Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  ‘Fock,’ I suddenly go. ‘How am I going to stick this back on?’

  I look up and Johnny’s smiling, holding out a tube of what turns out to be superglue. I’m there, ‘How the fock did you…’

  ‘I’m in television,’ he goes. ‘I read your mind three plays back.’

  I don’t believe it. I mean, it was bound to happen, but at the same time I still don’t believe it?

  The Big One is coming T-shirts.

  I get asked to, like, autograph one in the California Pizza Kitchen on La Cienega, where I’m having a spot of lunch with Harvey. This dude comes over and says, oh my God, he’s such a huge fan of the show and then, roysh, while I’m signing his T-shirt, he’s there, ‘And well done for being such a bastard to your mother – she totally deserves it,’ which is a nice thing for him to say.

  ‘The one where you made her drink that terrapin,’ he goes. ‘Oh my God, that was, like, so awesome. And that name you called her in the last show…’

  ‘A plump-monkey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘An offal-guzzler?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Blubbernaut?’

  ‘Yeah, the Blubbernaut. Oh my God, that was, like, so cool. See, I hate my mother, too. I called her up after the show and I was like, “You know what I’ve always wanted to say to you? You’re a fucking blubbernaut! And you ruined my life, you bitch!” Oh my God, you are so my hero.’

  I’m there, ‘Er, that’s cool,’ and then there’s that awkward moment, roysh, where neither of us really has anything else to say to the other. ‘So, em, okay,’ he goes, ‘it was lovely to meet you. And thanks for the autograph,’ and I’m there, ‘It’s not a thing,’ and he focks off.

  I turn to Harvey. ‘People – and by that I mean the general public – can be really nice, can’t they?’

  He’s there, ‘I don’t know,’ but what he really means is he doesn’t actually give a fock?

  I did warn him to keep his mouth shut, but of course he had to tell Hugo about Mike. Surprise, surprise, he ended up getting dumped like a focked cooker.

  ‘I was the one who told you to keep your mouth shut,’ I go. ‘Remember? Deny, deny, deny? ’ but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

  He just stares into space and goes, ‘Why do I always sabotage my own happiness?’

  ‘Hey, that’s you just feeling sorry for yourself,’ I go, trying to buck him up a bit. ‘Dude, you’re twenty years old. I wish I could help you see how little anything really matters when you’re young. It’s all ahead of you, Harve. Sure a lot of hort-ache – but, on the plus side, a lot of horts to break…’

  I reach over and grab one of his Cabo Crab Cakes. I just think, if he’s not going to eat them…

  ‘It’s, like, whenever something good happens,’ he goes, ‘I have to go and totally fuck it up.’

  I’m there, ‘Dude, I did a bit of psychology, philosophy, whatever you want to call it, with this, I suppose, shrink in Andorra? From the little I know, I reckon you’re – what did you say, sabotaging? – your happiness because deep down you’re not fully happy.’

  ‘Not this again.’

  ‘Yes, this again. And you’re not going to be happy until you tell your family.’

  ‘I told you, Ross, I can’t.’

  ‘Dude, when you think about it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, especially in this day and age – the internet, blahdy blahdy blah.’

  ‘I can’t!’ he pretty much shouts at me. One or two people look up from their lunches. ‘Look, Ross, I’m not brave like you.’

  I’m there, ‘Brave? You’re pulling my chain here, aren’t you? You tell me you’re not brave. Look at you. You come to LA and you live the way you want to live. You don’t think that takes guts? See if that was me? If I was gay? I’d never come out. I wouldn’t have the actual guts.’

  He nods like he understands, but then he stands up. He’s there, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  I stand up to go as well.

  I hand the waiter fifty snots without even asking for the Jack and Jill – er, sorry, Cillian, does it sound like the economy’s in trouble? – and I follow Harvey to the door.

  Just as he’s about to open it, roysh, he suddenly spins around with a look of, like, total horror on his face. ‘Oh, no!’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘What?’

  ‘There’s, like, photographers outside?’

  I’m like, ‘So? It’s me they probably want – I’m well used to it by now, believe me.’

