‘You won’t ring me,’ Muireann goes. ‘I know you won’t.’ At least, I think her name is Muireann. She’s there, ‘Oh my God, that SO always happens when a goy gets it on the first night.’ I give her a hug, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Listen to me, I’ve got as much respect for you this morning as I did last night,’ and I’m making a big zero behind her back, roysh, which is sort of, like, childish, I know, but it’s something to tell the goys later. She pulls away from me, roysh, so she can look into my eyes – as if she’s going to find something in them – and she goes, ‘Giselle was, like, SO wrong about you.’ I’m there, ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ playing it totally Kool and the Gang, hoping to get another quickie in before she heads off to work. But she’s big into hugs this bird, roysh, and she’s there giving me another, like she’s never going to see me again. And although I haven’t broken the news to her yet, she isn’t. And I’m just standing there, roysh, praying that she doesn’t move her hand down to my orse because I’ve got one of her CDs in my back pocket. It’s a long story.
About six months ago, roysh, I storted this new craze called Petty Pilfering. Basically, every time you knob a bird you have to steal a CD from her bedroom. Anyway, without wanting to sound like a total dickhead, roysh, I’ve got nearly a whole shelf of them at this stage. Some of them are pretty decent as well, I have to say. We’re talking Pulp’s A Different Class, The Verve’s Urban Hymns and the soundtrack from Trainspotting. Of course, Fionn has to, like, hijack the whole thing. He says that stealing CDs that you actually want means it’s not a game at all, it’s just thieving, which basically makes me a knacker. This all came out a couple of weeks ago in The Bailey, when I pulled out the new Oasis album, which I had snaffled from Elaine, as in Glenageary Elaine with the black curly teeth.
Fionn goes, ‘Philosophically, Ross, you’d have to ask yourself whether you’re doing this for fun, or if you’re succumbing to some primordial instinct that’s in you to take things that don’t belong to you. Who knows, in a previous life you might have lived in Bray.’ I was, like, so tempted to deck the focker, break every pane of glass in his face. Instead, roysh, I did what I do best. The next time he saw me, I laid OTT’s This One’s For You, Hootie and the Blowfish’s Cracked Rear View and The Best of Andrew Lloyd Webber down on the table and went, ‘Alisa from LSB, Katy from the tennis club and Simon’s cousin with the huge baps who used to work in Benetton. Read ’em and weep.’ Of course, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s there pushing his glasses up on his nose going, ‘Ross, I didn’t mean to impugn …’ I’m just like, ‘Notches on the bedpost, Fionn. Notches on the bedpost.’ I know for a fact, roysh, that the second I left the boozer he was telling everyone that I bought them myself, which is total bullshit. He knows I did the business, roysh, with a bit of help from Hugo Boss, who makes jeans with a back pocket that fits a CD, like, perfectly.
So anyway, roysh, back to Muireann. I’m there going, don’t let those hands go too low. Of course, the girl can’t help herself. She, like, grabs my orse, roysh, and she’s like, ‘What’s that?’ I’m like, ‘What?’ She goes, ‘In your pocket. What is it?’ Quick as a flash, roysh, I’m like, ‘It’s, em, a present. It’s a present for you. A CD.’ She’s like, ‘Which one?’ I can’t even remember which one I robbed. I was going to take Madonna’s Something to Remember, but couldn’t decide whether it could be classed as cool or not. Anyway, roysh, I whip the CD out and straight away she’s like, ‘Gary Barlow. Oh my God!’ Gary focking Barlow, that was it. I’m still there playing it cool as a fish’s fart. I’m like, ‘I hope you haven’t got it already.’ I know what’s coming next. ‘Em, no,’ she lies. She’s like, ‘I’ve always wanted it though. OH! MY! GOD! You are such a mind-reader. You know me SO well.’ Then she’s like, ‘This is probably such an uncool thing, but I prefer Gary Barlow to Robbie Williams. Oh my God, you SO better not tell Jenny and Esme that.’ I would except I haven’t a focking clue who she’s talking about. I’m there, ‘Yeah, well, I’m actually a Gary Barlow man myself.’ If the goys find out I said that …
She takes the CD out of the box and, like, turns around to put it on and she goes, ‘What’s your favourite song?’ and I scan down through the track list, picking songs at random. I’m like, “No Commitment’, ‘Are you Ready Now?’ ‘I Fall So Deep’, ‘Forever Love’.’ She goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! ‘Forever Love’. That’s my favourite as well. Oh my God, we are SO well suited.’ So suddenly it comes on, roysh – ‘My love it has so many empty spaces’ – and I’m there thinking, Like your head, Muireann. Just like your head. I don’t actually say it, though. She gives me another hug and we stort, like, slow-dancing in her kitchen. What a sap. Wetter than a bank holiday weekend in Dingle. But I think there’s a reasonable chance I’m going to get that quickie now.
Might take the Madonna CD after all.
Aoife says that to burn off the calories from a Snickers bar would basically take forty-five minutes on an exercise bike, and Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God! That’s, like, OH! MY! GOD!’ And Keera, roysh, she asks how long a Caramel bar would take and Aoife looks at her as though it’s, like, the stupidest question she’s ever heard in her life and she goes, ‘How the fock would I know? What am I, an expert on dieting or something?’ and Keera, like, shakes her head and goes, ‘Sorr-ee!’ and Aoife tells Keera she has such an attitude problem. Sophie says she went to the gym last night with Amy and Faye for a jacuzzi and one of those high-protein shakes.
