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

by Paul Howard

  One thing is certain, roysh, this whole taking-things-a-bit-more-slowly shit sounds like she has a potential relationship on her mind, and even though I know it’s a mistake, roysh, I end up giving her my number, my actual real number, and she says she’ll, like, give me a call the next day. Which she does, the sad bitch, she rings me at, like, eleven the next morning, roysh, a bit too John B, and asks me whether I fancy going, like, bowling. I’m like, Bowling? Hello? Is this bird a knob or what? Of course I’m still in the scratcher when she rings, having skipped my eleven o’clock, and I’m pretty much half-asleep, which is why I end up agreeing to meet her in Stillorgan.

  So that afternoon, roysh, I’m pulling into the cor pork, thinking, If any of the goys find out I’m bowling with a bird, I’m totaled. And this is where it all goes pear-shaped. Unbeknownst to me, she’s bringing her whole focking class with her, we’re talking a school trip here, with me roped in as a focking childminder for the day. We are talking total mortification and we are talking TOTALLY.

  I’m in such a Pauline, roysh, that I end up having a row with the bird who gives out those crappy shoes. First of all, roysh, she says I can’t wear the old Dubes, even though they’ve got, like, white soles. She goes, ‘You have to use the house shoes,’ namely these half-red, half-blue things that make you look like a complete knob. And then, roysh, she tells me she needs a deposit of, like, five bills. I’m like, ‘Hello? I’ve just handed you a pair of shoes that cost eighty bills. Do you honestly think I’m going to run off with these focking things?’ and I point down to my feet, roysh, but she just goes, ‘That will be five pounds, Sir,’ like she’s a focking robot or something.

  And the kids, roysh, they’re all little shits, brilliant at bowling of course, every focking one of them, probably part of the, like, curriculum, if that’s the roysh word.

  And Hazel, roysh, she keeps coming up to me going, ‘Oh my God, you are SO good with kids,’ obviously morking me down as future marriage material. I’m there going, Do not even go there, girl.

  She obviously didn’t see me whacking one of the little spoilt shits around the ear. The little focker kicked me, roysh, and told me I was rubbish at bowling, so I hit him a sly little slap around the head, the kind the referee never sees, then bent back one of his fingers and told him he was a spoilt little brat and, of course, he goes bawling his eyes out to Hazel, who is such a sad bitch she actually believes me when I tell her he caught his fingers in the bowling ball, and the kid stays out of my way for the rest of the day, the clever boy.

  Then, roysh, it’s all across the road to McDonalds, me trying to talk to Hazel, to find out, obviously, if I’ve any focking chance of getting my bit at the end of all this, and her reminding me to keep my eyes on the ten or eleven little shits who are walking behind us. I feel like the old woman who lived in the focking shoe, sitting there in McD’s with all these little fockers running around me. And they’re all going, ‘Are you Hazel’s boyfriend?’

  And this one kid, roysh, he sucks a load of Coke up into his straw, roysh, and I swear to God the little bastard’s about to, like, spit it at me, and I go, ‘Don’t even think about it.’ And Hazel all of a sudden jumps up and goes, ‘NO, ROSS!’ and I’m like, ‘What?’ thinking, I haven’t even hit the little focker yet. She goes, ‘You’re not allowed to use the D-word to the young people.’ I’m like, ‘What D-word?’ She goes, ‘The D-O-N-Apostrophe-T word. You’re not supposed to say Don’t or Can’t to the young people. They’re negatives, you see.’

  I’m like, ‘So what do you do then, just slap them?’ and she looks at me totally horrified, like I’ve just shat on her Corn Flakes. She goes, ‘You never hit young people, Ross. Nobody should live in fear of violence. When you’re trying to stop a young person from acting in an anti-social way, you have to acknowledge that emotions are involved. So to stop Lorcan from spitting his drink at you, what you should say is, ‘I understand why you want to do that and I understand that you are upset that I’m asking you not to do it, but I really feel that …’ And as she’s saying this, roysh, the little focker sitting next to Lorcan is squashing a bit of gherkin into the table.

  I just get up and head for the door, roysh, wave at Hazel, and I go, ‘Arrivederci,’ which, I remember on the way home, isn’t actually Japanese, but I’m sure she got the message anyway.

