Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

“In fairness to her, I do look well in the old Shred Focking Everything boilersuit – it’s, like, fitted, see . . .”

I AM ACCUSTOMEDto being desired. That might come across as possibly big-headed? But I'm a looker. I've lived with that fact every day of my life. And after 30 years on this Earth, I've gotten used to women licking their lips at the sight of me, like ravenous dogs watching the butcher put the rubbish out.

Rebecca is different to other girls. When I catch her staring at me, I see more than the usual lustful feelings I bring out in women. I look at her looking back at me — her eyes glassy and her mouth working like a landed marlin — and I know that this girl wants me more than she wants her next breath.

Rebecca is English. Not one of your hen porty types. She's, like, posh English – one of the high-nigh-brine-kai brigade. She's the managing director of a company called – actually, I shouldn't tell you, it being a confidentialshredding service I'm supposedly offering? Suffice it to say, roysh, that I'm around there twice, occasionally three times a week at this stage, collecting bags of documents – although more often than not, it turns out to be bags of, like, blank paper. I usually try to slip in and out unnoticed. I'll whisper to Penny, the bird on reception: "Just hand me the bag there – I'm double-porked outside," but then I'll hear the thunder of feet up above us – Rebecca nearly snotting herself on her Loubs to get to the top of the stairs to cop a look at me.

In fairness to her, I do look well in the old Shred Focking Everything boilersuit – it’s, like, fitted, see.

But she can't just have, like, a normalconversation with me? Everything has to be a double entendre. So I'll say something innocent, like, "Another full sack, Rebecca," and straight away she'll go, "Hmmm. We'll have to see what we can do about that then, won't we?" Well, you lot know me, of course. I like a lady to be a lady – or at least keep the filth out of the conversation until we're in bed. You could say I'm old fashioned like that.

Tuesday morning was different. She was actually, like, waiting for me at reception when I arrived. I tried to keep it professional. I just went, “I’m here to pick something up,” and she was like, “Well, aren’t I the lucky one then?”, her eyes scanning my crotch area like she was trying to tot up the coinage in my pocket.

Then she went, “Ross, could I possibly have a word with you,” her eyes then shooting upwards to her office above us, “in private?” I know regular readers of this column will be roaring at this point, “Get in there, Ross! What’s the matter with you?” In my defence, I would say that Rebecca isn’t the prettiest cupcake on the tray. She has a face like a focking Chihuahua eating custard – that’s if we’re being honest.

But I still trotted up the stairs after her, going, "Are you saying there's something that needs doingup here?" and she was like, "Oh, there's something that needs doing alright," and I followed her into her office feeling like I was trapped in, like, a badly directed pornmovie?

She closed the door, then went, “What are you doing on April 29?” I was there, “Errr,” trying to come up with something quick, screwing my face up, like I used to do at school when I was asked, I don’t know, the chemical name for water, or the capital of Spain.

She was like, "It's just, well, my friend is getting married and I need a plus-one for the day." I was there, "The twenty ninthof April? Er, I think that's the day my daughter graduates from, like, Montessori? Mortarboard – the whole focking deal."

She nodded, at the same time disappointed. “What a pity. It’s the royal wedding, you see.” My jaw literally hit the floor. I was like, “What?” She laughed. “Yeah,” she went, suddenly all bashful-like, “I’ve been friends with Kate since we were kids. We were at school together.”

I’m sure you can guess what was instantly going through my head. This is the wedding that Brian and Amy were invited to – the wedding that Brian and Amy won’t be able to go to if the old Twenty County Ormy keep going in the Heineken Cup. I could end up being Ireland’s representative at it. This is my chance to finally get one up on him. I mean, can you imagine how sick him and Hubes will be when they switch on the box and there’s the focking Rossmeister General, six or seven rows from the front of Westminster Abbey, with a big, shit-eating grin on his face? Giving Prince Chorles the rabbit ears in one or two of the photographs. Chatting up some of the royal cousins.

And can you imagine the traffic that’s going to be at it – all those well-bred birds with their good cheekbones and expensive dentistry?

“I’ll tell you what, Rebecca,” I suddenly heard myself go. “I’m going to help you out and say yes.”

She looked at me, suddenly surprised. “I thought you said your daughter was graduating?” “Graduating? From Montessori?” I went. “It’s like I said to my soon-to-be-ex-wife – she’s five, what could have even learned? Focking ridiculous carry-on.”

“So you’re saying . . .”

“I’ll come.”

She gave me a big leery look: “Oh, you will – that much I can guarantee you.” For once, I laughed. I had to admit, the girl was beginning to grow on me.

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