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

by Paul Howard

  ROSS O’CARROLL-KELLY

  ‘A man of great taste and sophistication, not unlike myself. Yet he still finds time for the simple pleasures in life – loose cors, fast women … fast food.’

  OISINN

  ‘Stupid, vain and a total orsehole. And certainly not the great lover he pretends to be. Three minutes, if my memory’s right. You could boil an egg by him. As long as you like your eggs soft.’

  ERIKA

  ‘Yeah, the dude stayed in my house in Ocean City. Made shit of the place. Paid the rent though. Knew what’d happen if he didn’t. Said to him, “I got a pair of concrete shoes outside. One size fits all. You wanna see are they waterproof, ya leprechaun fock?” Yeah, a good kid. The broads loved him.’

  PEASEY PEE

  ‘One of the best rugby players this country has ever produced. Ever, with a capital E. Hennessy agrees with me. If it wasn’t for injuries, bad luck and so forth, he’d have played for Ireland.’

  CHARLES O’CARROLL-KELLY

  ‘Who?’

  EDDIE O’SULLIVAN

  Dedication

  For Karen

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you Mum and Dad for making laughter compulsory at all times growing up. Thank you Mark, Vincent and Richard for so many happy days. Thank you Karen – you know this guy’s as much your monster as mine. Thank you Paul Wallace, Alan Kelly and Peter Walsh – hey, only we know how much of what’s between these covers is fiction. Thank you Rachel, an astute and uncompromising editor who worked me like a kulak during the rewriting stage and is responsible for most of the decent storylines that I’ll be claiming credit for when this book is published. Thank you Emma and Alan for making these books scream from the shelves. Thank you Michael and everyone at O’Brien Press for taking a chance on an obnoxious rich kid from the south side. Thank you Caitríona and take a raise. Thank you Ger Siggins for being generally inspiring. Thank you Maureen Gillespie and Deirdre Shearin for always being encouraging. Thank you Matt Cooper and thank you Jim Farrelly, Paddy Murray, Mark Jones and everyone at the Sunday Tribune for your support. And thanks to all my friends – I know who you are, and I know where you live.

  Contents

  Reviews

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1:

  ‘Ross is, like, SUCH an arrogant bastard.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 2:

  ‘Ross is, like – OH MY GOD! – SO shallow.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 3:

  ‘Ross is, like, SUCH an orsehole to women.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 4:

  ‘Ross, like, SO loves himself it’s not funny.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 5:

  ‘Ross thinks he’s, like, too cool for school.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 6:

  ‘Ross has, like, SUCH commitment problems.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 7:

  ‘Ross SO can’t hold his drink.’ Discuss.

  CHAPTER 8:

  ‘Ross is, like, SUCH a no-good loser.’ Discuss.

  About the Author

  Other books by Paul Howard

  Copyright

  Shit the bed, is it my imagination, roysh, or am I getting better looking every day? Hord to believe I’ve just crawled out of the sack. I stare at myself in the mirror for, like, three or four minutes. There’s no doubt that face is going to break a lot of hearts this year.

  I hop into the shower. Lash on some of the old Ralph Lauren shower wash that Sorcha, my ex, who’s doing the DBS in Carysfort, brought me back from the States. While I’m rubbing it in, I check the old abs and pecs. The bod’s in pretty good shape considering what I put it through over the summer. I wash my hair using the Polo Sport two-in-one daily shampoo that Sorcha bought me for my, like, birthday and shit.

  I jump out. Dry myself off. Check myself out again. I run my hand over my face. Need a shave. I lash on the old Armani Emporio shaving gel that Sorcha gave me, I can’t remember when, and give myself a really good, close shave. I lash on some of the old Escape for Men aftershave balm, roysh, and go back to my room.

  Can’t stop thinking about Nell McAndrew. No time for an old Allied Irish, though. Not this morning. I lash on the Tommy for Men deodorant and hop into the old Hilfiger boxers. Only dilemma now is what to wear. My old Castlerock shirt, that goes without saying. The Blackrock goys will be wearing their shirts, so will Clongowes and the Gick. Orseholes. Have to wear your colours, though. I also go for the beige Ralph Lauren chinos, black socks and, like, Dubes.

