Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  Fock that, I think. I’ve got nothing left to give. I’ll have to pretend to be asleep. I make a kind of snoring noise and that seems to do the trick.

  ‘Hey, I’ve got a better idea,’ the dude goes. ‘We could go to my cabin … [sniff] … we could take this shit with us … [sniff] … carry the party on there … Jesus, my brain feels like it’s on fire.’

  ‘I should try to keep a clear head … [sniff] … my grandpa is getting married in a few hours.’

  ‘Your Grandpa? Who’s he marrying?’

  ‘That asshole’s mother. Bitch. She’s trying to steal my inheritance … [sniff] … he’s not in his right mind. He’s got senile dementia.’

  ‘Shit – so what are you gonna do about it?’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he goes, suddenly talking ninety to the dozen, ‘you could put a lawyer on the case to stop him getting married on the grounds that he’s mentally something or other not capable uncapable incapable.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that maybe I’ll just stay up snorting coke and having sex with you then I’ll show up at the wedding and stab her in the heart.’

  ‘Hey I can give you an ice pick from the bar come on let’s go to my room.’

  ‘Okay let me put some clothes on hey what are we gonna do with this guy will we shave him useless motherfucker maybe cut his dick off …’

  ‘Forget about him he’s not worth it but hey let’s take his trousers throw them in the sea …’

  Ten seconds later, I hear the door close and they’re gone. I open my eyes and I hop out of the bed.

  Shit, what time is it?

  I check my phone. Fock, it’s seven o’clock in the morning and I’ve got, like, nineteen missed calls from Sorcha. Okay, I need to get my shit together here.

  I search the floor for my trousers. Fock, she took them. Hell hath no fury like whatever the actual phrase is.

  I throw on my jacket and shirt, then my boxers and socks, and I’m thinking, Okay, all I’ve got to do here is get back to the room before Sorcha has hopefully woken up, slip into the bed beside her and pretend I’ve been there for hours. Come on, I think – you’ve done this a hundred times before, even though it’s the first time without actual trousers.

  I pick up my shoes and I slip out of the room. Fock, it’s already bright out.

  I tiptoe along the passageway to Room 14, which is, like, our room? I reach for my key and I think, Oh, shit, it’s just my luck. It was in my focking trouser pocket.

  I try the handle, hoping against hope that Sorcha has left the door unlocked, but then it flies open and she’s suddenly standing in front of me with a face as angry as loads of wasps.

  I make sure to get my defence in first. ‘Sorcha,’ I go, ‘I know how this looks. But I can guarantee you nothing happened.’

  She’s like, ‘Nothing happened?’

  I’m there, ‘I swear on my mother’s life.’

  She just, like, shakes her head. She goes, ‘Of all the things you’ve ever done, Ross, this is definitely the worst.’

  I’m thinking, Steady on – what about riding your sister? Obviously I don’t say that.

  Instead, I go, ‘Sorcha, all I’m guilty of here is trying to be a friend to a girl who was upset.’

  She’s there, ‘So you plied her with drink?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I plied her with it. I offered her a glass of Champagne because I thought it might help her chill out. Then she was suddenly throwing it into her. The girl has got a serious problem, by the way.’

  ‘How much did she drink?’

  ‘I don’t know. Eight or nine glasses?’

  ‘Eight or nine glasses?’

  ‘Minimum. And she had a couple of shorts as well. Tequila and then something else. Why the big concern, Sorcha?’

  I shouldn’t complain, but she’s so focused on the drink aspect of the evening that she hasn’t even noticed that I’m standing there in my jockeys.

  ‘Why the big concern?’ she goes, as mad as I’ve ever seen her.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, why is it such a big deal if the girl has a few drinks? I don’t give a fock either way – neither should you.’

  She goes, ‘Our nine-year-old daughter is drunk, Ross! She’s so drunk she can’t even stand!’

  A wave of relief washes over me.

  I’m like, ‘Honor’s drunk?’

  She goes, ‘Do you think this is funny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you laughing?’

  ‘It’s just, I don’t know, possibly nerves? So Honor’s drunk – that’s who we were talking about just there.’

