The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (20 page)

Emily, roysh, more a friend than a girlfriend you’d have to say, even though she looks a little bit like Holly Marie Combs and I’ve been there once, no twice, and even though she’s got, like, a boyfriend now, it’s a total boost to the old ego to know that I could, like, be with her again if I wanted to, which I’m pretty sure I could. She was on the Mount Anything debating team with Sorcha as well, roysh, and my friendship with her really pisses Sorcha off, which is another reason to, like, keep it going. Anyway, roysh, basically Emily works at her old dear’s pet-grooming service and you wouldn’t believe this place, we’re basically talking a hairdressers for focking dogs here. All these rich old dears come in with these little yappy things growing out of their armpits and they’re giving it, ‘Please cheer my wittle baby up.’ It makes you want to borf, roysh, but these stupid bitches are handing over a hundred bills, no questions asked, to give the dog a cut and blow dry.

Anyway, roysh, this particular day I’m down in Kilpedder of all places showing this couple around a house down there, and on the way back into the office, roysh, I swing by Emily’s work to see if she’s heading into Lillies on Friday night. I get in there,
roysh, and she’s like, ‘
OH! MY! GOD
! Ross, you are
such
a lifesaver.’ I’m like, ‘Why do you say that, babes?’ She goes, ‘Can you bring that dog out for a walk? Maybe Killiney beach or something,’ and I’m like, ‘Which dog?’ and she points at this big, white, fock-off poodle in the corner, a massive thing, like the one in ‘EastEnders’, Roly or whatever the fock he was called. It’s one of those dogs that looks like it should have four wheels and a handle attached to it to be pushed around by a kid. And Emily must see the reaction on my face, roysh, because she goes, ‘Please, Ross. Be a darling.’ I’m like, ‘If I’m seen walking around with that thing, Emily, people are going to think I’ve come out. And I couldn’t live with hundreds of female suicides on my conscience,’ playing it Mister Slick. I’m like, ‘Why does he need to go for a walk?’ and she’s there, ‘She, Ross. It’s a she. And that’s the problem. She’s in heat. I’ve three more dogs booked in this afternoon and I’ve had to put them out the back. That’s what all that barking is.’ I’m like, ‘But Emily–’ and she goes, ‘Ross, I’ll make it up to you,’ and, well, basically I’m a sucker for a hard luck story, especially when it comes from a bird I wouldn’t mind knobbing.

So she puts a leash on the focking thing, roysh, and I bring it out to the cor, one hand over my eyes just in case anyone
recognises
me. I open the boot, roysh, and I go to put her in and Emily’s like, ‘ROSS!’ and I’m there, ‘It was a joke. Chill out, will you?’ She’s like, ‘I’m sorry, I am
SO
stressed out this week. Can’t wait for the weekend,’ and I put the dog in the passenger seat. She goes, ‘Now don’t walk her too far, Ross. She has a weak heart,’ and I’m like, ‘There’s no chance of that.’ Emily gives me a peck on the cheek and I drive off and the second I get around the corner, roysh, I pull up, take the dog out of the cor and lash her back into the boot.

And as I’m driving along, roysh, I can hear all this
whimpering
coming out of her and I turn up the CD player – the new Coldplay album – but I can still focking hear it, and I’m storting to lose the rag and I’m there giving it, ‘I should just let you loose and let some big dog ride you,’ which is when I get an idea, roysh, a brilliant one I have to say. I head for Foxrock, roysh. It’s still only two o’clock in the afternoon so the old pair aren’t going to be at home. The old man will be at work and the old dear does lunch with the girls from the tennis club on Tuesdays. The traffic’s fairly light, roysh, and I get there in no time, I pull up outside the next-door neighbours’ house, get out of the cor and have a quick butchers over the fence. They’ve only moved in a couple of months, roysh, but already they’ve left their mark on the place, and we’re talking big time here. There’s, like,
mattresses
and broken washing machines all over the garden, and spare cor ports and an old fridge and, like, dog shit and black bin bags which have been ripped apart and, like, the rubbish dragged all over the front lawn. Then all of a sudden, roysh – AAARRGGHH! – this growling and borking storts and
basically
frightens the shit out of me, and I look down, roysh, and it’s the knackers’ Rottweiler, a big focking angry thing as well, roysh, going basically ballistic it is, and I just thank fock that I’m not on his side of the fence right now. I go to the cor, roysh, open the boot and drag Roly or whatever her name is out. The closer we get, roysh, the more ballistic the Rottweiler gets on the other side of the fence, obviously getting the scent, love is in the air, roysh, but she’s, like, really pulling hard against the chain, trying to, like, get away and I have to use all my strength, roysh, to drag her as far as the fence, then pick her up and throw her over it.

