like, huddled together in a corner, roysh, and they seem to be, like, studying something pretty closely. Oisinn sees me and goes, ‘Have you seen it yet?’ and of course I presume he’s talking about Lauren’s engagement ring, roysh, and I go, ‘Yeah, great news, isn’t it?’ and Fionn goes, ‘I thought you were against the idea,’ and I’m like, ‘What are you on about?’ and – I swear to God, roysh, with absolutely no warning – Oisinn turns around and goes, ‘This,’ and he holds it up, roysh, it being Miss October in the Yummy-Mummy 2005 calendar, in other words my old dear, the stupid focking weapon.

  There’s, like, no preparing yourself for a moment like that, roysh, basically seeing your old in the raw. I don’t even want to focking describe what she looked like, but suffice to say, roysh, that Oisinn made sure I got a good eyeful for, like, five seconds before I managed to turn away. I’m like, ‘Yeeeuuuggghhh,’ and I’m actually focking gagging, roysh, and Oisinn’s going, ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Ross. She’s a stunner. Look at the size of those—’ and I’m like, ‘DON’T! I’m going to vom,’ and Fionn’s like, ‘Better get used to hearing about it, Ross,’ and Oisinn goes, ‘Your old man’s sending them to everyone as, like, Christmas presents. Oh, by the way, Sorcha’s looking for you,’ and I jump up and get the fock out of there.

  Out of the corner of my eye I spot two of the blokes out of Westlife, roysh, the pair from Sligo, but I don’t even have time to find out how the actual boggers managed to get in here tonight. I find a quiet spot in the corner, where I end up chatting to these two former Mounties, who are talking about the various ports of their bodies they’re going to have botoxed when their SSIA money comes through. One of them might be called Iseult.

  I stort giving it serious amounts of welly in the old chatting-up deportment, roysh, we’re talking me at my knicker-loosening best, until this total dickhead called Donnacha, who happens to be a brother of one of the two birds, comes over and storts going, ‘Hey, Ross, how the fock are you?’ and I just, like, pretend not to know him, roysh, even though I do. He’s actually a tosser, roysh, went to CBC Monkstown, was hooker on the S when we totally kicked their orses one year.

  Actually, he was a total focking donkey, as I remember.

  I’m just like, ‘How the fock did you get in?’ and he goes, ‘I’m actually going out with Sorcha’s friend, Claire,’ presumably Claire as in Claire from Bray, of all places. I’m safe nowhere, roysh, because suddenly Claire’s there and Erika’s behind her, with that this-place-is-so-beneath-me look she seems to, like, wear permanently. When Erika sees me, she goes, ‘Your wife is looking for you, Ross,’ and I go, ‘Well, I’m here amn’t I?’ and she goes, ‘She has some joyous news for you,’ and then she turns to Donnacha and she’s like, ‘So you’re Claire’s new… boyfriend. She tells us you’re a barrister. My father knows Paddy McEntee. Which firm are you with?’ and this is all news to me, roysh, because I always presumed Donnacha was like me – thick as a ditch basically.

  The goy looks at Claire, roysh, then at Erika and he goes, ‘Storbucks. Out in DCU,’ and Erika just, like, screws up her face and goes, ‘Storbucks?’ and then, looking all, like, delighted with herself, she goes, ‘I thought you were a barrister?’ and Donnacha goes, ‘A barista! I’m a barista. As in, serving coffee?’ and Claire’s suddenly, like, pulling away from him, going, ‘You said you were a barrister!’ and he goes, ‘Claire, I didn’t. In fairness, the music was pretty loud in Rí Rá,’ and Erika goes, ‘Rí Rá! Oh, Claire, he’s just perfect for you,’ and I can see Claire’s eyes, roysh, just, like, welling up with, like, tears.

  Erika goes, ‘Don’t start crying, Girl. You’ll have that pan-stick make-up all over your face again,’ showing basically no mercy and Claire turns around to Donnacha and goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! You’ve, like, ruined my Christmas. I can’t believe you thought I’d actually want to be with someone who makes coffee for a living,’ and off she focking storms to the jacks and behind me I hear Chloë go, ‘OH! MY! GOD! That’s like, Aaahhh!’