I eat the froth at the bottom of my cup, lick the spoon and check my messages. There’s, like, two. One is from Eva who wants to know whether I’ve heard about Anna, not Anna as in first year law Portobello Anna but Anna as in clarinet Anna, and the total fool she made of herself in the rugby club last Saturday night. Michelle from Ulster Bank has also rung to say she’s, like, concerned about my overdraft, roysh, and I’m tempted to ring her back and tell her I’m glad one of us is because basically I couldn’t give two focks.
Keera stands up, roysh, and makes a little announcement – she’s going to the Ladies – and she says it, roysh, as though she expects Aoife and Sophie to come with her, but they don’t move and Keera’s already up on her feet, roysh, so she’s sort of, like, past the point of no return you could say, and she has to go on her own. When she’s gone, roysh, Aoife goes, ‘Sorry, how much weight has that girl put on?’ Sophie goes, ‘I know, I know. It’s like, OH! MY! GOD! It’s like, Hello?’ Aoife goes, ‘Tell me that’s a skinny latte she’s drinking,’ and Sophie’s like, ‘It’s, like, SO not. It’s, like, full-fat milk.’ And Aoife goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD!, that girl is, like, so … duuhh!’ Sophie goes, ‘TOTALLY. It’s, like, her points have SO gone out the window since she broke up with Eoin. If she’s, like, eating out, she only counts whatever she orders herself. If she, like, takes a few fries off your plate or has, like, half your dessert, it’s like she thinks it doesn’t count.’ Aoife’s there, ‘That is SO, like … aaaggghhh!’ and Sophie goes, ‘I know. It’s, like, totally … duuuhhh!’ Aoife’s there, ‘It SO is. I’m, like, Hello?’
Keera comes back, roysh, and Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God, Keera, you have lost SO much weight,’ and Keera, like, looks at Sophie, then at Aoife, then at Sophie again, like she can’t work out whether she’s being, like, a bitch, and she eventually goes, ‘I SO haven’t. I look in the mirror and it’s, like, OH! MY! GOD! I’m just like … aaaggghhh!’ Sophie tells her she SO should wear that pink belly top she bought in Morgan for Críosa’s twenty-first. Aoife tells her she SO should, that it would look, like, SO cool.
Fionn comes in, roysh, and it’s, like, a relief to have some male company at last. Aoife and Sophie and Keera all stand up and, like, hug and air-kiss him, and Sophie tells him she has SO missed him and Fionn pushes his glasses up on his nose and goes, ‘I met you in Benetton half an hour ago.’ Aoife goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Speaking of Benetton, Jane texted me this morning and she said Sara is SO not going out this weekend.’ Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God, that’s, like, why not?’ And Aoife goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! She was such a total slut last weekend. She was, like, flirting her orse off with Conor. All night. In the rugby club. We’re talking Conor as in might be playing for the Clontarf J2s next year Conor. But she ended up being with, like, his best friend. We’re talking Cian. It’s, like, OH! MY! GOD!’ Keera goes, ‘That’s, like, SO not a cool thing to do. It’s like … duuuhhh!’ Aoife goes, ‘TOTALLY. It’s, like … aggghhh.’
Sophie goes, ‘That girl has turned into such a Samantha. It’s, like … Hello?’ Aoife goes, ‘Oh my God, I am, like, a total Samantha myself. We are talking, like, OH! MY! GOD!’ And Sophie goes, ‘No, you’re not. You’re, like, Ally McBeal. You SO don’t know what you want.’ And Keera goes, ‘And you are SO Joey from ‘Dawson’s Creek’ as well,’ and Sophie’s like, ‘Oh my God, TOTALLY,’ and Aoife, roysh, she actually looks quite pleased with that.
I ask Fionn how college is going and he says fine, his course is a piece of piss. Sophie goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! What do you think of Monica’s hair?’ and me and Fionn, roysh, we look at each other, wondering who the fock Monica is, but we cop it when she storts, like, talking about Rachel and Phoebe as though she knows them. Aoife goes, ‘I would SO like my hair like Rachel’s. It’s, like, SO cool. I’m like, OH! MY! GOD! I asked my hairdresser to, like, do my hair like hers and I looked in the mirror afterwards and it was like … aaaggghhh!’ Sophie goes, ‘I know, but that girl who did your hair, she has such an attitude problem. She is, like, SO … duuuhhh!’
Fionn goes, ‘In a hundred and fifty years time everyone in Ireland will talk with an American accent. That’s my prediction.’ All the girls are like, ‘Hello? Where is this, like, coming from?’
Fionn and his theories.
We only really sent Oisinn’s name into ‘Blind Date’ as a joke, roysh. We came up with the idea one night when we were all watching it totally ossified in Fionn’s apartment, so we downloaded the application form off the internet and filled it in without Oisinn knowing anything about it, never thinking of course that of all the millions of applications they get in that they’d pick his out. Anyway, they did, roysh, and he rings me up one afternoon and he’s like, ‘Ross, what the fock is going on?’ and I’m like, ‘Come on, Oisinn, it’ll be a laugh. No, it’ll be a lorra, lorra laughs,’ and I basically say it the way that focking kipper says it. He’s like, ‘They want me over in London the day after tomorrow,’ which is basically Paddy’s Day, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Hey, I’m with you. Every step of the way. We’ll all go over.’