  ‘She’s also been sick everywhere.’

  ‘Okay, where is she now?’

  ‘In the bathroom. I’m still trying to sober her up.’

  She turns around and storts walking towards the bathroom. I step into our bedroom. The smell of vom hits me straightaway. Jesus, she wasn’t wrong. It’s all over the bed, the floor, the vanity unit.

  But Sorcha ends up not even noticing the whole no-pants thing. I’m, like, punching the air – quite literally.

  Johnny, Leo and Brian are all awake and screaming their lungs out.

  ‘Ross,’ Sorcha goes, ‘will you come in here to the bathroom and help me? I’ve been ringing you all night!’

  I go, ‘Hang on, I’m just taking my trousers off so I don’t get puke on them.’

  I’m a genius. I’m going to use that word.

  I give it a few seconds, then into the bathroom I go. Honor is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her eyes sort of, like, half closed. We’ve all been that soldier.

  She sees me and goes, ‘Look at this … focking asshole.’

  I’m there, ‘I’m going to let that go, Honor, because you’ve had a few too many.’

  She looks at Sorcha then. ‘And you … you focking … whore.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘I will not tolerate you speaking to me like that, Honor, drunk or not.’

  Jesus, I thought we’d have to wait until she was at least fourteen before we had this kind of conversation.

  Honor goes, ‘You are a focking … whore … couldn’t let me … be happy … you were all over him … like a … whore …’

  ‘I am not having another conversation with you about Caleb,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Certainly not until you sober up. And then, by the way, you’re going to have a very sore head indeed and I hope it scares you off ever drinking again.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ I go. ‘This is actually good preparation for us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For when she’s a teenager. It’s all ahead of us. Wesley. Blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Ross, I can’t even talk to you right now.’

  ‘Am I to take it that I’m being blamed for this?’

  ‘You gave our daughter alcohol!’

  I stare at Honor, trying to gauge just how hammered she actually is and whether she’ll remember this conversation when she sobers up.

  I’m there, ‘I didn’t give her alcohol!’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I didn’t give her alcohol,’ I go, all wounded innocence.

  Shit, Honor ends up being more sober than I imagined because she goes, ‘You did! You said I could drink!’

  I’m there, ‘Honor, I don’t know why you’d make up something like that about me.’

  She goes, ‘You liar!’ practically spitting the words at me.

  She’s going to be a bad drunk. That much is obvious, even at this age.

  Sorcha goes, ‘But you admitted it, Ross. You said you told her it might chill her out. She had eight or nine glasses of Champagne, you said – and some spirits.’

  I laugh.

  I’m there, ‘You must have got your wires crossed, Babes. I was actually talking about … someone else.’

  Honor goes, ‘You focking said I could … you’re a focking liar.’

  ‘She’s possibly blaming me,’ I go, ‘because I’m
the cool dad. That makes me an easy torget.’

  Sorcha smiles at me, her head tilted to the side, and she goes, ‘I’m sorry I accused you, Ross.’

  I’m like, ‘Hey, ain’t no thing but Gustavo Fring. It’d be nice if you had faith in me the occasional time, though.’

  ‘I really am sorry, Ross.’

  It genuinely shocks me how easily taken in she is sometimes. The girl shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.

  ‘Focking liar!’ Honor shouts.

  I’m there, ‘That’s just the drink talking.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Well, that’s me out of the wedding then, isn’t it?’

  I’m like, ‘Why?’

  ‘Ross, she’s still drunk. Then we’ve got the hangover to come. You’ll have to tell your mother I’m sorry. I’m going to have to miss her big day.’

  ‘Sorcha’s not coming,’ I go. ‘She sends her apologies and blah, blah, blah.’

  The old dear has to make a big song and dance of it, of course. She’s like, ‘Sorcha’s not coming? Is she sick?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, Honor is. She’s spewing her ring up. She’s actually still pissed from last night.’

  ‘Your daughter Honor? You’re saying she was drinking alcohol?’

  ‘I don’t know why you sound so surprised. She has your genes, you focking soak.’

