Ross O'Carroll-Kelly: The Teenage Dirtbag Years: 2 (Ross O'Carroll Kelly) Read online

  Erika finishes texting Jenny, roysh, takes a sip out of her Coke and, like, pulls this face. She pushes it over to me and goes, ‘Taste that. That’s not Diet Coke, is it?’ I take a sip, roysh, but she doesn’t wait for my answer, just grabs the waitress by the elbow as she’s passing by and goes, ‘I asked for a Diet Coke.’ The waitress is basically having none of it, she’s there going, ‘That is Diet Coke.’ And Erika’s like, ‘Hello? I think I know what Diet Coke tastes like.’ The bird picks it up and says she’ll, like, change it, but Erika, roysh, she grabs her by the orm, looks her up and down and goes, ‘If I was earning two pounds an hour, I’d probably have an attitude problem as well.’ I’m like, ‘Well said, Erika,’ trying to make Sorcha jealous and, like, totally succeeding.

  Zoey’s talking about some goy called Jamie from second year Orts who is SO like Richard Fish it’s unbelievable, roysh, and Sorcha and Emer stort having this, like, debate about whether Richard Fish is actually sexy, or whether it’s just because he’s a bastard to women, when all of a sudden the manager comes over and tells us he wants us to leave. We’re all there, ‘You needn’t think we’re paying,’ and as we’re going out the door the waitress goes, ‘Snobby bastards,’ under her breath, roysh, and Erika gives her this, like, total filthy and goes, ‘Being working class is nothing to be proud of, Dear.’

  It’s, like, two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, roysh, and the traffic on the Stillorgan dualler is un-focking-believable, we’re talking bomper to bomper here. I mean, what is the point of having a cor that can do seventy if forty is the fastest you’re allowed to go? Mind you, roysh, get above seventy in this thing – the old dear’s focking Micra – and bits stort to fall off, not that there’s much danger of that happening with this bitch in front of me. She is SO trying to fock me over, roysh, driving really slowly and then, like, speeding up when she sees the traffic lights on orange, trying to make me miss the lights. I turn on the radio and flick through the presets but there’s, like, fock-all on. Samantha Mumba is actually on three different stations at the same time and I’m wondering if this is, like, a world record or something, and Helen Vaughan says that ‘raidworks continue to operate on the Rock Raid saithbaind between the Tara Hotel and the Punchbowl, and the Old Belgord Raid is claised to traffic immediately saith of the junction with Embankment Raid.’ And three goys in a silver Peugeot 206 pass me and they all have a good scope into the cor, roysh, obviously thinking it’s a bird driving it because it’s, like, a bird’s cor – I have to admit, I get that all the time – and when they see it’s a goy they all, like, crack their shites laughing, roysh, so I just give them the finger.

  What the fock sociology has to do with sport I don’t know, but Oisinn says it’s on the course, roysh, and if it’s on the course it means we probably should check it out, suss out the talent again and let the birds see what’s on offer. As it turns out, roysh, my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me on the first day. The talent’s focking incredible, and I’m just thinking, roysh, I might actually come back to a few more of these lecture things, when all of a sudden who walks in only Aisling Hehir, as in former-Holy-Child-Killiney-head-girl Aisling, as in plays-hockey-for-Three-Rock-Rovers Aisling, as in here’s-my-tits-my-orse-will-be-along-in-fifteen-minutes Aisling, and we’re all there, ‘Oooh, baby!’

  I’ve never actually been with her before, roysh – despite her best efforts, it has to be said – always thought of her as a bit of a BOBFOC, the old Body Off ‘Baywatch’, Face Off ‘Crimewatch’ sort. I don’t know where the fock she was last summer, roysh, but she’s got the Peter Pan and she’s, I don’t know, done something with her hair, highlights or some shit, and she looks focking amazing, it has to be said: white Nike top, pink Juicy tracksuit top tied around her waist, Louis Vuitton gym bag over her shoulder. Everyone’s eyes are, like, out on stalks when they see her and – unbelievable, roysh – don’t know how I missed her on Freshers’ Day, but she gives a little wave to me and Oisinn, the two of us up the back playing Jack the Lad.

  Of course this doesn’t go down too well with the Blackrock goys, roysh, who’ve been giving us, like, filthies since we got in, especially that dickhead Matthew Path who can’t handle the fact that I scored his bird during the summer while he was off in Ibiza on a post-Leaving Cert porty, roysh, getting his jollies off a load of ugly English slappers while I’m rattling his stunner of a girlfriend, Kate I think her name was. The word is he’s taken her back, which to me lacks dignity, roysh, and the next time he turns around and tries to stare me out of it, I give him the L-sign.

