Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

‘First, I went through his texts – out of basic curiosity. He calls her Precious, I notice, and she calls him Bitsy. Focking ridiculous carry-on – the age of them’

O YOU’RE POSSIBLY wondering what happened next, after I chased Tom McGahy into the woods at the Battle of the Boyne re-enactment on Paddy’s Day and he went tumbling down what I think – from the little bit of geography he managed to teach me at school – is called a ravine.

Like I said, roysh, he was lying on the forest floor, on the flat of his back, calling for me to help him. I mean, what else was I going to do? This was the headmaster of my old school. The man who was dating the mother of my son and was supposedly bringing the two of them away on a mini-break to Copen-focking-hagen the following day. It’s obvious what I did, isn’t it? I eased myself down the steep bank on my orse – it was only, like, 12ft high – using plants for grips. Then I wandered over to where he was lying.

“Ross,” he went, “I’ve twisted my ankle. Both my ankles. They might even be broken.” I was like, “Both your ankles?” my voice full of concern. “What a terrible stroke of luck.”

“Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open,” he went. “Go and get help!”

“Like I said – a terrible stroke of luck. Especially with you supposedly going away tomorrow with Tina and Ro.” He was like, “Ross, this is no time for . . .” Except I was there, “Hey, I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what it is and isn’t time for, do you?” It was then that I spotted it, out of the corner of my eye. McGahy’s mobile – a Nokia, by the way, that had been out of date for, like, a decade – lying on the ground, just beyond his reach. Not only did I see it, but he saw that I saw it, and as I bent down to pick it up, he storted going ballistic, giving it, “Hand me that phone! Hand me that phone, boy!”

Er, boy? I stood there just staring at him, weighing the thing in my hand, thinking, honest to God, there’s been, like, eight or nine models since this hunk of shit came out. “I’m just remembering,” I went, the power suddenly going to my head, “what it was you said to me back in school – that time you made a fool of me in front of the entire class. ‘There are more intelligent life-forms than you crawling blind on the ocean floor.’ That was it, wasn’t it?”

“I. I don’t remember.”

“No? Well, let me jog your memory then. It was the day I asked you if it was the Egyptians who built the Pyrenees.”

“Yes!” he went, suddenly losing it with me. “And you were 16 at the time! How in the name of Hades could you think that the Egyptians built the Pyrenees?”

“Because I was on the S! And Father Fehily put you in your box, didn’t he? Said he wouldn’t tolerate a member of the senior cup team being disrespected by the staff.”

“Hand me my phone.”

“You had it in for me from that day forward. You had it in for rugby, I know, a long time before that.”

“Give it to me.”

“Which is why, when the chance came to get me stripped of my Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal, oh, you took it – you took it with both hands.”

“You won that medal under false pretences.”

“And now you want to act as, like, stepfather to my actual son? Did you really think I was going to just let that happen?”

“I’m in love with Tina!” He blurted it out, roysh, just like that. I laughed in his face.

“Well,” I went, “now you’re going to know how it feels to have something you love taken away from you.” I waved the phone in his face, then I turned and I storted climbing back up the edge of the – again – ravine? He was like, “Ross! Please! Get help!” I turned back and went, “Sorry, do I look like Lassie?” and then I just kept going. Made my way out of the wood.

I wasn’t ready, it has to be said, for the scene that greeted me. The battle re-enactment had – I suppose – descended into a pretty much full-scale riot? I sat down on, like, a tree stump with McGahy’s phone in my hand. First, I went through his texts – out of basic curiosity. He calls her Precious, I notice, and she calls him Bitsy. Focking ridiculous carry-on – the age of them. I hit create new message, then I wrote, “Sory 2 spring dis on u at d last minute tina but im gonna hav 2 pull out of d whol copenhagen ting. Cut a long story short i want 2 end dis relationship – if u cud even call it dat.” Then I sent it.

Twenty seconds later, a text came back and it was like, “lol.” So I ended up straight away having to send a second one, except way horsher this time? “Tina im serious, i want out, no more bitsy and precious, im sorry.”

“Are u drunk?” she texted back.

So I texted her, going, “Why wud i b drunk?”

“Cos u never abbreviate ur words! In fact u always mock me 4 doin it. And 4 using numbers 4 words!” Yeah, that’d be him alright – focking schoolteacher.

“Okay,” I texted, “I’ll give it to you in my kind of language. You’re dumped. End of.” The phone rang then – Tina trying to get through. I let it ring out, then I texted her, going, “Don’t ring me. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m serious about this thing. Just accept it and get on with your life.”

It was a good, like, five minutes before she texted back. “Tom i dont understand, why are u bein like dis?” I was like, “Because Ross was basically right. It was only ever a use and abuse situation. I only actually did it to get back at him because I’ve hated him for years. Although I have to admit now that a lot of that was down to the fact that he was an incredible rugby player and probably the best out-half never to represent Ireland.” I deleted the last line, thinking it might be a bit OTT, but then I changed my mind – the old big head getting the better of me – and I stuck it back in again. But then there was nothing, roysh, for the next 20 minutes and I was thinking, shit, she’s seen through it.

But just as I got back to the cor, having had to practically fight my way through this pitched battle that was still basically raging, my own phone rang and who was it, roysh, only Tina. She was in absolute tears. She went, “You were reet abourrim, Ross. You were reet.”

rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock