PS I Scored the Bridesmaids Page 2

  She asks me with a totally straight face if I’ve been following what’s been happening in Singapore, and I tell her with a totally straight face that I’ve kind of lost track of it in the past few weeks. She tells me that fifteen members of the Falun Gong spiritual group were – OH! MY! GOD! – arrested for holding, like, a vigil in memory of the group members who, like, died in custody in China? We’re talking, HELLO? I’m there, ‘No focking way,’ and I’m wondering was that a bit OTT, but she just goes, ‘And now Chee Soon Juan – he’s, like, the leader of the opposition – he’s facing, like, a defamation suit from the Prime Minister for asking questions – we’re talking questions – about a multibillion dollar loan to Suharto. It’s like, Duuuhhh!’ I throw my eyes up to heaven and I go, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another, eh?’ and she sort of, like, stares into the distance and goes, ‘I know. The world is SUCH a focked-up place. Bush is going to attack Iraq as well, whether the United Nations gives him the mandate or not. It’s like, OH MY GOD!’

  Her phone beeps, roysh, and it’s, like, a text. She reads it and goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I nearly forgot – I’m meeting Andrea this afternoon,’ and I wonder if it’s the same Andrea I ended up knobbing after Annabel’s about two weeks ago. Sorcha goes, ‘She’s doing politics in UCD.’ It’s her alroysh. She’s there, ‘She has to present a paper this afternoon. ‘Sterilisation – A Solution to Northern Ireland’s Troubles.’ She thinks that everyone who earns less than £30,000 a year in the North should be neutered, thus wiping out the working classes who actually cause all the problems. It’s a bit extreme for my political taste, but I said I’d look over it for her. Actually, you and her would have a lot in common.’

  I try to play it Kool and the Gang, roysh, wondering whether Andrea’s actually said anything, but Sorcha breaks her shite laughing and goes, ‘I believe you two already know each other?’ and I can feel my face go red. She goes, ‘It’s okay, Ross. I’m not jealous. I am SO over you, it’s like, Aaaggghhh. Watch her, though. She might be one of my best friends, but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I’d throw her.’

  We finish lunch and she pays using her gold cord, roysh, and as I get up to go she’s just there, ‘Leanne Rimes’ Greatest Hits,’ and of course I’m there, ‘Sorry?’ and she goes, ‘Andrea said it went missing from her aportment the night you stayed over. Don’t tell me you and the other goys are still playing that stupid game?’ That stupid game, roysh, happens to be called Petty Pilfering and not only are we still playing it, roysh, but we’ve got, like, a thousand bills riding on the current game. Basically, roysh, me and the goys – we’re talking me, Christian, JP, Oisinn and Fionn – we all threw, like, two hundred sheets each into the pot, which adds up to basically a grand, roysh, and it goes to whichever one of us reaches the magical fifty number first. And whoever finishes last, roysh – it’ll be Fionn, of course – has to do a forfeit. The winner gets to pick a song off one of his fifty CDs which the loser has to, like, perform while standing on the bor in the Club of Love. Petty Pilfering, you can’t beat it.

  I go, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sorcha,’ which is technically true, roysh, because the CD I stole from Andrea was, like, Short Sharp Shocked by Michelle Shocked. Unless I’m very much mistaken it was Oisinn who stole her Leanne Rimes CD, and if she can’t keep track of who’s robbing what from her, then she’s probably putting it about a bit too much. Sorcha goes, ‘When are you going to grow up, Ross?’ and I look down at my plate trying to look, I don’t know, ashamed I suppose. Then as she gets up, roysh, she kisses me on the cheek and goes, ‘Still cute, though,’ and she says she’ll text me. I watch her leave. Still has a great orse.

  I walk into the kitchen and, of course, Dickhead’s in there being his usual dickhead self. He’s got the phone up to his ear, roysh, and the second he sees me he puts his hand over the mouthpiece and goes, ‘I take it from your less-than-cheerful countenance that you’ve yet to hear the joyous news?’ and I’m there, ‘Shut the fock up, you absolute orsehole.’ He goes, ‘The Bertie Bowl, Ross. It’s history. Charlie Bird’s been on the news. Mary Harney’s put her foot down. Rugby on the northside. The very idea. I’m on to the florists now.’