All I can hear, roysh, is all this growling and grunting and yelping, and the Rottweiler’s either shagging her or eating her, and I’m basically praying it’s the first, otherwise this could be a serious test of me and Emily’s friendship. It’s a couple of
minutes
before I can, like, even bear to watch, but when I look over the fence again, roysh, the Rottweiler’s bet into her, tongue hanging out, eyes rolled into the back of his head and his orse doing ninety, and she doesn’t seem to be doing too much
complaining
either. The next thing, roysh, the trap is sprung. First I hear the back door opening and then I see the goy coming out, roysh, to investigate what all the grunting and groaning is about, and he obviously expects to find the dog doing whatever it is that Rottweiler’s do, eating a child or something, but then he sees his killing machine of a dog, roysh, getting his Nat King Cole off a big fluffy poodle and his reaction is basically just what I’d expected.

He just goes, ‘TYSON! NOOOOO!’ and he runs towards them, roysh, and hits Tyson this almighty focking boot and the two dogs scatter in opposite directions. Then the goy’s bird – I think her name’s Cindy, roysh – she comes out and she’s like, ‘What’s the story, luv?’ and the goy just breaks down in tears and he’s like, ‘I caught Tyson … shagging a poodle. I mean, shagging a poodle, can you believe it? He’s … he’s bent. Our dog’s a bender.’ The bird, roysh, she’s like, ‘Gays is what dee call dem now. Are ye sure it wasn’t a female dog he was ridin’?’ and he goes, ‘It was a fookin poodle. They’re all bleedin’ transsexuals, them poodles. Even the men ones look like women.’ She’s like, ‘What’re we goin’ to do?’ and he’s there going, ‘Might as well ring its neck now. A gay dog’s no good to us. I told you, Cindy. What did I tell ye about moving to an area like this? I told ye we’d all go soft. I didn’t think Tyson would be the first, though. We should never have left Blanchardstown. A bleedin’ gay dog. They don’t tell you this kind of thing on the lorro ads, do they?’

The next thing, roysh, the poodle comes leaping over the fence and I grab a hold of her and stick her in the front passenger seat – she deserves to travel in style after what she’s been through. Doesn’t seem to be much damage, except she’s walking a little bit crooked. A nice shampoo and set and no one will be any the wiser, unless of course there’s a nasty little shock on the way for her owner in nine months’ time, or however long it takes for dogs to have, like, babies and shit.

It was a total mare of a weekend, and basically I mean
TOTAL
. This bouncer turned me away from AKA, roysh, not because I was elephants but because I was, in his words, acting the bollicks at a stag party a few weeks earlier. I’m like, ‘
Hello
? I don’t
think
so. Stag porties are, like,
SO
working class.’ Fionn goes, ‘Ross, you must have a dopplegänger.’ I’m like, ‘A dopplegänger, a Long Island iced tea, I’d drink anything at this stage, Fionn, but this goy won’t let me in.’

I think what the problem is, roysh, is that a lot of bouncers are basically jealous of me. They see me in there, roysh, working groups of birds, giving them my lines, getting mobile numbers, basically breaking hearts. It must be a very frustrating job, roysh, fifty notes a night to stand around watching goys like me doing my stuff and going home with whatever bird I want. I’m a
good-looking
bloke. I’ve got the chat. I’ve got the confidence. What do these goys want me to do, sit at home in a coma all night?