  I’m in Stillorgan Shopping Centre, roysh, doing a bit of shopping, actually looking for a new pair of rugby boots, and I’m backing out of a porking space when the phone rings and it’s, like, Keevo, a Blackrock head but sound anyway. He’s like, ‘Ross, I’ve a good one for you.’ I’m there, ‘Keevo, now is not a good time, my man,’ and he’s like, ‘It won’t take long.’ I’m there going, ‘What is it?’ and he’s like, ‘Think of a number between one and ten.’ And I’m like, ‘Okay, hang on … roysh, got one.’ He goes, ‘Roysh, add four.’ I’m like, ‘Okay.’ He goes, ‘Now, double it.’ And I’m like, ‘Hold on, hold on … roysh.’ He’s there, ‘Now, halve it. And I’m like, ‘O-kaaaay.’ Then he goes, ‘Take away four,’ and I’m like, ‘Yyyeah,’ and he goes, ‘And you’re left with six.’ I’m like, ‘No. I’m left with four.’ He goes, ‘Oh, roysh. No, it doesn’t always work.’ And he hangs up. And this SO worries me, roysh, because Keevo is, like, second year theoretical physics.

  To whom it may concern,

  Many thanks for your letter. It was a pleasant surprise to hear from you again. Please accept my apologies for the delay in replying. The college was closed for three weeks for Christmas holidays and I was off work for an extra week due to salmonella poisoning, which I contracted from a piece of turkey which hadn’t been thoroughly reheated.

  I note with interest your threat to send Eros back to us ‘in pieces’. Personally – and I’m not speaking for the entire Department here – I do not see this as a particularly bad thing. I’m not sure whether you have had a chance to view the Venus de Milo in the Louvre in Paris, but it has both upper limbs missing and this has merely added to not detracted from its charm.

  You will also notice that Eros is already missing an arm, the consequence of a similar Rag Day prank, in 1978 I think I’m right in saying. The missing arm, I believe, has given it that classic, ancient look.

  Notwithstanding all of this, I must repeat my earlier assertion that the Department does not have sufficient finance to become involved in a project such as this at this time. Incidentally, if you are experiencing financial hardship, as many students do, you might like to know that the college bookshop is currently having a sale. There’s up to 30% off some titles.

  Happy new year, and regards to Eros.

  Francis Hird,

  Classics Department, UCD

  Sophie takes five minutes to chew one mouthful of popcorn, roysh, and it is, like, seriously storting to wreck my head, and we’re talking TOTALLY here, and when I ask her what the fock she’s doing, roysh, she says she read in some magazine, maybe Cosmo or InStyle, that you don’t put on as much weight if you, like, chew your food for longer. Chloë, who’s, like, second year International Commerce with German, SO like Heidi Klum it’s unbelievable – scored her at the Traffic Light Ball – she asks Sophie whether she’s seen Valerie lately and Sophie goes, ‘Valerie as in first year Strategic Morkeshing in LSB?’ and Chloë nods and says she has put on SO much weight and, she’s not being a bitch or anything, but OH! MY! GOD! she’s actually a size sixteen, and Sophie asks her how she knows and Chloë tells her that she’s storted working in Benetton, just to get money together for Australia if she decides to go for the year, and Valerie came into the shop last week. Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God! she used to be SO gorgeous. She brought Alex Gaffney to the Holy Child Killiney debs,’ and Chloë’s there, ‘I SO know.’

  I knock back the rest of my Coke, roysh, and I get up to go and Sophie asks me whether I’ve got a lecture this afternoon. I’m like, ‘Had a ten o’clock, but I skipped it. I’m just going off to practice my kicking for a couple of hours.’ She asks me whether I’ve been talking to Sorcha. I
say no, roysh, so she tells me the plan for Saturday night has changed, that Gisele has decided to have her going-away somewhere in town, because the problem with Clone 92 is that if the bouncers, like, turn you away, then that’s your night over, you’re stranded in Leopardstown. She says that Erika won’t go there anyway because she reckons it’s full of skobies.