But basically, roysh, it takes me, JP, Fionn and Christian to persuade the dude to go over for the laugh, roysh. So the five of us head for the airport, roysh, check our bags in and, of course, hit the bor. So there we are, roysh, seven o’clock in the morning, basically skulling pints and we end up nearly missing our flight. JP’s there telling us we need to take a helicopter view of the situation and we’re all trying to work out what the fock he’s talking about when all of a sudden, roysh, we hear our names called out over the intercom thing, and it’s like, ‘Please make your way to boarding gate 4B. Your flight is about to close.’
So we leave our pints there and peg it down to the gate, roysh, basically knocking people out of the way as we go, and we’re pretty much there, roysh, when I realise there’s only, like, four of us and we’ve lost Oisinn somewhere along the way. I tell the goys to get on board and I’ll go and look for Oisinn, and Christian goes, ‘No, Luke, it’s too dangerous.’
Where else am I going to find Oisinn than the duty free shop, roysh, chatting away to the bird behind the perfume counter. I’m like, ‘Fock’s sake, Oisinn. We’re going to miss the flight.’ He grabs me by the arm, roysh, and storts sniffing the air. I’m like, ‘We don’t have time for this.’ He goes, ‘Can you smell that?’ I’m like, ‘Oisinn–’ He goes, ‘Green Tea, Ross. It’s Green focking Tea. Who else but Elizabeth Arden would come up with the idea of bottling tea and selling it to birds for twenty quid a pop.’ He shakes his head. He’s like, ‘Genius.’ I’m there, ‘Oisinn, you’re trolleyed.’ And the bird behind the counter, roysh, mid-twenties maybe, looks a bit like that Kimberly Davies who used to be in ‘Neighbours’, caked in slap, she’s like, ‘No, your friend is right. It’s a crisp, exhilarating fragrance that energises the spirit,’ and I look at her, roysh, and I look at Oisinn, and I know that they’ve both basically found love here today, and it pains me that I have to basically drag the two of them apart.
As we’re pegging it down to the boarding gate, Oisinn’s going, ‘I wanted you to get your nostrils around Organza, Ross. Givenchy’s ode to the eternal woman, a scent with a velvety and mythical seduction.’ Of course, he’s still bullshitting on about this while I’m trying to persuade the birds at the gate to let us onto the plane. They’re there going, ‘Sorry, the gate is closed,’ and I’m like, ‘Hey, we’ve got a television show to record,’ and I stort telling them all about, like, ‘Blind Date’, roysh, and I have to say, I think one of the birds has the serious hots for me, so in the end they let us on.
As we’re walking down the aisle, roysh, the rest of the goys are down the back giving it loads, cheering and chanting our names, while everyone else on the flight gives us, like, total filthies, and we’re talking totally here. We sit down, roysh, and then a minute later we’re in the air and knocking back the beers again. At one point Oisinn turns around to me and goes, ‘You didn’t even give me a chance to get her number, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘She wasn’t your type.’ He’s like, ‘Wasn’t my type?’ and I’m there, ‘Yeah, she was thin and she was good-looking.’ He shrugs his shoulders and goes, ‘You can’t have everything.’ I distract his attention when the duty free trolley rolls by, roysh, but JP, the shit-stirrer, he buys him a naggin of, like, Glenfiddich and Oisinn focking necks the thing, and basically it’s from that point that the day storts to go out of control.
We land in London, roysh, and collect our bags. Oisinn, egged on by JP, decides to, like, sit on the carousel and go for a ride, while Fionn is chatting up some total stunner, telling her that he’s always liked Jung’s view of libido as an asexual, primal energy and he’s there giving it, ‘That’s where both of us differ from Freud,’ and the bird, roysh – I can’t focking believe it – she’s writing down her number on the back of Fionn’s boarding pass, the nerdy-looking sap. And Christian, well, Christian’s away in his own world, as usual, so it basically looks as though I’m going to have to take charge.
I drag Oisinn off the carousel, roysh, then we grab the bags and head on through and – fair focks to Cilla – there’s, like, a limo waiting to pick us up and shit. So we all pile into the back and it’s, like, an hour between the airport and the studio and we spend the time getting totally lubricated, roysh, because there’s a whole focking drinks cabinet in the back, and there we are knocking back the VSOP brandies and smoking these big cigars and Oisinn is telling Christian about Green Tea by Elizabeth Arden and Christian is nodding really, like, thoughtfully, and I go, ‘Lads, do you not think we should lay off the sauce a bit until after the show?’ and they all just look at me, roysh, for ages, then they break their shites laughing and I laugh as well and pretend it was a joke.
We hit the studio, roysh, and we’re all, like, herded into this, like, hospitality room, which is full of all the other, well, basically wankers who are going to be on the show. This big, English dickhead who thinks he’s It, but he’s basically a fat-headed rugby jock with no brain, he comes over and shakes our hands and tells us he was in Dubbalin once for a stag. Great city. He goes, ‘Bladdy ’ell, you Irish know how to drink, what?’ and Fionn mutters something like, ‘That’s such a stereotype,’ and the English goy goes, ‘Eh?’ and Fionn doesn’t say anything else.
The other goy who’s going on is, like, Scottish, roysh, he’s with a couple of mates of his and he’s basically keeping himself to himself, and he’s wearing – surprise sur-focking-prise – a kilt. JP goes, ‘Saves them having to chat up birds. It’s like when they come over for the rugby internationals. The birds just come up to them and go, “What do you keep under there?” Very sad. But the birds, well, they fall for it every time.’ I’m like, ‘You shouldn’t have given Oisinn that whiskey. The goy can hardly stand. He’s not going to be able to think up funny answers for the questions.’ He winks and goes, ‘Makes it a win-win situation as far as I’m concerned.’