  I’m about to tell him, roysh, that he’s the biggest knob I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet when he takes his hand away from the mouthpiece all of a sudden and he goes, ‘Hello? Yes, I’ve been holding for ten minutes. Used to love ‘The Entertainer’, now I wouldn’t care if I never heard the damned tune again. Want to order a wreath, please. Just a regular funeral wreath. Doesn’t matter what flowers. And could you put on the card: RIP Knacker Park. Yes, Knacker Park. Yes, it’s going to Mister Bertie Ahern, Taoiseach, Leinster House, Kildare Street, Dublin 2, thank you very much indeed. Oh and put a couple of exclamation marks after RIP Knacker Park. Three. No, four. Is four overdoing it? No, three then.’

  What a tool.

  I get a text from JP and it’s like, Scord Nicki Carney lst nite. Robbd In Your Time, Mark Owen’s nvr-populr solo effrt, and I text him back, Respect! and he just goes, Affluence!

  I hit Kiely’s, roysh, having basically arranged to meet Fionn for a few scoops, but of course Goggle Features is too busy to even notice me, sat up at the bor he is, with his focking groupies, three or four freshers, total airheads, roysh, and coming from me that’s saying something. Should see them, roysh, hanging on his every word, because of course he’s, like, lecturing in UCD now. Lechering, more like. He’s going, ‘Well, yes, Emile Durkheim is the father of modern sociology after a fashion. But don’t forget about Max Weber’s contribution,’ which I’d rip the total piss out of him for if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m here looking for a favour from him. Eventually, roysh, the dude decides to actually acknowledge my existence.

  He goes, ‘The very man. There we were, talking about humankind’s deepest thinkers and suddenly you walk in,’ and I can’t make out whether he’s, like, taking the piss, but the birds all crack up, so he might be. He does the introductions. One of them, her name’s, like, Julie-Ann – nice rack, but a brace on her Taylor Keith – she just gives me this filthy, roysh, looks me up and down, and goes, ‘So you’re Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?’ and I’m like, ‘The one and only,’ playing it like Steve Silvermint, of course. She’s there, ‘You went to my sister Amy’s debs,’ like I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about. Actually, I think I do. Uh-oh. It’s like, There may be trouble aheeeaaad. I’m there, ‘That was, like, two months ago. Tell her to get laid and get over it,’ and then I’m like, ‘Anyway, I’m TRYING to talk to my friend here,’ and I point to her three mates and I’m like, ‘Go and take the dogs for a walk,’ because in fairness they are all mutts. Fionn goes, ‘I’ll talk to you later, girls’, and they all fock off to the jacks together, to top up their Eau Dynamisante and talk about how fanciable I’d be if I wasn’t such a bastard to women.

  Fionn pushes his glasses up on his nose and goes, ‘A tad unnecessary, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Fock’s sake, Fionn. First years?’ and he goes, ‘Sorry, remind me who it was went to the Loreto on the Green debs recently?’ and it’s like, you know, touché. I’m there, ‘I cannot BELIEVE Amy’s still going on about that,’ and he goes, ‘Ross, you slept with her best friend on the night of her debs,’ and I’m like, ‘Oh and that’s suddenly, like, a big deal, is it?’ Fionn goes, ‘You see, Ross, because of various demographic and socio-economic factors that you’re too pissed to understand at this particular juncture, the debs has assumed a far greater significance in the lives of teenage girls and their families than it enjoyed, say, five years ago.’ He loves the sound of his own voice, the Specsavers focker. Knows his stuff, though, you have to hand it to him.

  He’s going, ‘Girls could usually expect to be married with children by their mid-twenties. Not anymore. With house prices being what they are, the single-income household is a thing of the past. In any relationship now, there’s an imperative on both porties to have a career, which means they’re tying the knot a lot later in life, often in their thirties, if at all. So, you see, the debs has become almost a surrogate wedding. The debs is the big day now. And you ruined Amy’s.’

  I’m just there, ‘Okay, spare me the focking guilt trip. Fionn, I need your help. You’re, well, the cleverest goy I know, roysh?’ and Fionn’s there, ‘What about all your friends from Mensa?’ which is probably a piss-take as well for all I know, but I just, like, ignore it. I go, ‘Fionn, I need you to write something for me,’ and he’s like, ‘Write something? You’ve changed your mind about that French exchange student who had the hots for you, haven’t you?’ I just give him daggers, roysh, but I need the focker at this moment in time, so I go, ‘It’s actually the script for a porno film to be precise. Long story, roysh, but that film-making course that Christian’s doing isn’t the total waste of time I told him it was. The stupid fockers have given him ten thousand squids to make a movie, Fionn. How focked up is that?’