  ‘But I can’t have my photograph taken,’ he goes. ‘Not like this,’ and he looks down at, presumably, his Yohji premium jeans and Ralph Lauren down-stuffed leather vest.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I go, ‘you stay here until they’ve gone. I’ll bell you later,’ and I give him the guns, then turn and go out to face the, I suppose, media scrum?

  ‘When are we going to see your new nose?’ a voice goes, the second I step outside. I stop and I’m there, ‘All in good time,’ even though I know it’s going to be, like, next week. It’s good to keep them guessing.

  ‘Do you think Katie Holmes has lost too much weight and are you concerned about her appearance recently?’

  ‘I honestly think it’s just the way she’s dressing?’ I go, a master at handling these kinds of questions by now. ‘My wife-slash-ex-wife says that bright-coloured blouses draw eyes to a slim upper half. Whereas if you look at Katie’s legs, they’re actually a bit chunky – she could possibly even do with losing a bit.’

  They’re, like, hanging on every word.

  ‘Ross,’ someone else – a man’s voice, probably a reporter – goes, ‘who’s the mystery man you were having lunch with?’

  I’m there, ‘No mystery there – he’s, like, a friend of mine, who’d prefer to remain unanimous.’

  It’s the next question that actually knocks me sideways. ‘Ross, are you gay?’ and he’s out with it, just like that.

  I’m there, ‘Gay?’

  ‘Yeah, would you like to comment on rumours that you’re gay?’

  I’m like, ‘Rumours? What rumours?’

  ‘Why are you being so defensive?’

  I’m there, ‘Er, because it’s not actually true?’ I go. ‘I’m as straight as an arrow. I’m so into birds, I had to become celibate.’

  ‘You could just be compensating,’ the same voice goes.

  I end up totally losing it then. I’m there, ‘Get it into your focking heads, I’m into strictly women. Too much into them, my ex would tell you if you asked her…’

  It’s at that exact point, roysh, that I hear the door open and close behind me. The paparazzi are suddenly clicking like crazy and pointing their cameras at Harvey, who’s coming out of the restaurant behind me, shielding his, I suppose you’d have to say, identity with, like, a pizza menu?

  I’m the only one who can see his actual face and I can tell straight away that he’s not happy.

  It’s only then that I realize the shit I’ve just been saying.

  ‘Quite a vigorous denial,’ he goes, practically spitting the words at me.

  I’m there, ‘But I’m not one – you know that.’

  He’s like, ‘Dude, when you think about it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ basically throwing my words back at me. ‘Especially in this day and age – the internet, blahdy blahdy blah,’ and the worst thing is, roysh, that he says it in, like, a real Irish accent, which I don’t actually have?

  Actually, no – that’s not the worst thing. The worst thing is that I was there, telling him that life’ll be so much easier when he tells his old pair – and this is how I react when someone thinks I might possibly be gay when I’m not even?

  He walks off down La Cienega, still holding the menu tight to his face, photographers scurrying all around him. He stops once and turns back just to tell me that he never wants to see me again.

  News certainly travels fast in this town – although I suppose that’s the idea of, like, text alerts?

  ‘Oh my God!’ Sorcha s
uddenly goes. And straight away, from the way she says it, I know that it’s about me.

  I’m there, ‘Go on, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Well, firstly, Paris Hilton is out of jail and was spotted in Don Antonio’s looking classic in a monochrome bandeau,’ she goes. ‘But secondly… Ross O’Carroll-Kelly denies gay rumours after tiff on street with mystery friend. And I have to warn you, Ross, that friend is in, like, inverted commas?’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Was that Harvey?’ Erika goes.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah. It’s, like, they asked me was I? And I was like, “No.” Then he ends up getting in a blob strop with me.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Why did you deny you were gay?’

  ‘Er, because I’m not?’ I go.

  She’s like, ‘Oh my God, what about his feelings, though?’

  I’m there, ‘Sorry, is it a crime to suddenly not be gay?’

  ‘No,’ Erika goes, ‘but how did you deny it?’

  Listening to the two of them is like having all the shit that goes with being married but in, like, surround-sound?

  ‘Did you just say no, or did you freak, like it was some kind of disease you were being asked about?’