  I bump into the goys at the Blob, we’re talking Christian and Oisinn, and they’re about to go on the serious lash with Fionn. Christian already reeks of drink and I’m not sure if it’s from this morning or last night. Oisinn goes, ‘Where are you going?’ and I’m like, ‘Training.’ Oisinn’s there, ‘Training? What are you training for?’ I’m like, ‘Rugby. Hello? We are all doing sports scholarships, remember?’ And Christian’s there, ‘Is this because of what it says on the door of the jacks?’ Oisinn’s there, ‘Leave it, Christian,’ and I’m like, ‘What does it say in the jacks?’ Oisinn goes, ‘Just something about you being finished. Past it. You have had a lot of injuries, Ross. I know you were breaking your balls to get back.’ Christian goes, ‘They call you Tampax, Ross. One week in and three weeks out.’ I’m like, ‘They call me that?’ and Oisinn, roysh, he looks off into the distance and goes, ‘Some do. You’ve had very bad luck with injuries, though.’

  So I head down to the gym, roysh, do some stretches, and then do half-an-hour on the treadmill, after which I’m, like, totally shagged. But I am SO determined to get fit, roysh, that I go roysh through the pain barrier. I do, like, half-an-hour on the bike and a few weights and then I head out with a ball to, like, practice my kicking. It’s focking pissing rain. I basically hate January.

  When I get to the field, roysh, who’s there before me only Matthew Path, the knob whose place on the team I’m about to take, and he’s, like, practicing his kicking as well, roysh, and when he sees me he storts totally gicking himself. I stand there and watch him for, like, twenty minutes, really psyching the goy out of it and in the end, and I’m not being a bastard here or anything, the goy couldn’t hit a donkey’s orse with a banjo. He’s taking kicks from, like, different angles, roysh, and even in front of the post he goes and misses and he’s getting, like, totally flustered, doesn’t have the big-match temperament, as Sooty, our old coach, used to say. It’s no wonder UCD are focked.

  When he finally gets one between the posts, roysh, I just stort clapping, sort of, like, sarcastically, if that’s the roysh word. Then I head over and stand in front of him and I’ve got my old Castlerock jersey on, roysh, and I point to the badge and go, ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ and he goes, ‘It means you went to a school for wankers,’ and quick as a flash I’m like, ‘It actually means that you can go home now,’ and then I go, ‘You’re excess baggage,’ which, I have to say, I’m pretty pleased with, roysh, even though I don’t know where I got it from.

  He goes, ‘You’re living on past glories,’ and I’m there giving it, ‘Your girlfriend didn’t seem to think so,’ and then I push him out of the way and go, ‘Learn from the master.’ I stort spotting the balls, roysh, and kicking them at the goal he’s been using and he stands there and watches me putting ball after ball straight between the posts from, like, every angle you can think of. I’m on focking fire. Doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t miss. He watches me for, like, ten or fifteen minutes and then I decide I’ve punished him enough and, as I’m leaving, I turn to him and go, ‘Thanks for keeping my place warm, orsehole.’

  I have my shower and get changed and it’s, like, only three o’clock, so I phone Christian on his mobile, roysh, and he tells me they all ended up heading into town and they’re in The Bailey, so I drive in, pork the cor on Stephen’s Green and head down. I am in such good form. I walk in and I’m like, ‘I’m back, goys. I am SO back,’ and Oisinn goes, ‘Pint?’ and of course I give it, ‘Orange juice.’ And Oisinn makes this, like, wolf-whistling sound and then high-fives me. Christian, who’s totally shit-faced, he grabs me around the neck and goes, ‘Remember, if you choose the quick and easy path as Vader did, you will become an agent of evil. You must complete your training,’ and I’m like, ‘My training is complete, Obi Wan,’ sort of, like, playing along with the dude. Then I go, ‘I’m going to kick orse, Master.’

  I knock back a couple of glasses of orange juice, roysh, but the goys are on a totally different buzz from me, so I end up heading off after a couple of hours and I’m in such a good mood I even think about phoning Erika on the way back to the cor, but it’s, like, early days yet.

  Fock this for a game of soldiers, my cor – we’re talking my brand new Golf GTI here – has been focking clamped and I’m just there going, that is SO not on. I get onto the old man, roysh, and I go, ‘Need your credit cord number. Now.’ He goes, ‘What for?’ and I’m like, ‘No time to go into all that. Just gimme the focking number.’ The dickhead, roysh, he actually goes, ‘It’s a bit of an awkward time, Ross. I’m in a meeting,’ and I’m like, ‘Well just give me the focking number then and stop blabbing on,’ which he does, the focking tosser.