The next thing, roysh, this producer comes in and goes through the, like, format of the show with us, but we’ve all watched it before. Then the three goys are asked for their answers to the three questions that the bird is going to ask them, roysh, which is when I find out for the first time that the whole show is, like, scripted. Bit of a disappointment actually. Oisinn manages to get his answers out and they’re, like, pretty cringey it has to be said, although I’ve seen him score with worse lines.
Then Cilla comes in and she’s amazing, roysh, tells all the goys not to be nervous, it’s going to be fun – ‘a lorra, lorra fun’ – and remember to just be themselves, that’s what the public wants to see. It’s the last thing that Oisinn needs to be told.
The next thing we know, roysh, he’s dragged off with the two dickheads to get the old make-up put on, and me and the goys are put sitting in the front row. There’s a bit of a cheer from the rest of the audience, roysh, when they see we’re all wearing our old Castlerock jerseys and we’re there giving it, ‘YOU CAN’T KNOCK THE ROCK. YOU CAN’T KNOCK THE ROCK,’ until the floor manager comes over and tells us to, like, settle down.
Christian tells me he’s so nervous he feels like he’s just staked the Naboo Royal Starship on the outcome of the big pod race on Boonta Eve, and then the music storts up, roysh – it’s like, Doo-Doo, Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo, Doo-Doo … – and Cilla comes out, roysh, and when the applause dies down, she’s there, ‘Well, chucks, have we got a show with a real British Isles feel to it this week. Our first contestants are an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman,’ and there’s loads of, like, laughter from the audience, and she goes, ‘It’s norra joke, chucks,’ and everyone breaks their holes laughing again and JP turns to me and goes, ‘She’s the consummate professional, isn’t she?’ She goes, ‘So without further ado, let’s meet our lovely lads. Tell us, number one, who are you and where do you come from?’ The English goy’s like, ‘’Ello, Cilla. My name’s Scott and I’m from Dagenham,’ and the audience go wild, roysh, even though it’s probably a shitehole. Cilla asks him a whole load of boring shite, then moves on to the second goy and he’s like, ‘Hiya doon, Cilla. My name’s Andy and I’m fae Edinburgh,’ and there’s loads of, like, whooping and, like, hollering in the audience again. She throws in a few questions – ‘What do you keep under there, chuck?’ – and then she moves on to number three and I’m looking at the goy, roysh, and he’s trying to focus on Cilla, but his eyes are, like, totally gone, but he does manage to get the words out, he’s there, ‘I’m Oisinn. I’m from Ballsbridge and Castlerock rules.’ Big cheer from the front row. Cilla’s like, ‘Oooh, a rugby player. You’ve got some of your team-mates with you here today as well.’ He gives us the thumbs-up and we’re all like, ‘Go, Oisinn. Go, Oisinn.’ Cilla turns to the audience and she goes, ‘Now, Oisinn, your friends tell me that you’re something of a connoisseur when it comes to ladies’ perfume, is that right?’ And Oisinn’s like, ‘That’s right, Cilla. And can I just say, I don’t care if people say Chanel No 5 is passé, it’s a classic fragrance that combines traditional accords with fresher, more modern notes.’ Cilla’s like, ‘Chanel No 5, he’s right ladies and gents,’ and everyone laughs and Cilla goes, ‘Oooh, that Irish accent. Makes you all goose-pimply, doesn’t it,’ and everyone laughs again. JP was right. What a professional.
Fionn leans over to me and goes, ‘Result! Cilla likes him. When Cilla likes you, it’s like getting the thumbs-up from a bird’s mother. It’s cruise control all the way now. He just has to avoid saying anything stupid.’ Cilla goes, ‘Now let’s meet the lovely lady who’ll be going out with one of these lucky, lucky lads on a blind date. She’s gorgeous and she’s from Wales. Come in Claire,’ except the way she says it, it sounds like Clur. So Clur comes in, roysh, and I have to say she’s a focking stunner – we’re talking Molly Sims here – and Oisinn’s sort of, like, looking at us to get our reaction and me and JP make, like, gyrating motions with our hips. Cilla’s like, ‘Oooh, you’ve lovely hur, Clur,’ and Clur’s like, ‘Thank you. I take after my mum,’ thick as a focking ditch obviously. Cilla goes, ‘What do you work at, Clur?’ and she goes, ‘I’m a credit controller with a LEADING CERAMICS MANUFACTURER!’ and everyone cheers and claps as though it was something worth cheering and clapping about. Cilla goes, ‘And what do you do in your spur time, Clur?’ and Clur goes, ‘Look for love.’ Cheer! Cilla goes, ‘What do you look for in a man, Clur?’ and Clur’s like, ‘Sensitive. Funny. Good-looking’ – Oisinn has his work cut out, JP helpfully points out – and Cilla goes, ‘Oooh, she’s not fussy, is she, chucks? Well, we’ve got three lovely lads behind that screen and I’m sure you’re going to have a helluva hard time choosing between them.’