  He goes, ‘And Christian wants it to be a porno?’ I’m there, ‘No, Christian wants it to be about focking spacemen. But I am SO not letting him waste this money.’ Fionn goes, ‘If it’s a porno, I take it that you’re going to be the lead?’ and I’m like, ‘You’ve got to get the best, Fionn, even if it means paying a few squids over the odds.’ I should probably state at this point, roysh, that I have no intention of anyone ever seeing this film. For me it’s the chance to earn seven-and-a-half Ks, big my end away on camera – a new experience for me, believe it or not – and maybe take home a souvenir copy of the video. If the Head of Christian’s course wants to see it, well and good, if that’s what pumps his nads, but what I’m saying is it’s not going to be on in the focking IMC in Dún Laoghaire.

  Fionn goes, ‘Why are you asking me? I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to write
a script,’ and I’m there, ‘Use your imagination. You used it enough when I was sharing a gaff with you. I remember how many boxes of Kleenex you went through in a week,’ and it’s true, roysh, the dude has the biggest collection of adult movies this side of Hugh Heffner’s front focking door.

  I’m there, ‘There’s two grand in it for you,’ and he suddenly looks up, roysh, all interested. He’s there, ‘Two grand?’ and I’m there, ‘There’s enough in the budget for a good scriptwriter,’ and he’s so focking happy I’m bulling now I didn’t say one-and-a-half instead. Only got, like, five hundred bills left now for overheads. He goes, ‘Have you a leading lady? Just so I can have her in mind when I’m doing the writing.’ He’s a total professional is Fionn. You get what you pay for, you see. I’m there, ‘It’s almost certainly going to be Emer, as in Sandycove Emer,’ and Fionn nods his head and pushes his glasses up and goes, ‘Good chemistry there. It’ll work,’ which, fair play to him, he didn’t have to say. I’m there, ‘I think so, too. Just a matter of getting her to agree to it now.’

  Says in the paper, roysh, that Susan Sarandon – who I’d do in the blink of an eye – has welcomed the release of environmental activists Rodolfo Montiel and Teodoro Cabrera, and she’s backing Amnesty International’s call on the Mexican government to acknowledge their innocence of terrorism charges and to investigate their claims that they were tortured while in custody. I remember Sorcha banging on about these two dudes before, so I cut the article out, roysh, and, bent as it sounds, I put it in an envelope and lash it in the post for her with a little note just saying, I don’t know, I thought she might be interested in this, maybe meet soon for a drink, blah blah blah.

  ‘You always said you wanted to work in movies,’ I say to Emer. She goes, ‘I’m doing four nights a week in Advance Vision. So I already am in a way,’ and she gives me one of those stupid girly laughs and I forgot, roysh, that the girl is sappier than an entire Irish debating team. I’m there, ‘It’s not what you dreamt of, though, is it? Come on, Emer, we’re talking a proper movie here. We’re talking silver screen.’ She goes, ‘I don’t know. What kind of movie are we talking about?’ like she’s focking Nicole Kidman or something, in a position to pick and choose. I’m like, ‘It’s, em, for mature audiences,’ and she goes, ‘Mature audiences? Oh, like The English Patient?’ and I go, ‘A bit, yeah,’ deciding it’s probably best if I break her to it very gently. I’m like, ‘Can I get you another Cosmopolitan?’ thinking she has focking expensive taste in drinks this bird, we’re talking a tenner a pop here, and I must remember to keep the receipts – don’t want to end up out of pocket. She goes, ‘That’d be lovely, thanks. I, em, very nearly didn’t come tonight, I hope you know that,’ and I’m like, ‘Why, pray tell?’ She goes, ‘Why? Ross, you never rang me. And that number you gave me didn’t exist.’ I’m like, ‘I’d just gone through a pretty painful break-up,’ spinning her a total cock-and-bull story. I’m there, ‘I guess I could feel myself falling in love with you. I had to get out before I got hurt again.’

  That’s rocked her back on her heels. She’s there, ‘In love with me? But we were only, like, with each other that one night,’ and I go, ‘Sometimes a minute is all it takes to fall in love,’ and all of a sudden she’s as happy as a Tallafornian on Mickey Thursday. She goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I am, like, SO sorry, Ross. I SO didn’t know you felt that way,’ and I just shrug my shoulders and take a long gulp of Ken. I don’t know how I can live with myself sometimes. She goes, ‘I’ll never forget what you said to me that night, though,’ and I’m thinking, it could have been anything, roysh, because I was off my tits. She goes, ‘I had just sent off my application to go on, like, ‘Pop Idol’ and you were like, “If it went on looks alone, they’d declare you the winner straight away”.’