  I’m about to peg it myself, roysh, before Sorcha gets here, but the next thing, roysh, who arrives over, only three of the biggest focking legends in the history of Irish rugby – we’re talking Drico, Dorce and Shaggy, and Dorce says they met One F at a Russell earlier on and he told them to follow him on down and I’m like, ‘Dorce, it’s an honour to have you here. I worship at your altar, dude,’ and what does he do, roysh, only high-fives me and tells me that he thinks I’m a legend too and he can’t believe the IRFU have never given me a contract, which he doesn’t have to say, roysh, especially given the number of times I wiped his eye with the ladies over the years.

  Then I get chatting to the old Dricmeister himself about rugby and how I could be where he is today if I wasn’t so into my scoops and getting my rock and roll, and I have to admit, roysh, I’m actually a bit in awe of the goy, though I’m pretty sure it’s, like, mutual – two former schools rugby legends, living the dream, blahdy blahdy blah. So I’m just about to tell him, roysh, that I’m thinking of going back to playing rugby next year, maybe for, like, Greystones, when all of a sudden I get this, like, tap on the shoulder, roysh, and I spin around and who is it – OH FOCK! – only Sorcha.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, Babes. Thank God you got in. I was worried sick,’ and she’s like, ‘OH MY GOD, Ross, enough already?! I’ve got something to tell you…’ and I just go, ‘Bit busy at the mo, Babes. I need to ask the bouncers to fock out those two boggers from Westlife,’ and she goes, ‘HELLO? I think this is slightly more important, Ross,’ but everyone’s watching and ISO don’t want a scene.

  So I go to walk away and I notice that Erika’s suddenly up at the bor, roysh, and she’s, like, chatting away to Ronan and he has his orm around her waist, the lucky focker, and I don’t know what he’s saying to her, roysh, but she’s clearly loving it because she’s, like, smiling again and then I see her turn around and give him, like, a peck on the lips and Ronan catches my eye and gives me the old thumbs-up.

  Sorcha goes, ‘HELLO? I need to talk to you, Ross,’ but I’m there, ‘Later,’ and she’s like, ‘Okay, I’ll say it in front of everybody then… Ross, us two… are about to become three.’

  And I just, like, freeze on the spot, roysh, because I think I know what she’s hinting at. It’s weird, roysh, might be all the champagne I knocked back with Samantha Mumba earlier, but everything’s moving in, like, slow motion. I’m there, ‘oh my God, I don’t think I want to hear this,’ and she goes, ‘You oh my God better hear it, Ross,’ and I look around me, roysh, and in that moment it all, like, suddenly hits me. JP couldn’t have set it up better himself. I look at Erika and I go, ‘A cow,’ then I look at Donnacha and I’m like, ‘A donkey,’ then at Drico, Dorce and Shaggy and I’m there, ‘Three focking kings.’

  I see Fionn shaking his head. He goes, ‘You goys didn’t follow a stor to get here, did you?’ and Drico nods his head over at One F and goes, ‘No, we followed the goy from The Stor.’

  This shit is, like, SO freaking me out. I go, ‘What about the shepherds?’ and Oisinn, who’s suddenly arrived over, goes, ‘The goys from Westlife – they’re boggers, roysh? And we all know that boggers like to look after sheep.’

  I point at Fionn and I go, ‘Look, we even have a virgin.’

  So Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, I’m pregnant,’ and probably the worst thing in the world that a basic husband can say at this point is, Oh, and I suppose it’s mine? which is what I actually do say. I go, ‘Oh, and I suppose it’s mine?’ which earns me a slap across the boat, followed by a Bacordi Breezer all over my new beige chinos.
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  Then Fionn – it would have to be Fionn – goes, ‘The scene is complete. Look everyone, the child’s father thinks he’s God,’ and of course everyone’s just, like, cracking their holes laughing.

  I’m just there, ‘And a merry focking Christmas to you, too, orseholes.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Sunday Tribune editors past and present who took a chance on an unknown, rich, obnoxious and ridiculously good-looking southside kid. Thanks to Matt, Paddy, Jim, Ger, Maureen, Deirdre and Colm. Thanks to Rachel Pierce, my editor – cleverer and funnier than me – for keeping the kid in line. Thanks to my agent, Faith O’Grady. Thanks to Michael McLoughlin, Patricia Deevy and everyone at Penguin Ireland for your support. And Dad, Vincent, Richard and Mark, and to Mary, and all my friends, as ever…