  Goes without saying, roysh, that the lecture is one big focking bore, the goy’s up there blabbing on about Emile Durkheim, whoever the fock she is, and I turn to Oisinn’s cousin, Kellser – he’s a Mary’s boy, but still sound – and I’m like, ‘Are we really in the roysh lecture hall?’ and he goes, ‘Amazingly, yes. Can’t see myself coming back, though. Hey, check out Aisling Hehir’s rack.’ I’m like, ‘One step ahead of you, my man, one step ahead.’

  Of course what happens then, roysh, but the lecturer, I don’t even know what his focking name is, he totally snares Kellser and he’s like, ‘You up there. No, not you. Behind you. The boy with the blue shirt, white star on it.’ Kellser’s there, ‘Me?’ and the goy’s like, ‘Yes, you. Would you like to come down and talk to us about dialectical materialism?’ Of course Kellser goes, ‘Eh, no,’ and the goy’s there, ‘Okay, we’ll cut a deal then, I’ll stay down here talking to the class about Emile Durkheim and you stay up there with your mouth shut.’ I turn around to Kellser and I’m like, ‘Sorry, man,’ and he goes, ‘It’s cool.’

  Don’t know what Oisinn’s at, he’s saying fock-all, just sitting there with his head down and for a minute, roysh, I think he’s actually listening to the lecture, but then my mobile beeps twice and I realise he was sending me a text message and it’s, like, a Limerick, roysh, and it’s:

  THERE WAS A YOUNG ROCK BOY NAMED ROSS, WHOSE LIFE WAS A BIT OF A DOSS, UNMATCHED WAS HIS DIZZINESS, BUT HIS DAD OWNS A BUSINESS, AND ONE DAY HE’LL MAKE ROSS THE BOSS!

  I’m about to send him one back, roysh, but he’s, like, really good at them, the fat bastard, and I can’t think of any words that rhyme with Oisinn, so I just send him back a message and it’s like, RETORD! Pretty happy with that.

  So there we are afterwards, roysh, arranged to meet Christian at the Blob, when all of a sudden this goy comes up to me – glasses, real nerdy head on him, I’m thinking, He’s got to be a mate of Fionn’s – and he goes, ‘Didn’t see you at the meeting, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘And what meeting is that?’ He goes, ‘Young Fine Gael. You joined up on Freshers’ Day.’ Freshers’ Day, that’s a story in itself. I go, ‘Listen, I said and did a lot of things on Freshers’ Day. If I joined whatever focking club it is you’re talking about, I did it to take the piss. Now fock off,’ and he calls me an intellectual pygmy or some shit, then does as he’s told and focks off, and Oisinn high-fives me and tells me I’m the man.

  Christian eventually comes along and he’s talking to this total honey, who’s apparently on his course, and he’s telling her that General Carlist Rieekan was one of the best commanders the Rebel Alliance ever had and that, far from a defeat, the abandoning of the rebel base at Hoth was an inspired tactical retreat that didn’t receive the recognition it deserved until he became Leia Organa’s second-in-command on the New Republic Council, and the bird’s nodding her head, roysh, but looking at him as though she’s just walked into her bedroom and caught him trying on her best dress.

  She focks off – no introductions, Christian lives in his own little world – and Fionn goes, ‘What’s the scéal? Looks like the Fahrenheit is working after all,’ and Christian goes, ‘Thanks, young Skywalker,’ then he turns to me and he’s like, ‘What did you goys have?’ I’m like, ‘Sociology. It’s, like, the mind and shit. I need a pint.’

  We decide to hit the bor, roysh. I get the first round in and we bump into Fionn, who’s doing Orts – we’re talking psychology and Arabic and we
’re basically talking brains to burn here – and he’s sitting up at the bor with these two birds who are in his class and he’s telling them that, personally, he thinks Starbucks is far from the benign face of corporate imperialism that it pretends to be, that the company so beloved by liberal sophisticates for the cosy, aromatic, comfy-cushioned, ennui-inducing, ‘Friends’-style world it has created is actually no different from McDonalds in its corporate structure and ideals, and is a major player in corporate America’s plan to culturally homogenise the world. The birds are nodding their heads and telling him he is SO roysh, and there’s pretty much nothing I can contribute to this conversation, so I change the subject, roysh, and say I bought the new U2 album, All That You Can’t Leave Behind, and I tell them it’s way better than, like, their first album. One of the birds – she looks a bit like Elize du Toit except with longer hair – she looks at me funny and goes, ‘Their first album? Which was their first, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘Pop. It’s way better than Pop,’ and everyone in the group just breaks their shites laughing, roysh, including Christian, who’s supposed to be my best friend, and Fionn goes, ‘Anyone with information on the whereabouts of Ross O’Carroll-Kelly’s brain, please contact Gardaí at Cabinteely,’ and I haven’t a clue what’s so funny and it’s only later that I remember about Zooropa.