  I’m there, ‘And I meant it,’ really softening her up now for the kill. She’s like, ‘Can I ask you a question? It’s, like, personal?’ and I’m wondering did I end up, I don’t know, giving her something the night we were together, but she just goes, ‘Did you borrow my Sheryl Crow CD? As in Tuesday Night Music Club?’ I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’ cracking on to be majorly pissed off. She goes, ‘I said borrow. It’s just, I was sure it was there on the locker beside my bed that night. And the next morning …’ And then she thinks better of it and goes, ‘OH MY GOD! what am I saying? I am SO sorry, Ross. I feel like SUCH an orsehole for, like, bringing it up,’ and I’m there, ‘Just leave it,’ and she’s like, ‘No, Ross, genuinely. I am SUCH an ungrateful bitch sometimes. I mean, here you are, trying to help me out with my, like, career and shit, and I’m practically accusing you of, like, stealing a CD from my room. HELLO? Sometimes I’m like, DUUUHHH!’ I’m there, ‘You’re not the first person to misjudge me,’ and she goes, ‘I know. You get SUCH a hord time from people,’ and I’m like, ‘It’s mostly because I’m good-looking,’ and she nods all, like, sympathetically, I suppose you’d call it. Then she goes, ‘I am SO looking forward to working with you. When will I get the script?’ I knock back another shitload of Ken and I go, ‘You want to see the script beforehand?’ and she’s there, ‘Duuuhh? Naturally! To, like, learn my lines,’ and under my breath I’m like, ‘Don’t think that’s going to take long.’

  I order her another Cosmopolitan, the thirsty bitch. Suddenly she’s all, like, excited and she’s going, ‘Will I get a chance to use my ballet?’ I’m there, ‘Can you still do that thing where you wrap your legs around your neck?’ and she’s like, ‘Yeah,’ and I go, ‘We’ll see if there’s some way we can include it.’

  In This Skin by Jessica Simpson is definitely the worst CD I’ve ever robbed. Total crap. Sara Mooney: shit taste in music, shit taste in men. What star sign does that make her?

  It’s, like, midnight, roysh, and I’m in the Margaret – on my own, for once – when all of a sudden my phone rings and my caller ID says it’s, like, Sorcha. I’m there, ‘Hey, Hon,’ and she goes, ‘Hey, Ross. What are you doing?’ I’m there, ‘Just, em, thinking.’ I was actually reading FHM, but I don’t want her to think I was knocking one off the wrist. She goes, ‘I’m SO glad you’re doing something you’re passionate about.’ The focking top tens on Hilary Swank! She’s there, ‘Hey, thanks for that article. Susan Sarandon does SUCH good work. It’s like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and she goes quiet for a few seconds, roysh, and the next thing that comes out of her mouth is, ‘We live in a cynical, cynical world,’ and that’s when I cop, roysh, that she’s been basically crying.

  I’m there, ‘Sorcha, what’s wrong?’ and she’s like, ‘Nothing,’ and I go, ‘Sounds like nothing as in something,’ and she storts spilling her guts out to me, about how the Japanese have developed a satellite that will allow them to monitor the movement of minke whales and kill them in greater numbers. She goes, ‘And this is supposedly in the name of scientific research. They’re hell-bent on resuming full-blown commercial whaling, Ross. I know it.’ I’m like, ‘Sorcha, you’ve got to stop taking the problems of the world onto your shoulders,’ which is a bit, I don’t know, deep for me, I suppose. The thing is, roysh, I really do care about her, dickhead and all that I am sometimes. I go, ‘It’s late. Would you not try to get some sleep?’ and she goes, ‘HELLO? They’re already killing four hundred a year, Ross. How can I be expected to sleep? I’m going to look up the Greenpeace website. See if there’s an online petition or something.’

  Been living the dream these last few days. Friday night I ended up scoring Heidi Hession, as in studying-to-be-an-auctioneer Heidi, and robbed Folklore by Nelly Furtado. Saturday night I bagged off with that Emily Patten who’s a real, like, girl-next-door type – if you happen to be Cheryl Tweedy’s neighbour! Let’s just say that In the Zone by Britney Spears is not all I got from her. Then Sunday night it was Blathnad McAuley, who I’m basically convinced knocked back the Wonderbra ad because she thought Eva Herzegovina could do with the work. My selection there was The Diary of Alicia Keyes by, funnily enough, Alicia Keyes.