Then it all storts to go wrong. I’m looking at Oisinn, roysh, and I know from his eyes that he’s totally horrendufied at this stage, and we’re talking TOTALLY here. And this Welsh bird, roysh, she goes, ‘I am quite a confident and outgoing person and I often like to make the first move in relationships. If I approached you in a bar and asked you for a light, what would you say? That question to number one.’ And the English goy, roysh, he’s like, ‘Hello, Clur. Well, if you was to ask me for a light, I’d probably ask you where you get your energy to light up a cigarette and the room at the same time.’ And Cilla and the Welsh bird, they look at each other, roysh, and they’re going, ‘Oooh, yeah, not bad.’ Next it’s the Scottish goy. The bird goes, ‘Same question to number two, please.’ He’s there, ‘Hello, Clur. If ya came up tae me in a pub and asked me for a light, I’d probably say excuse me while I go ootside and pick one ay the stars outae the sky for ya, doll.’ And Cilla and her are there going, ‘Oooh, it’s already so difficult to choose.’ Then she goes, ‘And number three, same question.’ And Oisinn, roysh, he gets down off the high stool and he staggers forward and you can see, like, the producer and the floor manager and everyone else, they want to stop him but it’s like they’re frozen to the spot. And there’s, like, total silence in the audience, roysh, and he walks around the other side of the screen and you can, like, see the shock on Cilla’s face, and on Clur’s as well, but it’s nothing compared to the shock they’re about to get, when Oisinn goes, ‘If you asked me for a light … I’d say I’ve no matches …’ – while he’s saying this, roysh, he’s unbuttoning his chinos and whipping out his lad – ‘… but how does this focking strike you?’
All hell breaks loose, roysh, and basically, to cut a long story short, we’re all focked out of the studio, Oisinn shouting his head off, giving it, ‘The bird was a dog anyway,’ as these, like, bouncers drag him out of the place and throw him out on the road. No limo back to the airport either. And believe it or not they end up not showing it on television.
I get up really early on Monday, roysh, grab a bowl of cornflakes, catch the end of ‘Neighbours’ and then go looking for the old man, who’s, like, in the study, bullshitting away to one of his asshole mates on the phone. He’s there going, ‘A levy, Hennessy. On plastic bags. Never mind your Lawlors and your whatnots, this is a scandal and you won’t be reading about it in your Irish Times.’
I’ve been standing in the doorway for, like, five minutes, basically trying to catch the knobhead’s attention, so eventually I just go, ‘Are you focking deaf?’ and he’s like, ‘Just a second, Hennessy,’ and he turns around to me and he’s like, ‘Hey, Kicker. What’s up?’ I’m like, ‘Deaf and stupid. Hello? I’m doing my driving test again today.’ He goes, ‘That came around quickly. Doesn’t seem like two years since you applied. Well, best of luck,’ and he goes back to talking again. He’s there going, ‘The shop girl, she said it had nothing to do with Superquinn. No point getting angry with her, she said. Something to do with the environment. It’s like that bloody National Car Test business, Hennessy. Using people’s concern for the planet to extort more money out of them. Well, I told her. For every bag that these so-called Department of the Environment people ask me to pay for, I’m going to buy a can of deodorant, step outside the shop and spray it into the air. My wife is right behind me on this, so are the chaps from the club and I need you on board, Hennessy. I need you, that’s absolutely mandatory with a capital M. Great big CFC parties in the car park of the Frascati Centre. And we’ll see Bertie’s face when there’s a bloody great hole in the ozone layer over Dun Laoghaire. How do you like that, Mister Stadium?’
I’m like, ‘Will you shut the fock up and listen to me?’ He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and goes, ‘Ross, please, I’m talking politics here.’ I’m like, ‘And I’m late for my driving test. I need a hundred bills.’ He’s there, ‘But didn’t I pay for the test when you applied? What do you need a hundred euros for?’ I’m like, ‘To focking celebrate. What do you think?’ He hands me the shekels like it’s a big focking struggle for him, roysh, then he goes back to talking shite and I head off, making sure this time to switch off my mobile because I think that may have had something to do with me failing last time. I’m actually not that orsed about sitting it again, roysh. The old man pays my insurance, so it’s no skin off my nose whether it’s four grand a year or forty. But the fockers won’t give me a third provisional unless I, like, sit it again, so this time I didn’t make the mistake of applying to do it in Wicklow. Everyone says it’s a piece of piss to pass it in a bogger test centre, roysh, but actually it’s not, so this time I lashed my application in for Rathgar. And basically, roysh, I was pretty well prepared. Drove the test route a couple of times with Christian the night before and did a serious amount of cramming for the whole, like, quiz part of the test. And I’m pretty confident I’m going to pass, roysh. That is until the examiner walks out.
I don’t know the goy’s name, roysh, but I went out with his daughter a couple of years ago. Didn’t end well. Never really does with me. She was pretty alroysh looking, I have to say, went out three or four times and got on fine, until this one particular day, roysh, when we were driving back to her gaff after being at the cinema and she said those dreaded words: ‘I don’t believe in sex before marriage.’ I basically told her to get the fock out of the cor. Don’t get me wrong, roysh, I pulled over first. She was there, ‘Ross, I live miles from here.’ And I was like, ‘There’s a bus stop over there. Use it.’
I admit it was a pretty shitty thing to do – I hope I’ve grown up a bit since then – and it probably explains why her old man is so, like, hostile to me when he’s asking me the questions. It’s like, ‘What’s the speed limit on a national road?’ I’m like, ‘Ninety?’ He goes, ‘In a built-up area?’ I’m like, ‘You’d want to be dropping down to about sixty, sixty-five.’ Then he goes, ‘How do you approach a yellow box?’ This focker would give Anne Robinson a run for her money.
We go out and basically I ace the test, roysh, except for this one T-junction where I make the mistake of pulling out without, like, looking both ways and this stupid bitch in a red Ford Mondeo hits her brakes and then storts, like, beeping me. But it doesn’t matter, roysh, because the goy’s already made up his mind to fail me. And then I go and make my second mistake. We’re pulled up at the lights on Kimmage Road and I’m there, ‘How’s Elmarie?’ letting him know that I know his daughter in the hope that it’ll give me, like, an advantage, then realising that if she told him the full story, I’m focked. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me, and I SO regret saying it.