  I end up just turning the other way. ‘What is the Jack with this race?’ I go. ‘It was supposed to stort, like, an hour ago?’

  I can hear the two of them laughing at me behind my back. Sorcha even turns around to Honor and goes, ‘Isn’t your daddy a silly thing?’

  ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ the announcer dude finally goes over the public address system, ‘to the Santa Monica Track Club, here in Santa Monica, to what has happily become an annual event – the California High-Heel-A-Thon. Before we get proceedings under way with what promises to be a very exciting race, we might like to pause for a moment to remember what today is really about and that’s providing laptop computers to people in the developing world who otherwise might never get to own one. Imagine, if you can, ladies and gentlemen, a world without e-mail or even MP3s…

  ‘Okay, now to our runners. And I want to hear you really big it up for them because they are the real heroes of today. In lane one, wearing a stunning pair of Kurt Geiger snake-skin platform courts, from the hit TV show The Biggest Loser, ladies and gentlemen, Alison Sweeney…’

  There’s, like, a big cheer and she sort of, like, waves to the crowd, like a good pro. Yes, is the answer, by the way – in a focking hortbeat.

  ‘In lane two, an actress I’m sure you’re all familiar with. Wearing a classic red slingback by Yves Saint Laurent, her sponsor for today, the star of both Days of Our Lives and Melrose Place, it’s the beautiful Lisa Rinna…’

  Another roar. There’s no sign of Sally Jesse or the other one, by the way.

  ‘In lane three, you all know her, I’m sure, as the man-eating Edie Britt from TV’s Desperate Housewives,’ and there’s, like, one or two boos from the crowd, although it’s all in good spirits, it has to be said. ‘Wearing a stunning pair of Tony Burch wedge sandals, it’s actress Nicolette Sheridan!’

  Sorcha turns to Erika and goes, ‘Tony Burch?’ and she says it like she’s suddenly worried.

  ‘In lane four, standing in, at the eleventh hour – and we’re very grateful – for Kelly Ripa, who unfortunately couldn’t be here, wearing nude Louboutin peep-toes, it’s socialite and… sorry, I thought there was something else down here, no, just socialite, Tinsley Mortimer.’

  There’s, like, another cheer.

  ‘And in lane five, what can be said about this woman that hasn’t already been said…’

  I’m there, at the top of my voice, ‘I’ll write you a focking list!’ and various people in the crowd turn around and shush me, then they look at my T-shirt and shake their heads, I suppose you’d have to say, disapprovingly?

  Sorcha and Erika had them made and they’re, like, plain white, roysh, with, ‘Go, FO’CK!’ on them.

  Of course, after half an hour of nagging from the two of them, I put mine on, but then I went and wrote the word ‘Yourself ’ underneath, which is funny, you’d have to admit.

  ‘Acclaimed author, singer and the undoubted star of MTV’s Ross, His Mother, His Wife and Her Lover, ladies and gentlemen, wearing classic Miu Miu patent heels, let’s give a good old-fashioned – let me see can I say this right – caid milla failty to the beautiful Irish coleen, Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly!’

  She ends up getting the biggest cheer of any of them. This country’s taste is seriously up its hole.

  Her face suddenly comes up on the huge screen they’ve got and I’m staring at her big, all of a sudden bee-stung lips and it’s like, who gets botoxed before something like this? She looks like a focking monkey with hot tea in its mouth.

  The race, I probably should say, is a straight hundred-metre dash, the length of the running track. But before it actually storts, roysh, there ends up being a major borney over whether Nicolette Sheridan’s wedge sandals are a technical breach of the rules. Alison Sweeney and Lisa Rinna are of the strong opinion that, even though they’re high, they’re not actual heels? Tinsley Mortimer – while accepting that they meet the minimum four-inch height requirement – argues that she was told stilettos and that wedges give Nicolette an unfair advantage over the rest of the, I don’t know, grid.

  While this argument is raging, I should point out, the old dear is staying out of it, with Trevion in her ear, telling her to concentrate on her own race and no doubt bulling her up as well. She’s doing all these supposed stretching exercises, though take it from someone who played sport at the highest level, she hasn’t a bog what she’s doing.