  I get home from town at, like, four o’clock in the afternoon, roysh, and the old man’s standing in the hallway, white as a sheet, and we’re talking totally here, and he’s just there, ‘Ross, you’re home.’ Of course I’m like, ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ and he goes, ‘Come into the kitchen and sit down. I’ve got some bad news.’ I’m there, ‘What are you crapping on about?’ and he goes, ‘They’re moving the Irish rugby team, Ross. They’re moving them to … God, I can’t even say it … the northside. The northside, Ross, I’m sorry.’ Don’t know what he’s bullshitting on about, roysh, but there’s a stink of whiskey off his breath and a huge whack gone out of the bottle of Jameson he got off his golfing mates for his fiftieth, the bunch of tossers. He always tries to be real palsy-walsy with me when he’s locked. I’m, like, totally storving and I’m there, ‘Where’s that stupid wagon?’ He’s like, ‘Your mother’s out. She has coffee every Thursday afternoon with the girls. You know that,’ and I’m like, ‘What’s the focking story with dinner?’ but he totally ignores me, just goes, ‘I’ve been trying to catch her on her mobile since two o’clock, but of course she’s in the National Gallery, she’s not going to have it on. She’s a strong woman, your mother. Heaven knows I need her now …’

  He pours himself another drink, roysh, sits down at the table and puts his head in his hands, so I get up, grab a pack of Kettle Chips and a handful of, like, funsize Mars bars out of the cupboard and stort moseying up to my room. Then I hear him, like, crying. Hello? I should have just ignored the attention-seeking bastard, but, of course, I’m too much of a nice goy for that. I’m like, ‘What the fock is your problem?’ and he goes, ‘Lansdowne Road, Ross. It’s over. They’re building a new stadium. In … Abbotstown.’ I’m like, ‘Where the fock is Abbotstown?’ Don’t know why I’m actually bothering to sound interested. He’s there, ‘A million miles away from the Berkeley Court, that’s where. Two million miles from Kiely’s.’ I’m like, ‘So what? The Dorsh goes there, doesn’t it?’ He just, like, shakes his head and goes, ‘Think again, Ross,’ knocks back his drink, pours himself another and carries on blubbering to himself, the total sap.

  There’s a David Gray CD on the table, we’re talking White Ladder, which Sorcha lent to the old dear. She is SO trying to get back with me, roysh, it’s pretty much embarrassing. The old man’s blabbing away again, going, ‘It’s all about votes, of course. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed thank you very much. Oh you should have heard that blasted Bertie Ahern on the one o’clock news, so bloody smug. A national stadium. Quote-unquote. And all to boost his popularity out in, what’s this you and your pals call it … Knackeragua?’

  He goes, ‘Some of the guys are coming around tonight. Hennessy’s four-square behind me. Going to set up a pressure group. KISS. Stands for Keep It South Side. And I am going to put myself forward as chairman. Or maybe president sounds better.’ Then, next thing I know, roysh, the stupid bastard’s up on his feet, practicing the speech he’s planning to make tonight, going, ‘Think of the northside and you immediately think of unmarried mothers, council houses, coal sheds and curry sauce. You think of cannabis, lycra tracksuits and football jerseys worn as fashion garments. You think of men with little moustaches selling An Phoblacht outside these wretched dole offices, mothers and fathers in the pub from morning till night, ‘Fair City’, entire families existing off welfare and – sadly – the twin scourges of drugs and satellite dishes.’ I’m like, ‘Sit down, you’re making a total dick of yourself,’ but he just carries on, giving it, ‘There are some people in this country who want our community to become a mirror of that. And that is why every white, Anglo-Saxon one of us has to stand up and treat this northside stadium nonsense for what it is: an all-out attack on our way of life. You can mark my words, this is just the thin end of the wedge. What’s next? A methadone clinic in Foxrock?’