  I pull out my class schedule – ‘Sports Management, 2000–2001’ – and fock it in the bin. Only thing I’m gonna need this year is a map to the focking bor.

  I lash on some sounds. We’re talking the old Snoopmeister here. ‘Gin and juice up this bitch, yaaah.’ I go back to the bathroom. Run my hand through my hair. Needs a cut. My quiff is going curly. Should have got a blade one at the sides as well. Might go later. Gel’s gonna be fock-all use. It’s a job for the heavy duty wax. I lash on the old Dax Wave and Groom. Check myself out again. Look-ing-good, no arguments.

  ‘I’m on Interstate Ten focking with this Creole.’ Go, Snoop.

  I grab my mobile, the Nokia 8210 – we’re talking dual band, thirty-five ringtones and 210 minutes of battery talk-time – and, like, ring Oisinn. He answers, roysh, with his mouth full. Always focking eating. He goes, ‘Ross, my man. What’s the scéal? Ready for your first day at college?’ I go, ‘Pretty much. Can’t make up my mind what aftershave to wear, though.’ He’s there, ‘So you’ve come to the man who speaks fluent Fragrance.’ Oisinn worked in the Duty Free shop at the airport for the summer, roysh, and he has the whole focking spiel off by heart. Of course the birds go mad for it.

  He swallows whatever it is he has in his mouth – probably lard, the fat bastard – and he goes, ‘The challenge, as I told Christian only a few moments ago, is to find a scent that’s suited to the course you’re doing. For instance, he’s doing film studies. The birds on that course are going to be your Lillies, star-focker crew who still think they’re going to marry Matt Damon. So, what Christian needs is something for an affirmed man who totally assumes his virility with the expression of a liberated, frank and provocative personality.’

  I go, ‘Are we talking Body Kouros by Yves Saint Laurent?’ He goes, ‘We most certainly are, my fast-learning friend.’ I’ve heard this shit a million times before. He goes, ‘We’re doing sport, roysh? So ask yourself, what’s going to push the girls’ buttons on our course? Something that captures the fun and energy of an active life, a liberating fragrance that exudes cool. We’re talking Freedom by Tommy Hilfiger, or Polo Sport for Men.’ I’m like, ‘See you later.’

  I lash on the old Polo Sport, then wonder whether I’ve overdone it. Fock it, it’s Kool and the Gang. Better skedaddle. There’s ten thousand birds in UCD and I don’t want to disappoint them. Couldn’t live with that on my conscience. Head into the bathroom on the way downstairs to check myself out one last time. Looking great. Smelling great. Feeling great. There’s gonna be a lot of broken hearts this year. And mine’s not going to be one of them.

  Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, you handsome focking bastard.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Ross is, like, SUCH an arrogant bastard.’

  Discuss.

  Orlaith with an i, t and h Bracken. Fock me, haven’t seen that bird since … must be three years. She played hockey for Alex. and tonsil hockey for Ireland. I was with her once or twice. She was pure quality then, but now she’s an absolute cracker, roysh, we’re talking Natalie Im
bruglia but with bigger baps, and none of the goys in the class can, like, take their eyes off her. I catch her eye, roysh, and I mouth the word, ‘Later,’ to her, and I’m wondering whether she remembers that porty in her gaff when I puked my ring up all over her old dear’s off-white Hampshire sofa and, like, focked off without saying anything. And she makes a L-sign with her thumb and her finger, as in ‘Lo-ser’, and I take it she remembers it alroysh.

  Her loss. It’s no skin off my nose, and anyway, roysh, she’s small change compared to some of the other birds in this class. Me and Oisinn struck gold when we got on this course. This bird walks in – blonde hair, amazing bod, you’d swear it was Nicola Willoughby, we’re talking perma-horn material here – and she sits roysh in front of us and storts, like, fanning her face with her hand. Then she takes off her tracksuit top, roysh, and when she turns around to put it on the back of her chair, she goes to me, ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’ and quick as a flash, roysh, I go, ‘It is from where I’m sitting,’ and I’m just there hoping it didn’t sound too, like, sleazy and shit, but she smiles at me, roysh, and turns back around and I’m thinking, that one’s in the bag anyway.