  I phone up the number on the notice that’s stuck to my windscreen and I go, ‘Yeah, you’ve put a clamp on my cor. Take the focking thing off. Here’s my credit cord number. You’ve got fifteen minutes, otherwise I’ll take you to the focking cleaners.’ The dude on the other end of the phone, he takes down the number, roysh, and I go, ‘And make sure you get all the glue off my windscreen, or I’ll sue your focking orses.’ He goes, ‘Can I just take your name, Sir?’ And I’m like, ‘My name? It’s Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. And if you haven’t heard it before, don’t worry. You will.’

  When we were in, like, first year in school, roysh, Christian’s old pair split up for, like, six months or something, and though Christian never really spoke about it, pretty much everyone knew it was because his old man was basically knocking off this other bird who was, like, a portner in the same company as him, she was a barrister, or something. Anyway, roysh, while all this shit was going down, Christian was sent to, like, Castlerock to board, and his sister, roysh, we’re talking Iseult, she boarded at Alex., just for, like, the year, while the old pair were working things out.

  Christian said it was, like, the most amazing year of his life, but I knew he hated it. A couple of the goys I knew from the junior cup team said he used to cry pretty much every night when the lights were off and he thought, like, no one could hear him.

  I used to stay back after school for a couple of hours, roysh, supposedly to do supervised study, that’s what I told my old pair, but it was basically so me and Christian could hang out, mostly chatting about rugby and birds we’d snogged and birds we wanted to snog and birds who wanted to snog us, and never about his old pair. And even though, roysh, technically I shouldn’t have still been on the school grounds at, like, half-seven at night, the priests never said anything to me because, well, basically I think it was because they knew the shit that Christian was going through and having his best mate there just, like, made it better for him. Sounds a bit gay, but it wasn’t.

  Anyway, roysh, this sounds a bit gay as well, but I hated going home because it was like he was in prison or some shit, and I was just, like, visiting him, and every night, roysh, when it was time for me to head off, he’d ask me to stay a bit longer and when I’d tell him that I had to get my bus, he’d say that there was a 46A every, like, ten minutes.

  Seems so long ago now. I remember this one time, roysh, and this is going to sound totally weird, but we were hanging out at the rugby pitch next to the dorms, basically lying on the grass, watching the sky get dark, again talking about birds, probably Karyn Flynn and Jessica Kennedy, these two Mounties we were into. This thing, roysh, had been on my mind for about a week, so I turn around to him and I’m like, ‘Christian, can I ask you something?’ and he goes, ‘What?’ and I’m there, ‘You know that thing they say about magpies? That it’s, like, one for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl …’ I can see him now, roysh, all of a sudden sitting up, so he’s, like, leaning on his elbows, and he goes, ‘Yea
h. What about it?’ And I went, ‘I saw four the other day … does that mean I’m …’ And he broke his shite laughing. Absolutely cracked his hole. He went, ‘You are SO focking weird, Ross,’ and he broke his shite laughing again. Then I broke mine.

  What happened between me and Christian’s old dear wasn’t actually my fault. Okay, I didn’t exactly fight her off, roysh, but basically she was the one who made a move on me and I’m the one, of course, who, like, ends up the villain. Christian’s old man is basically an orsehole, roysh, who was doing the dirt on her for years and not just with that bird he worked with, there was also this other bird he played tennis with in Riverview and then this other one who was, like, Christian’s old dear’s best friend since they were, like, ten or something. Doesn’t excuse what happened, roysh, but Christian’s old man is basically a focking hypocrite if he tells Christian about it.

  It happened at Iseult’s twenty-first, roysh, we’re talking Iseult as in Christian’s sister here, about three years ago. The porty was in their gaff on Ailesbury Road and it was obvious that the old pair had had a massive row earlier in the day, you could tell from the atmosphere and the way the old dear was putting away the sherry. Basically, I don’t know what Christian’s old man had said to her, roysh, but the shit was totally hitting the fan.

  I went to use the downstairs jacks and there was someone in there. I couldn’t hold it. Knocking back the beer all day, my back teeth were floating, so I headed upstairs. The door wasn’t locked, roysh, but when I pushed it there was something blocking it, a pair of legs, basically Christian’s old dear, sitting on the side of the bath, bawling her eyes out.