  After, like, five full minutes of arguing, the judges decide that wedge sandals, while possibly against the spirit of the rules, do not represent a material breach and Nicolette Sheridan should be allowed to race.

  Then, at last, it’s, like, game time.

  Trevion kisses the old dear on the lips and I watch her mouth the words I love you, then he says it back to her, like the saps that they are.

  ‘Take your mark,’ the announcer suddenly goes. He’s like, ‘Set…’ and then, after a few seconds, there’s a bang and they’re away. She’s first out of the blocks – has to be the centre of attention, of course – and she straight away puts a good five yords between her and Alison Sweeney in second, with Tinsley Mortimer a close third and the other two – it has to be said – nowhere

  After all the hassle, Nicolette Sheridan looks immediately out of the race after a strap opens, one of her sandals goes flying and she ends up having to go back to, like, put it on again. ‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha says excitedly. ‘I was going to say that when the others were trying to get her to change into those Zanottis. Wedge sandals are really light, but – oh my God – they always open when you try to run in them.’

  The old dear’s, like, ten yords ahead and moving like a focking train. Sorcha’s like, ‘I can see now where you got it from, Ross,’ and what she obviously means is my turn of pace, roysh, but there’s no way I’m going to let her associate me with her.

  ‘I’d beat her running constipated,’ I make sure to go.

  Erika’s going, ‘Come on, Fionnuala! Come on, Fionnuala!’ like the kind of knicker-wetting girls she absolutely hated at school, then she’s at Honor, telling her to cheer for her grandmother.

  Honor just goes, ‘Hen hao! Hen hao! Hen hao! ’ leaving it open as to who she’s actually up for here?

  The old dear stretches her legs and suddenly she’s, like, fifteen yords ahead. I’m standing there thinking, superglue or no superglue, there’s no way it can hold that shoe together for much longer, espcially given her weight.

  By the time she reaches the fifty-metre mork, she’s already dropped Tinsley Mortimer and, in fairness to her, Alison Sweeney is the only one making an actual race out of it. But even she’s way behind now.

  ‘They’re actually my Miu Mius,’ Sorcha is telling people in the crowd, obviously excited. ‘They are actual high-heels? But they feel like flats.’
/>   Nicolette Sheridan loses a sandal again, the other one this time, and all the women in the crowd exchange what would have to be described as knowing looks.

  The old dear is, like, twenty yords from the line and the crowd is going ballistic. ‘Go on!’ they’re giving it. ‘Go on!’

  Ten yords from the line, I’m thinking, why didn’t I use, like, ordinary glue?

  Then it happens. And, I have to say, it takes even me by surprise.

  What I see first is her orms sort of, like, flailing, if that’s the word? They certainly go up in the air and her body sort of, like, lists to the left, to use the old Titanic, I suppose, terminology. She runs on another few steps, roysh, but then her ankle just buckles and she goes down like focking Tupac, literally inches from the line.

  I can even see the heel on the track, snapped off, about five metres behind where she’s suddenly lying, holding her left ankle and moaning, looking for sympathy basically.

  Sorcha screams, though I imagine more for her shoes than for my old dear. Erika looks pretty upset as well.

  What happens next, I like to think, is a lesson in what basically separates life’s biggest winners from life’s biggest losers.

  Alison Sweeney’s hands go up to her face and she runs immediately over to where the old dear’s writhing around, to see if she’s okay. Tinsley Mortimer and Lisa Rinna forget about the race as well and go to check on her, their faces full of concern.

  Nicolette Sheridan, possibly thinking, ‘Okay, what would Edie Britt do in this situation?’ sees her chance and makes a bolt for the finish line, literally hurdling over the old dear, who fell into her lane, before dipping over the line.

  The crowd, it has to be said, are not happy rabbits. In fact, I’m the only one who’s actually cheering, obviously having been a bit of a villain myself back in my Senior Cup days. I’m wolf-whistling her and everything as she whips off her Tony Burch wedge sandals and holds them up over her head, basically taunting the crowd with them.

  I’m actually gesturing for her to throw them to me when Sorcha goes, ‘Ross!’ and she says it in a way that means, go and see if your mother’s okay?