The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (3 page)

I’m like, ‘Bull
shit
. Are you saying she’s a model?’ And he looks me up and down again, like he’s trying to work out what planet I’ve just come from, and he goes, ‘Zam Wesell, Ross. ZAM WES-ELL. She’s the bounty hunter in the new
Star Wars
movie.’ And he pulls out this, like, movie magazine, roysh, with a picture of this bird on the cover, wearing these purple, like, motorbike clothes, a veil and a focking colander on her head, and she’s, like, pointing a gun at the camera.

All of this sort of, like, catches me unawares, you have to understand. I want to tell him what a focking spacer he is, but I don’t want to hurt the goy’s feelings. And she
is
actually a bit of a lasher. He goes, ‘You’re not interested in her yourself, Ross, are you?’ suddenly all, like, worried. I’m there, ‘Christian, I won’t get in your way. I can promise you that.’ He nods. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. He goes, ‘She might have a friend. For you, like. Wouldn’t be as good-looking as her, of course.’ I’m like, ‘I don’t mind. I’d take a bullet for you, Christian.’ He takes
a long drink out of his pint and neither of us says anything for ages. I can’t believe I’ve got my best friend back. Best Christmas present I’ll get this year. He goes, ‘You mean laser blast, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘What?’ He goes, ‘You said you’d take a bullet for me. You mean laser blast.’

Christmas. I do
not
want to talk about it. It was a real, like, family affair, roysh, the old pair, all lovey-dovey as usual – borf, borf – all presents and turkey and mulled wine and midnight Mass and mascarpone and charades and the Queen’s speech and Baileys and Buckaroo and sherry focking trifle and Noel Edmonds and mind the Waterford Crystal and plum pudding and red candles and BT luxury crackers and
You Only Live Twice
and paper hats and bullshit conversation and Belgian chocolates and smoked salmon and asshole relatives and hot port and brandy butter and Charlotte Church and wrapping paper and ‘Oooh, I love you so much, darling,’ and pass the focking sick bag. I am
SO
not going to be here for it next year.

Orlaith, this bird I know, roysh, works in a PR firm, Brown Nose and Schmooze Public Relations as we call it, she’s a pain in the focking orse, roysh, but a ringer for Kate Beckinsale. She rings me on my mobile and storts telling me all about what a great New Year she had. She says that a bunch of them rented, like, a cottage on the Aran Islands, roysh, and
OH! MY! GOD!
you
should
have seen the state of Sara with no h, who drank, like, practically a whole bottle of vodka after Conor, her ex, ended up going off with, like, Keeva –
Hello
? – the girl who’s supposed to be, like, her best friend. I pretty much switch off while this is going on, roysh,
and when she eventually lets me get a word in edgeways, I’m like, ‘So, what was the weather like?’ Not that I actually
give
a shit, you understand. I’m just basically making conversation. Scoring Orlaith is, like, a long-term project of mine. She goes, ‘It was okay. But there was no coverage, though. It was, like,
SO
frustrating not being able to text. And
OH! MY! GOD
! they changed over to the euro as well. I didn’t think they would. Though I suppose the Aran Islands are pretty much Ireland, aren’t they?’ Then she’s like, ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I’m like, ‘Cinema. You?’ She’s there, ‘Might go for a sauna later on. Hey, I met Faye and Amy in Crunch last weekend. On the sunbeds. Those two seem to be as thick as thieves.’ And I’m just like, ‘Yeah, cool.’

She goes, ‘Speaking of cool,
OH! MY! GOD!
I saw your mum on Six-One.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, making a total tit of herself as usual.’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, she
SO
didn’t, Ross. I thought she was
SO
good. I didn’t even know she was involved with the … what do they call it?’ I’m like, ‘The Move Funderland to the Northside Campaign. A couple of her friends live in Sandymount, you see.’ She goes, ‘Some of Mum and Dad’s do too, and oh my God, the knackers it brings into the area. Total CHV. It’s like,
OH! MY! GOD!
’ I’m like, ‘Yeah.’ She goes, ‘Your mum is
such
a good speaker. What was it she said? “Funderland is fun for everyone – except if you happen to live in Sandymount.” That was
such
a clever thing to say.’ I’m like, ‘Well, she is, like, PRO for the group.’ She goes, ‘And when she stood in front of that bomper cor,
OH! MY! GOD!
she was, like,
SO
brave.’ I’m like, ‘I wish it had focking hit her.’ She’s like, ‘You can’t say that, Ross. I mean, there’s no room for something like Funderland in the New Ireland. Fair play to her for saying that to the gorda. I mean, why
don’t they put it in Ballymun? When they knock down all those, like, flats and shit.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, maybe–’ She goes, ‘
OH! MY! GOD!
isn’t your twenty-first coming up?’ I’m like, ‘Not until May.’ She goes, ‘Cool. What are you doing for it?’ I’m like, ‘Porty in the gaff, probably. The old pair are putting up, like, a marquee and shit. Should be cool.’ She’s there, ‘Cool.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, cool.’ She goes, ‘
OH! MY! GOD!
‘Sex and the City’ is on tonight.’ I’m like, ‘Is that the one with the–’ She’s like, ‘
Lesbians, yes
. Ohmy God, you are actually
worse
than Oisinn. Anyway, she’s not a lesbian anymore. It was
actually
just a phase.’