  Oisinn goes, ‘We are going to have some fun working our way through this lot,’ and I’m there, ‘I’m hearing you, big goy. I’m hearing you.’ This lecturer dude comes in, don’t know who the fock he is, don’t care either, and he storts, like, telling us the Jackanory, what the course is about, the lectures we have, exams and loads of other boring shite, but of course I’m not listening to a word. There’s another bird up the front, roysh, wearing a baby blue airtex and a dark blue baseball cap and I wish she’d turn around because I think it’s, like, Samantha what’s-her-name, went to Loreto Foxrock, amazing at athletics, alroysh looking, incredible pins, kicked Sorcha’s orse in an Irish debate a few years ago, even though Sorcha was in sixth year and Samantha was in, like, transition year. I had to crack on, of course, that I thought Sorcha’s speech was better, but then she copped me basically trying to chat this Samantha bird up afterwards and she cracked the shits. I think she might be my first port of call because being with her would SO piss Sorcha off.

  The next thing, roysh, everyone’s suddenly standing up to go and the lecturer’s giving it, ‘Everyone enjoy Freshers’ Day. And don’t drink too much,’ and this big roar goes up, as if to say, Yeah roysh, as if! Me and Oisinn head out and meet Christian and Fionn, who’s blabbing away to some moonpig – a bogger by the sounds of her – about the connection between psychology and the biological and sociological sciences. Kathleen, he says her name is. Red hair, the whole lot. He goes, ‘Goys, this is Kathleen,’ and straight away I’m like, ‘Fionn, we said this was gonna be just the lads,’ and I turn around to this thing and go, ‘Why don’t you fock off back to Ballycabbage-and-potatoes, or wherever the fock you’re from? You’re not wanted,’ and of course Fionn leaps straight to her defence, that’s how desperate for his bit he is, the ugly bastard. He goes, ‘I’m sorry about him, Kathleen. Somewhat lacking in the social graces is our Ross. I think a certain Swiss psychologist and contemporary of Freud would have a word for him,’ and the two of them crack their holes laughing, roysh, basically trying to make me feel like a tit, which I do.

  They’re, like, saying their goodbyes, roysh, and I feel like I’m about to vom, so I head off towards the bor and Oisinn and Christian follow a few steps behind me. I can hear Oisinn asking Christian whether he wore Fahrenheit instead of Body Kouros, like he recommended, and Christian saying yeah, and Oisinn telling him that live florals mixed with balsamic notes are a bit 1997 and frankly he wouldn’t use the stuff as paint-stripper. Then Oisinn puts his orm around him and asks what his course is like, some film shite he’s doing, and Christian goes, ‘I feel just like George Lucas did on his first day at USC,’ and Oisinn goes, ‘Should see our class. I feel just like Hugh Heffner does every time he gets up in the morning.’

  I get to the bor first, order four pints of Ken. I turn around to the goys and I go, ‘College life, huh? Freedom from school,’ and the next thing Fionn’s beside me and he’s giving it, ‘What the fock is your problem?’ I’m like, ‘What the fock is my problem? Who’s the focking kipper?’ He goes, ‘She happens to be part of an experiment I’m conducting,’ and I’m there, ‘What, see can you finally lose your virginity?’ He goes, ‘Oh, someone bring me a corset, I think my sides have split. I’m investigating a theory actually,’ and I’m like, ‘This should be good,’ him and his focking theories, and Christian’s like, ‘What is it, Fionn?’ encouraging the goy. He goes, ‘My theory is, redheads who come from a whole family of redheads are invariably bet-down,’ and we all go, ‘Agreed.’ He’s like, ‘But … when you get one redhead in a family of non-redheads, she’s usually a cracker.’

  I go, ‘Well, your friend obviously has a lot of brothers and sisters with the old peach fuzz. Now can we drop the subject? I want Freshers’ Day to be a day to remember,’ and Oisinn goes, ‘No, no, no, my friend. Freshers’ Day should be a day you’re not able to remember,’ and we all go, ‘Yyyeeeaaahhh,’ and high-five each other.

  And then … Fock it, I’ll go into it another time.