He goes, ‘Turn right here, then take the first right and show me your three-point turn,’ like he’s trying his best not to lose his cool with me. I’m so flustered, roysh, that I miss the turn and he storts, like, going apeshit. He’s there, ‘I TOLD YOU TO TURN! CAN YOU NOT FOLLOW BASIC INSTRUCTIONS?’ I’m like, ‘Hey, chill out.’ He goes, ‘Take the next left onto Whitehall Road!’ I take it perfectly, roysh, but not perfectly enough for him. He’s like, ‘DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR INDICATORS ARE FOR?’ I’m like, ‘There wasn’t anyone behind me.’ He goes, ‘YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO INDICATE AT ALL TIMES!’ I’m like, ‘Hey, I’m just about focking sick of the negative vibes you’ve been giving me.’ He goes, ‘Return to the test centre,’ like a focking robot. I’m like, ‘No, you listen to me. You had it in for me the second you laid eyes on me.’ He goes, ‘Return to the test centre. Now.’ I’m like, ‘What, so you can tell me I’ve failed? Fock that. Get out of the cor.’ He goes, ‘What?’ I’m like, ‘Get the fock out of my cor. Now!’ I reach across him, roysh, pull the handle on the passenger door and push it open. I’m like, ‘Get the fock out.’ And that’s when I realise, roysh, that it’s only, like, around the corner from where I threw Elmarie out, which is, like, such a coincidence it’s not funny. He goes, ‘The test centre is miles away.’ And I’m like, ‘Well, you know what I told your daughter.’
We’re in college, roysh – in theory I’m still repeating first year sports management in UCD, though I’ve only been to, like, four lectures since last September – and we’re knocking back a few beers in the bor and Críosa, this bird who’s, like, second year commerce, she asks me to go and get her smokes. So I head down to the shop, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Twenty Marlboro Lights.’ And the bird behind the counter, roysh, she’s there, ‘Excuse me?’ I’m like, ‘Marl-bor-o Lights. Twen-ty.’ And I know what her game is, roysh. Basically, she wants me to say please. She gets them, roysh, puts them down on the counter and she tells me it’s, like, eight euros or nine euros or whatever the fock they cost and I hand her a ten euro bill, roysh, and when she, like, gives me my change she goes, at the top of her voice, ‘THANK YOU.’ I’m just like, ‘Thanks,’ and as I’m walking out of the shop I can hear her going, ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’ Wench.
This chick calls to the door, roysh, and I can see through the glass that she’s actually pretty fit, so when I open the door, I’m like, ‘Well, hello there.’ Probably a bit sleazy, but fock it. I have to say I’m looking pretty well at the moment and I can actually see her checking me out. I’m there, ‘If it’s about that catalogue that came through the letterbox during the week, I’m still making my mind up on which purchases to make. Perhaps you’d like to come in for a coffee to discuss it?’ She looks at me like I’ve got ten focking heads. She’s very cute. She goes, ‘I’m calling about the election.’ I’m there, ‘What election?’ She goes, ‘The general election. At the end of May. Have you decided which way you’re going to vote?’
What a focking turn-off. I’m just like, ‘I don’t vote,’ and she looks at me real, like, disappointed. She looks a little bit like Kirsten Dunst actually. She goes, ‘Apathy is a terrible thing.’ I’m like, ‘You’re wasting your breath. I don’t even know what that word means and I don’t care either.’ She goes, ‘What if everybody took your attitude?’ I’m like, ‘Everyone does. Voting’s for old dears. I don’t know anyone my age who votes.’ She goes, ‘Oh right, so you don’t care about the kind of country you live in?’ I’m like, ‘The only thing I care about right now is how I’m going to get the vodka and cranberry juice stain off my beige chinos and how I’m going to get your phone number without having to listen to any more of your boring politics shit.’ I was pretty pleased with that. She wasn’t. Off she storms up the path, roysh. Her loss.
I shut the door, roysh, and the old man’s standing right behind me and he gives me the focking fright of my life. He goes, ‘Well said, Kicker. Well said.’ I’m like, ‘Shut up, Dickhead.’ He ignores this. He goes, ‘I can feel it, Ross. I can feel it.’ I’m there, ‘What are you bullshitting on about?’ He goes, ‘The elbow in my ribs. Hint, hint. You wanted me to run in this election, didn’t you?’ I’m like, ‘You are such a knob.’ He goes, ‘Oh, I considered it alright. Considered it for the sake of people like you. You and all these other non-voters who are disillusioned with politics. Disillusioned with a capital D. Hennessy thinks I’m the one to capture the youth vote.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh. Get real,’ and I head into the kitchen. He follows me and he’s there going, ‘I had policies, make no mistake about that. I had policies coming out of my ears. I’d have had no problem propping up a minority Fianna Fáil administration either, but it would have cost Bertie. An end to all this nonsense about rugby at Knacker Park for starters, a clear statement from the Government that Funderland is an eyesore and an evil that is eating away at the fabric of society in Ballsbridge and Sandymount, as well as a total ban on the sale of batch bread on the southside of Dublin.’ I’m like, ‘What the fock is batch bread?’ He goes, ‘Something that poor people eat.’ I’m like, ‘Well, I’ve never heard of it.’ He goes, ‘Of course you haven’t. That’s why I’ve been working so hard all these years, Ross. To keep you from it. How do you think all this bloody tribunal nonsense started?’ I’m like, ‘Look, you’re totally boring me now. I’m going out.’