The conversation is storting to bore the orse off me, roysh, but with girls like Orlaith you really have to put the work in if you’re going to get anything out of it at a future date. She carries on blabbing for, like, twenty minutes about nights out she had over Christmas, roysh, and how she is turning into
such
a
Samantha
, whatever the fock that is, and she storts telling me about all these goys she was nearly with.
Nearly
, I stress. Orlaith, I’ve noticed, is never actually
with
anyone, which makes her a bit of a challenge. I chanced my arm with her in Tram Co one night about a year ago, roysh, she was basically coming on to me all night, so I moved in for the kill and she just, like, pulled away. I was like, ‘Hey, you’re being offered the chance to be with Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. Might not come around again.’ She goes, ‘No, I’m, em, seeing someone.’ I’m like, ‘Who?’ She’s there, ‘Rob.’ I’m there, ‘Rob who?’ She goes, ‘Rob … O’Brien.’ Now I may have failed the Leaving three times, roysh, but I’m not stupid.
Nobody’s
called Rob O’Brien, that’s the kind of name you make up when a copper catches you pissing up against an ATM in Donnybrook at four o’clock in the morning after an international match. So that was the night I put Orlaith’s name alongside Erika’s in the file
marked, ‘Long-term Projects.’

I turn around to her and I’m like, ‘You must be looking forward to going skiing. I’m actually looking forward to seeing you again. I’m glad you’re coming to my twenty-first.’ Pretty smooth, I have to admit. She goes, ‘Ross, I’ve told you before. You’re too much of a bastard for my liking.’ I’m there, ‘I’m not anymore. I’ve changed … Orlaith.’ I nearly said Erika. She goes, ‘Sure you have.’ I turn around to Fionn, who’s sitting beside me, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Fionn, haven’t I changed?’ And the next thing, roysh, I hear all these people going, ‘Ssshhh,’ and I turn around, ready to, like, deck someone. I’m like, ‘
WHAT
is your focking problem?’ Someone goes, ‘We’re trying to watch the film. You shouldn’t even have that on in here.’ It was Lord of the focking Rings. I’m like, ‘Can you blame me? This is shit.’ Then I go, ‘Orlaith, I’m going to have to call you back.’

The next thing, roysh, this bird is suddenly shining a torch in my face and telling me and Fionn to get out. I’m like, ‘With pleasure,’ but Fionn, who was actually enjoying the film, believe it or not, is really pissed off with me, the specky focker. I’m glad to see one of us understood what the fock was going on in it. It was something like six hours long. I was growing a focking beard sitting there. As we’re heading out, roysh, I think of something really funny to shout and basically I can’t resist it, roysh, so I leg it back in, open the door and I’m there, ‘We’re closing up for the night out here. Turn off the lights on your way out. When it’s finally over, that is.’ Which you have to admit, roysh, is pretty funny. Fionn didn’t think so, though. No sense of humour basically.

Dickhead gets me tickets for the Ireland versus Italy match. He’s like, ‘They’re on the mantelpiece, Ross, behind your mother’s
John Rocha signature carafe.’ I’m like, ‘Am I supposed to be focking grateful or something?’ Which I probably should be, roysh, but you give my old man the least bit of encouragement and suddenly he’s trying to be all palsy-walsy with you, which basically I don’t need at this stage in my life.

I meet Oisinn and a few of the birds before the game, roysh, just for a bit of lunch, but Erika’s in one of her usual moods, just sitting there constantly sighing and, like, throwing her eyes up to heaven and she hasn’t even touched her moyashi soba.
Eventually
, roysh, completely out of the blue, she goes, ‘Is it just a
coincidence
that all the worst words in a woman’s life contain the word ‘men’? We’re talking menstruation, we’re talking
meno-pause
, we’re talking–’ Oisinn’s like, ‘
Ménage à trois
?’ And Erika, roysh, she gives him the finger and goes, ‘In your dreams,’ and me and Oisinn high-five each other, even though I don’t speak German.

The waitress bird, roysh, who Erika’s been giving filthies to all day, she brings the bill, roysh, drops it on the table and I’m straight out with the wallet, basically offering to pay for
everything
. I’m pretty much quids-in at the moment, and Aoife goes, ‘
OH! MY! GOD!
you are
such
a life-saver. My cord is, like,
SO
maxed out after Christmas. I mean,
Hello
?’ But Erika, roysh, she goes, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Ross?’ and I’m there, ‘Treating you to lunch,’ and she, like, throws my money back across the table at me, roysh, and goes, ‘We don’t need you
paying
for our lunch. What
is
it about men?’ She gets up, roysh, and goes to the jacks, followed quickly by Aoife and Jayne with a y, and Oisinn goes, ‘Shit the bed, her difficulty with taking money from men obviously doesn’t extend to her daddy,’ and I’m like, ‘She’s just a bit hormonal, I’d say.’ I reach across the table and
grab her Discman and I look inside and it’s, like, Destiny’s Child, which explains a thing or two.

Oisinn eats everybody’s leftovers, roysh, including the end of my yasai itameru, which I was planning to eat myself, but I say nothing, and we decide to head off before the chicks come back, hit Kiely’s and throw seven or eight pints into ourselves before the game. The two of us sit up at the bor and Oisinn storts telling me that Break for the Border is a great place to go if you want to score ugly birds, and we’re talking
TOTALLY
ugly here, and that before Christmas he was with this bird in there who looked like Colin Montgomerie, and I tell him thanks for the information.

In terms of, like, tipping us over the edge, roysh, it was the next four pints that did the damage. We were basically pretty much off our tits after about two hours and we didn’t know whether we were playing Italy or … I don’t know, some other country beginning with I, Iceland or Ithiopia. Getting focked out of Kiely’s for singing meant we got to Lansdowne Road half an hour early, roysh, and we killed the time by going from one hospitality tent to the next, heckling all these dickheads who were making, like, speeches and shit.