  I hear the front door opening, roysh, and it’s, like, the old dear, and for the first time in my life I’m happy to see the bitch. Or I am until she bursts into the kitchen and storts going, ‘Charles, oh darling, I came as soon as I heard,’ and the two of them stort, like, hugging each other, complete knobs the two of them, him pissed off his face on whiskey, her doped off her head on, like, cappuccino. And they both totally blank me, roysh. And we are talking TOTALLY here. She’s like, ‘What are you going to do, Charles?’ He goes, ‘We, Fionnuala. What are we going to do?’ and she’s there, ‘Yes, of course. I’m with you, you know that,’ and he goes, ‘I’m going to fight it. Tooth and nail. Some of the chaps are coming over here tonight.’ She goes, ‘Oh I’m so proud of you. And because I knew you’d need cheering up, guess what I bought?’ and she, like, pulls out this focking Gloria Jean’s bag, roysh, and just, like, dances it up and down in front of his eyes, going, ‘Colombia Narino Supreme,’ and he’s like, ‘My favourite. I’ll fill the percolator,’ and she goes, ‘And I went to Thornton’s,’ and she pulls out this box, and I’m about to borf my ring up listening to this shit. He’s got this, like, dopey focking smile on his face and he’s there, ‘Are they cherry almond charlottes, perchance?’ and she nods and goes, ‘And … walnut kirsch marzipan.’

  He gets out the cups. Two cups. He’s like, ‘I’ve cheered right up now. I thought I was losing my mind before you came home.’ Not a mention, of course, of me trying to cheer him up. He takes a filter from the packet and then stops all of a sudden and he goes, ‘Why didn’t I think of it before? You are such an inspiration, Darling,’ and the old dear goes, ‘I know that look … you’re going to write a letter to The Irish Times, aren’t you?’ and he’s like, ‘You’re damn right I am,’ and she goes, ‘I’ll go get your pen.’

  I’m standing at the kitchen door, roysh, still being completely ignored. The old dear brushes straight past me to go into the study and doesn’t, like, say a word to me. The old man goes, ‘Get my good one, Darling. The Mont Blanc.’ The old dear comes back, roysh, and puts the pen and some of the good writing paper on the table. He hands her a cup of coffee and he goes, ‘The Irish Times will be behind me. Hell, I might even get in touch with Gerry Thornley,’ and she’s like, ‘Remember what the judge said, Charles. Two miles.’ He goes, ‘No, no, no. That’ll all be forgotten about by now … How was the gallery by the way?’ and she goes, ‘Oh, we went to the Westbury in the end. Change of scenery.’

  And they both sit down at the table, roysh, and I just give them a total filthy and I go, ‘You two are as sad as each other,’ and I head up to my room and the old dear shouts after me, ‘Don’t go far, Ross. Dinner will be an hour. It’s soba noodles with chicken and ginger.’

  We’re in town, roysh, standing in some focking nightclub queue, so horrendufied I don’t even know the name of
it, and the birds are giving out yords to me and Christian, roysh, telling us to sober up big time or we’re SO not going to, like, get in. Emer says that if we don’t get in here we should head to Lillies, and Sophie says she was there last night and OH! MY! GOD! Jason Sherlock was there and so was Liz what’s-her-name from ‘Off the Rails’. Emer says she was there with Alyson with a y and Oh My God! she’s thinking of going to Australia for the year, and Sophie goes, ‘Yeah, after she, like, finishes in Mountjoy Square, Carol told me.’

  Erika shoots Sophie a filthy, roysh, why I don’t know, but then again Erika never needs a reason, not a proper one. She’d pretty much take offence at anything when the mood takes her. But she’s looking mighty fine, it has to be said, wearing a black Donna Karan dress that looks like it’s been shrink-wrapped onto her, roysh, shows off the old melons really well.

  We get up to the door, roysh, and there’s no way the bouncers are going to let us in, me and Christian are SO struggling to hold it together, we’re totally hanging, especially Christian who was really knocking back the sauce in SamSara, but suddenly Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God! I think I know one of the goys on the door,’ and when we get up to the front of the queue she, like, flashes a smile at this big focking gorilla, roysh, and goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Hi-how-or-ya?’ as though they’re, like, long-lost friends, and she gives him a peck on the cheek and a hug, and the goy hasn’t a clue who she is, but he goes along with it, roysh, he’s getting his jollies, the old sly-hand-on-the-orse routine. He goes, ‘Lookin’ lovely tonight, ladies,’ the total focking howiya that he is.