I bump into Amy coming out of French Connection. She air-kisses me and asks me if I heard that her old man got her membership for Riverview for her twenty-first and I resist the temptation to go, ‘And this affects me how?’ and instead I just go, ‘Cool.’ And she goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Faye is, like, TOTALLY jealous.’ I ask her if she’s, like, coming to my twenty-first next week, roysh, and she goes, ‘Definitely.’ Then she says she has to go because she has a sunbed session booked for, like, three o’clock.
‘What do you want for your birthday?’ That’s all anybody’s been asking me for the last, like, three weeks, roysh, and I told everyone the same thing. I was like, ‘Bianca Luyckx.’ Birthday came and guess what? No Bianca Luyckx, same as focking last year. No cord from Sorcha either. I know she’s in Australia, but it wouldn’t have killed her to send me one. I did have this big, fock-off marquee in the garden and, like, twenty kegs of Ken for my porty. The theme was, like, Rappers and Slappers, roysh. All of the blokes came as either Eminem or P Diddy, and all of the birds came as, like, hookers. Except Erika, roysh, who wouldn’t lower herself. She arrives wearing a pair of Karen Millen beige suedette trousers, roysh, and an Amanda Wakeley mesh top with, like, gold and bronze sequins, both of which she’s apparently borrowed from Claire. None of us could understand why she was borrowing clothes from her. I mean she could basically buy threads like that with her pocket money and still have enough left over to buy half of focking Nine West. Claire goes up to her about, like, ten minutes into the night and she goes, ‘Hello? You were supposed to dress up as a slapper. You’ve just put on my clothes.’ And Erika just, like, smiles at her, roysh, and Claire’s jaw just, like, hits the floor. Erika goes, ‘The penny drops.’ So a few of the birds had to drag Claire off to the jacks to calm her down, which sort of, like, suited me, roysh, because me and the goys had decided that tonight was a night for, like, serious drinking and we didn’t want to be bothered with that whole chatting up birds thing, not until the end of the night anyway.
So there we were knocking back the pints, roysh, and we’d basically come to the part of the night, roysh, when the mince pies and the toilet rolls usually come out, when all of a sudden, roysh, who walks in only my old man with a couple of his mates from the golf club, we’re talking Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, that asshole of a solicitor of his, and a few others. I’m just like, ‘Sorry, what the fock are you doing here?’ The old man’s, like, speechless. He goes, ‘Just, em, wanted to pop in, see how you were, er, getting on. See if there’s not too much, em … damage.’ And then he storts, like, laughing, trying to be my best friend again. I’m like, ‘This is my focking porty. I don’t remember saying you and your dickhead mates were invited.’ He’s about to answer me, roysh, when all of a sudden I notice the old dear coming in with, like, loads of her mates. I’m like, ‘Oh, great! The whole focking world’s invited.’
The old dear goes, ‘Ross, we’re just bringing in some food for you and your friends.’ And all of a sudden, roysh, they stort putting out all these plates of, like, goats cheese and spinach roulade, crab-meat wrapped in filo pastry, roast vegetable tartlets and whatever. I’m there, ‘Hello? None of this shit, like, goes with beer.’
JP, roysh, he comes over and, like, puts his arm around my old dear and he goes, ‘Mrs O’Carroll-Kelly. Looking pretty fine, it has to be said.’ He looks at me as he says this and, like, raises one eyebrow, the sleazy focker. He looks more like a pimp than a rapper in the tux he wore to the debs, his old dear’s fur coat and his old man’s trilby. But he’s focking loving my embarrassment. Then Oisinn decides to get in on the act. He comes over and he’s like, ‘Hey, JP, let’s bring some happiness into the lives of these beautiful young ladies,’ and the lads link arms with the old dear and her friends and head off towards the bor. I think I’m going to basically borf.
I find a quiet corner and stort, like, knocking the beers back, listening to Christian, who’s chatting up this complete focking stunner. We’re talking Dani Behr-gorgeous here. I don’t know who invited her, but I’d like to shake the goy’s hand. Christian’s explaining to her how the Clone Wars turned Boba Fett into a mercenary soldier, an assassin and the best damn bounty hunter in the Galaxy and that if she ever has any doubt about that fact then she should consider the record 500,000 credits he earned for catching the Ffib religious heretic Nivek’Yppiks for the Lorahns. And this bird, roysh, she’s actually totally into it, she goes, ‘They should send that goy after Osama bin Laden.’ And Christian goes, ‘Everybody thinks he’s dead. They think the Sarlaac got him, in the Pit of Carkoon. You think the Sarlaac could bite through Mandalorian armour? Oh sure he was injured, but he survived. Dengar found him, when he went back to look for Jabba the Hutt’s remains.’ The next time I look around, roysh, the two of them are, like, bet into each other.
I turn away and stort wondering whether someone’s going to organise the whole twenty-one kisses thing before I’m, like, too off my face to enjoy it. Then this bird comes over, roysh, Danielle’s her name, or Measles as the goys call her, basically because everyone’s had her once and nobody really wants her a second time. Anyway, she storts, like, boring the ear off me about some goy I’ve never even heard of who apparently has such a commitment problem that he’s never going to be happy with, like, anyone, and we’re talking anyone.