  She pulls a face as if to say that she’s not going to let what I say today affect her. She’s rising above it.

  She goes, ‘How do I look?’

  I’m there, ‘Like someone sat on Bruce Jenner’s head.’

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘you’re about to walk me up the aisle. Can’t you be nice to me – just for one day?’

  I get famously emotional at weddings. It kind of sneaks up on me, which is probably the reason I end up going, ‘Okay, fine, you look well – genuinely well.’

  She smiles. She goes, ‘That’s a lovely thing to say, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, I only said well. You know, don’t go quoting me down the line, saying I said this, that and the other.’

  ‘Well is good enough for me.’

  ‘So you’re definitely going to do this then?’

  ‘Oh, Ross, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.’

  So I nod at the conductor of the orchestra and the music storts up – we’re talking something by Vivaldi.

  The old dear links my orm and we step out onto the deck of the boat. There’s, like, an aisle in front of us with seventy or eighty chairs set out in rows on either side. We walk slowly, one step at a time, the old dear giving me instructions out of the corner of her mouth, like, ‘Slower, Ross!’ without ever breaking her smile.

  I spot the boat’s captain, who’s apparently going to perform the necessary, standing at the top of the aisle in a blazer and a white hat and a humungous, grey walrus moustache.

  And in front of him, with his back to us, is the groom. When we’re, like, halfway up the aisle, he looks over his shoulder. He’s grinning from ear to ear, but he’s also, like, gibbering away to himself. When we reach the top, I can hear what he’s saying. He’s going, ‘As chairwoman of the reception committee, I extend the wishes of every man, woman and child of Freedonia. Never mind that stuff. Take a card. Card? What will I do with the card? You can keep it. I’ve got fifty-one left. Now what were you saying?’

  I go, ‘She’s all yours, Ari. Do what you want with her.’

  ‘As chairwoman of the reception committee, I extend the wishes of every man, woman and child of Freedonia …’

  ‘Ssshhh,’ the old dear goes, which seems to quieten the dude down. ‘This is it, Ari – we’re getting married!’

  I take my seat, next to the old man. I take Johnny onto my knee. The old man has Brian and Helen has Leo.

  ‘Wonderful job,’ the old man goes, wiping away an actual tear.

  I’m looking around. I notice that there’s no sign of Tiffany Blue. I’m wondering is she sleeping off her coke hangover?

  We sit through the whole thing. There’s, like, a Mass-type thing – it might even be Mass.

  It storts during the exchange of vows. Johnny is the first. ‘Focking motherfocker!’ he shouts. ‘Motherfocking focker!’

  That sets Leo off. He’s like, ‘Shitting motherfocker! Focking shitting bastard! Shitting shit!’

  And then Brian decides to have his say. He’s there, ‘Fock off! Fock off, focking bastard!’

  People are turning around and staring at me, expecting me to do something, including the old dear.

  ‘Focking pricks!’ Johnny shouts.

  I’m thinking, Yeah, no, I couldn’t have put it better myself, Johnny.

  People turn back and face the front again. The old dear and Ari do the necessary, then they sign some paperwork to say that they’re actually married, then they kiss and we all clap. And then that’s that.

  Or should I say that should be that?

  I’m sitting there thinking, Thank fock that’s over, I could do with a drink to take the edge off this hangover – I might even bring one to the room for Honor. Might get me out of her bad books!

  That’s when a voice behind us goes, ‘You … bitch!’

  I turn around. Everyone turns around. It’s Tiffany Blue. There’s more than a few gasps from the congregation – especially when they see the state of her. It’s pretty obvious that the girl hasn’t been to bed yet. She’s been up all night and all morning snorting coke and drinking fock knows what and now she’s looking for a fight.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ the old dear goes, grinning at her. ‘And God knows what else.’

  Tiffany Blue goes, ‘Step away from my grandpa!’

  It’s actually comical the way she says it.

  ‘You’re too late,’ the old dear goes. ‘The deed is done.’

  And that’s when I notice the flash of metal in Tiffany Blue’s hand. Shit, she has an ice pick – and suddenly she’s stomping up the aisle, holding the thing like a dagger.