  Women have peripheral vision, Emer goes, which is why they always know when a goy is, like, checking them out and why goys never know when they’re actually being, like, checked out themselves. She can’t remember where she read this, might have been Red, or Marie Claire, or some other shit. I’m not really listening. I’m waiting for my food to arrive and throwing the odd sly look at Sorcha, who’s looking totally amazing, just back from Montauk, the pink Ralph Lauren shirt I bought her for her birthday showing off her, like, tan. Aoife asks her if she thinks Starbucks will ever open a place in Dublin, roysh, and Sorcha says OH! MY! GOD! she hopes they do because she SO misses their white chocolate mochas, and Aoife says she SO misses their caramel macchiatos, and they both carry on naming different types of coffee, roysh, both in American accents, which is weird because they were only in the States for, like, the summer and shit.

  The food takes ages to arrive, roysh, and when the total creamer of a waitress we’ve been given finally brings it she forgets the focking cutlery, and Oisinn turns around to her and goes, ‘I suppose a fork is out of the question?’ The waitress, roysh, we’re talking complete focking CHV here, she’s like, ‘Wha’?’ and I just go, ‘Are we supposed to eat this with our focking hands?’ and she stands there, trying to give me a filthy, roysh, but then she just, like, scuttles off to the kitchen and Oisinn high-fives me, and Christian high-fives Fionn, and Emer and Aoife shake their heads, and Zoey, who’s, like, second year commerce with German in UCD, SO like Mena Suvari it’s unbelievable, she throws her eyes up to heaven and goes, ‘Children.’

  Emer knocks back a mouthful of Ballygowan and goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I am SO going to have to get my finger out this year,’ and I stort asking her about her course, we’re talking morkeshing, advertising and public relations in LSB, totally flirting my orse off with her and watching Sorcha out of the corner of my eye going, like, ballistic.

  Then, completely out of the blue, roysh, Fionn launches into this new theory he has about why public toilets are so, like, gross. He goes, ‘You have to be pretty desperate for a shit to use a public toilet in the first place. And let’s face it, a desperate shit is never a pretty shit,’ and Zoey, roysh, she holds up her bottle of Panna and goes, ‘Hello? Some of us are trying to eat here.’

  Erika arrives then, roysh, total babe, the spit of Denise Richards, and she throws her shopping bags onto the chair beside me and goes, ‘Is it my imagination or have the shops in town storted hiring the biggest knackers in Ireland as security guards?’ Emer says something about the Celtic Tiger, roysh, about them not being able to get, like, staff because of it, and Erika goes, ‘I’m sorry, I will not be looked up and down by men with focking buckles on their shoes,’ and then she orders a Diet Coke and storts texting Jenny to find out what she’s doing for Hallowe’en weekend and I basically can’t take my eyes off the bird, roysh
, and I make a promise to myself that if I’m going to score anyone between now and Christmas, it’s going to be her.

  Sorcha takes off her scrunchy, slips it onto her wrist, shakes her hair free and then smoothes it back into a low ponytail again, puts it back in the scrunchy and then pulls, like, five or six strands of hair loose again. It’s been two-and-a-half years, but there’s no doubt the girl still has feelings for me, the focking sap. I ask her how college is going and she goes, ‘Amazing. Fiona and Grace are on the same course.’ I’m like, ‘Cool. Are you still thinking of going into Human Resources?’ playing it - totally Kool and the Gang, and she gives it, ‘I don’t know. Me and Fiona are thinking of maybe going to Australia for the year. When we’re, like, finished.’ She’s checking me out for a reaction, roysh, but I don’t say anything and she eventually goes, ‘I heard you got into UCD,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, the old dear said she met you,’ and she goes, ‘A sports scholarship, Ross. Congrats.’ I can’t make out whether she’s being, like, a bitch or not. I’m just there, ‘Yeah, it’s the Sports Management course,’ and she goes, ‘That’s supposed to be a really good course. It’s only, like, one day of lectures a week, or something.’ She’s being a bitch alroysh. I pick up my tuna melt and I’m like, ‘I don’t give a fock what the course is like. I’m just looking forward to getting back playing good rugby again,’ which, like, SO impresses her.