I end up knocking over my pint accidentally on purpose just to get away from the psycho bitch and I head back up to the bor, where the old man is locked and shouting his mouth off about rugby. He’s there going, ‘Doesn’t matter what score we lost by to England and France, we’re heading in the right direction.’ And JP and Oisinn are, like, lapping this up, really egging him on, determined to humiliate me tonight. JP’s there going, ‘Eddie’s the man, eh Charles?’ And the old man’s like, ‘Eddie’s the man alright. I’m with Hooky on this one.’ I’m just there, ‘You said last year that Warren was the man,’ which doesn’t throw him one little bit. He goes, ‘Warren Gatland, my eye! Eddie was always the brains behind the team. And I can tell you that a certain G Thornley of D’Olier Street, Dublin 2, will be eating his words before too long, thank you very much.’ And Oisinn, roysh, he’s really storting to take the piss now, he goes, ‘Why don’t you give Gerry a ring?’ And for one second, I can see the idea flash across the old man’s face because he turns around to see if the old dear’s listening. Then he thinks better of it. He goes, ‘No, he’s changed his number.’ I’m like, ‘Are you focking surprised?’ He goes, ‘Do you know how many years I’ve been buying The Irish Times, Ross? Readers are entitled to their opinions.’ And I’m like, ‘And he was entitled to blow that pest whistle down the phone.’ He turns around to Hennessy and he’s like, ‘I couldn’t hear anything for about a week, you know.’
The goys are all lapping this up and I’m pretty much beginning to lose the will to live at this stage. But then suddenly, roysh, it’s time for business. A chair is dragged out into the middle of the floor and I’m told to, like, sit on it and all of a sudden Christian stands up and makes this speech about what an amazing hit I am with the chicks, which is true; what an amazing rugby player I am, which is half-true; and what an amazing friend I am, which is total bullshit. When he finishes, roysh, I just high-five the goy and tell him I don’t deserve him. He tells me to shut the fock up and sit down and then he goes, ‘Okay, ladies, you want to kiss the Corellian, form an orderly queue. If you can control yourselves, that is.’
First up is Danielle. A bit too John B for my liking. She basically tries to have sex with me. Second is Amie, the make-up monster, still mad into me, trying not to show it in front of her boyfriend, but the suit is definitely going to need a dry-clean now. Then it’s, like, Zoey, third year commerce with German in UCD, a bit like Mena Suvari and the first tongue of the night. Number four is Claire, as in Dalkey-wannabe Claire, mascara all over her face after her row with Erika, it’s like being kissed by a focking Saint Bernard. Number five is Oisinn taking the piss. Next up is Georgia, my ex who used to do the weather on RTÉ, puts the ‘boiler’ in the word bunnyboiler. Seven is Frederika, JP’s ex, second year Russian and Byzantine Studies in UCD, a bit like Charlize Theron. JP’s still mad into her, so I pull her onto my knee and make it a big, long one, just to, like, get back at the focker for earlier.
But I don’t really enjoy it, roysh, because I can hear Emer and Sophie, numbers eight and nine, talking about how much weight Sorcha has lost since she went to, like, Australia, that’s if the photographs are anything to go by. Kissing Emer is like kissing a mate, no fun. Sophie puts both hands around the back of my head, roysh, and gives me what we usually call an ‘Ibiza Uncovered’ kiss. Then, without batting an eyelid, roysh, she just, like, slips back into her conversation with Emer and she asks her whether there’s any points in, like, toothpaste.
Ten is Erika. Sensual is the only way to describe it. When she’s finished, she stays sitting on my lap and goes, ‘You’ve wanted that for ages, haven’t you?’ and I’m sitting there like a focking nodding dog. She goes, ‘Happy Birthday,’ and I’m so flustered, roysh, that I can’t remember eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen, but video evidence later confirms them as Melanie, as in Institute Melanie, Ana with one n, Sara with no h and Jessica with no tits. Fifteen is JP ripping the piss. Sixteen is Danielle again. Somebody call security!
Seventeen is this bird Neasa, a Whore on the Shore who gave me, like, a peck on the cheek after we won the Schools Cup and then told all her friends she had been with me. Mind you, I told all mine that I shagged her. Eighteen is this bird, a real BOBFOC job – Body Off ‘Baywatch’, Face Off ‘Crimewatch’ – don’t know her name and don’t want to, she kisses me like she’s kissing a focking corpse. Nineteen is Christian’s new squeeze, whose name is Lauren and who, it turns out, is Hennessy’s daughter, and I wonder how an ugly focker like him could produce something as beautiful as her. I’m still thinking about it while I’m kissing Chloe, number twenty, who gives me two pecks on the lips and, in between, mentions totally out of the blue that the leather coat she’s wearing tonight is a Prada and cost, like, two grand, and it dawns on me that after twenty-one years on this Earth I know some totally focked-up people.
I’m wondering what the story is with the twenty-first kiss. Who’s it going to be? I see Danielle thinking about it – whoah, horsey! – but Fionn manages to, like, shepherd her into a corner. And then Aoife steps forward, roysh, and I’m thinking, ‘Aoife? Sorcha’s best mate? This is going to be like kissing, I don’t know, my sister, if I had one.’ But all of a sudden, roysh, she pulls out this photograph of, like, Sorcha, and slaps it on my lips and she goes, ‘She’s sorry she couldn’t be here to give it to you in person, Ross. I’ve got a cord for you from her as well.’
And everyone is just, like, clapping, going mental. She probably ripped the idea off one of those stupid American programmes she watches, but basically I couldn’t have been happier, even if they had got me Bianca Luyckx.