  One or two people make a grab for her, but the girl is not about to be stopped. She slips two or three attempted tackles and suddenly she’s standing in front of my old dear, getting ready to plunge the thing into her chest.

  And that’s when, suddenly, Tiffany Blue is tackled around the waist and wrestled to the deck of the boat. It happens so fast that no one knows who the hero of the hour happens to be. It takes a few seconds for them to realize that the old dear’s saviour is none other than me.

  Delma, one of the old dear’s knob friends, manages to pull the ice pick out of Tiffany Blue’s hand.

  ‘Ross!’ the old dear goes. ‘You saved my life!’

  ‘Stop it!’ a voice suddenly roars.

  Everyone looks up. It’s Ari. He stares at his granddaughter and goes, ‘You should be ashamed yourself!’

  She’s there, ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Well, I’m ashamed of you! And I’m ashamed enough for both of us! I thought I raised you better than that!’

  Yeah, she’s in and out of rehab like Chorlie focking Sheen, by the sounds of it – I wouldn’t go throwing bouquets at yourself, Ari.

  She’s like, ‘I can’t believe you married that woman!’

  ‘That woman,’ Ari goes, ‘has a name,’ and then he goes quiet for a few seconds. It’s pretty obvious that he’s trying to remember it.

  Tiffany Blue goes, ‘She’s just about the money and you can’t see it!’

  ‘She’s not about the money,’ he tries to go, ‘because I already told you she signed a piece of paper that … Hey, you know what?’

  He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of pages. I’m presuming it’s the actual prenup. ‘Fionnuala – that’s it! – she suggested, as a demonstration of her love for me, that she sign this bullshit piece of paper, cutting her out of everything in the event of my death. You know what I’m going to do now?’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Tiffany Blue screams. ‘It’ll be the biggest mistake of your life!’

  Ari takes the pages and he rips the
m up. Everyone genuinely gasps.

  ‘Ari,’ the old dear goes, ‘that really wasn’t necessary!’

  At the same time, I notice a huge smile on the old dear’s lips – and that’s when I realize that she played me. She played me, she played Tiffany Blue, she played Ari – she played us all.

  She knew that if she flashed that ring around, she’d get Tiffany Blue riled. She knew that if she told me that Tiffany Blue got slutty with drink on her that I’d try to get her back on the booze. She knew that if Tiffany Blue was shitfaced, she’d look for coke and then she’d kick off in a major way. And she knew that if Tiffany Blue kicked off, Ari would tear up the prenup and she could look like it was all a major shock to her.

  You can say I’m possibly reaching here? But then I know how her mind works as well as I know my own.

  Ari stares at Tiffany Blue and goes, ‘You’re worried about Fionnuala getting everything when I die? Well, you can stop worrying because I’m putting you out of your misery. She’s getting everything. I’m cutting you out and I’m cutting you off.’

  Tiffany Blue’s jaw hits the – literally – deck. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she goes.

  He’s like, ‘Hey, it just happened. You’re dead to me.’

  He takes the torn-up prenup and he throws the pieces in the air and they suddenly rain down on us.

  ‘Oh, look,’ the old dear goes, ‘it’s just like confetti!’

  8

  Club Can’t Even Handle Me Right Now

  Dudser is letting fly in a serious way. We’re, like, five minutes from the end of Strength and Conditioning, but there’s no let-up in the intensity. We’re doing, like, one-leg squats and he’s going, ‘Deeper! Go deeper, you pack of wimps!’

  Christian’s sweating like a menopausal woman. I’m like, ‘This is Dudser in a good mood, by the way!’

  Christian laughs in a sort of, like, bitter kind of way.

  ‘Gilly,’ Dudser shouts, ‘Blissy, Ollie Lysaght. Tesco and back – three minutes. I’m timing you.’

  Blissy has a go back at him. ‘I’m doing the focking exercises,’ he goes.

  Dudser’s like, ‘You’re not. You’re checking out your hair in the mirror. Ballybrack Shopping Centre and back. The rest of you can keep doing one-leg squats until they get back!’