The rest of the lads try to persuade him to let me in, roysh, which is the worst thing you can do with bouncers. Christian
waves his hand in front of the goy’s face and goes, ‘You
will
let my friend in,’ and the goy goes, ‘Listen, pal, any more of that crap and none of you is getting in.’ Christian turns around and looks at me, roysh, with this look of, like, disappointment on his face and he goes, ‘The goy’s a Toydarian. The Force is useless against him.’

I’m like, ‘Hey goys, come on, that place is
SO
focking last year anyway. Let’s hit Cocoon.’ But Fionn and Oisinn are like, ‘No, we’d, em, prefer to go in here. The problem is we’re supposed to be meeting people from, er, college in here.’ And I can see what’s happening, roysh. Basically they know that if I’m off the scene they’ve a much better chance of scoring. Cuts down the field for them. But what thrill is there in scoring when you know there’s no other competition? I’m like, ‘Oh, right, so it’s a Celtic League night, goys, yeah?’ Oisinn just shrugs. I’m like, ‘Come on,
Christian
, we’re European Cup players.’ But Christian, my so-called best mate, goes, ‘Sorry, Padwan, I’m, er, meeting people from college as well.’ I’m like, ‘You’re not even
in
college.’ He goes, ‘Nor … are they.’

So they all head in, leaving me there like a Toblerone, out on my focking own. I think about heading for the Fightlink, roysh, but I end up hitting Cocoon on my focking sweeney. I sit up at the bor, lorrying back the pints, telling various people who come and stand beside me how, like, difficult it is to be
good-looking
these days, but most of them just move to the other end of the bor, which is when I realise I’m more trousered than I thought.

Eventually, roysh, I leave and head up Grafton Street to get a Jo Maxi. Miracle of focking miracles, I flag one down on the Green, hop in the back and the goy asks me where I’m going. I’m
like, ‘Back to my gaff. We’re talking Dalkey, roysh.’ He’s like, ‘Eh, sorry, bud. I’m stayin’ local.’ I’m like, ‘Local? Dalkey is ten miles away. How much more local can you get?’ He goes, ‘When I say local, I mean
local
.’ I’m like, ‘You’re not allowed to do that. You have to take me once I’m in the cor.’ He goes, ‘I’m not goin’ that direction. Look, if you don’t get out now, I’ll take you straight to the garda station.’

I’m seriously pissed off at this stage, roysh. I’m like, ‘Take me to the gorda station. I’m going to make a complaint about you.’ So he screeches the focking wheels, roysh, and I must drift off into a drunken sleep or something for a few seconds because the next thing I know, roysh, we’re pulling into this cop shop, and there’s a cop outside, roysh, and the taxi driver calls him over. We both get out and before I get a chance to say anything, roysh, the driver goes, ‘He was being abusive and threatening.’

The gorda, roysh, a focking bogger, you can tell he couldn’t give a fock, just wants to get back to his, I don’t know, bacon and cabbage or whatever. He’s like, ‘Do you want me to arrest you?’ I’m like, ‘Excuse me, I asked him to bring me here to make a complaint. I asked him to take me to Dalkey and he said he was staying local. That’s illegal.’

The copper’s like, ‘Are you trying to tell me the law?’ I’m like, ‘That
is
the law.’ He goes, ‘Don’t you raise your voice to me.’ I’m like, ‘I didn’t.’ He goes, ‘You DID raise your voice. I could charge you with assaulting a garda for that.’ He winks at the driver, roysh, and the driver heads off back to his taxi, laughing to
himself
. I stort singing, ‘DE-REG-U-LATION. DE-REG-U-LATION. AND WE DON’T HAVE TO QUEUE FOR SIX HOURS TONIGHT,’ a song that Oisinn always sings at taxi ranks and which really wrecks the goy’s head.

I turn around and the copper’s gone, roysh, so I head into the station and demand to see the duty sergeant, which I’d seen the old man do once when he got a ticket for having one wheel on the kerb in Sandycove. You have to give it to the cops in this town, they’re really on top of crime. The goy goes, ‘The duty
sergeant’s
on his break,’ and he slams the hatch shut. I tell him I’ll wait.