‘We’re southsiders ... We’re nice to your face, then say stuff about you behind your back’

Cleaning up the mess from Ronan’s latest fling means putting my body on the line

I give her one of my looks. I’m like, “You know, you’re a very attractive woman, Malicious.” She’s not, by the way.

I give her one of my looks. I’m like, “You know, you’re a very attractive woman, Malicious.” She’s not, by the way.

 

Ronan rings me in a state of – it may or may not be a word – but distressment? I can hear it in his voice. He’s like, “Ine in thrubble, Rosser – seerdious thrubble!”

He’s getting married in, like, two weeks time and I know what he’s going through having been through it myself. I remember one day, Sorcha showed me three identical tablecloths and asked me to choose between them? Now, to me, they were all just white, but to Sorcha, they were honeymilk, cornsilk and lily of the valley.

It’s an – I don’t know – genetic fact that women see colours very differently to men. It goes back to the whole thing of men being hunters and women having far too much time on their hands.

I’m there, “Take my advice, Ro – if a woman offers you a choice between three things, always pick the middle one. If you’re asked why, just say you’re going with your gut.”

He goes, “That’s not why Ine in thrubble, Rosser. She’s hee-or – she’s in Aerlint.”

And I don’t even need to ask him who he means, because I know he’s talking about Melissa – aka Malicious Wounding – the wife of Grievous Bodily Horm, one of Ireland’s best-known, Spanish-based, psychopathic gangland criminals.

Shadden will only kill you once,” I go. “Grievous and his gang will kill you in a thousand different ways.”

My son thought it would be a good idea to have sex with the woman while we were on his stag in Estepona – and whatever magic he worked on her in the back of that Citroen Picasso, she’s ended up taking a serious shine to him.

I’m like, “Ro, can you not just explain to her that it was One Night Only? No further dates will be added.”

He goes, “Ine arthur throying, Rosser. But she says she’s in lub with me.”

All I can do is just sigh.

I’m like, “I know this is me being a hypocrite, Ro, but could you not have just kept it in your pants?”

He goes, “I wish I had of. But now she’s blackmaiding me. She’s ringing me phowunt 10 toyums a day, tedding me if I doatunt meeth her, she’s godda teddle Grievous abourrus. If Shadden foyunts out, Rosser, she woatunt maddy me. She’ll cawd off the weddon.”

I think Shadden finding out is the least of Ronan’s worries. I tell him that as well. “Shadden will only kill you once,” I go. “Grievous and his gang will kill you in a thousand different ways.”

He goes, “What am I going to do? Come on, Rosser, you’re apposed to be me best madden.”

In that moment, I decide that it’s time for me and Melissa to have a little chat.

I’m like, “Okay, where she’s staying?”

He goes, “The West Buddy.”

“The what?”

“The West Buddy.”

“Are you trying to say Westbury? Cough twice if the answer is yes.”

It just saves a lot of time. He coughs twice.

I’m like, “Okay, I’m going to go and try to reason with the woman.”

A woman like that stands out in here like male sexual arousal in sweatpants

I hang up, then I drive into town. I’m just, like, shaking my head the entire way there. I thought being Ronan’s best man would involve picking up, then returning the suits. Maybe collecting funny stories for my speech from some of his associates and maybe one or two of the Community Gordaí who’ve tried to frighten him straight over the years.

I didn’t think it would involve, well, this?

I ask for her at reception. “I’m looking for a guest called Melissa something-or-other,” I go. “She’s rough as guts.”

They know exactly who I’m talking about. The Westbury is thankfully still the Westbury. A woman like that stands out in here like male sexual arousal in sweatpants. The receptionist phones her room, then she hands the phone to me.

Melissa’s like, “Who’s this?” and I tell her that it’s Ronan’s old man. She laughs like I’ve said something funny, then she tells me to come up to her suite.

She’s waiting for me at the door. She doesn’t invite me in. “So this is who he sends?” she goes. “He’s ould fedda.”

I’m like, “My son is getting married, Malicious. You need to accept that basic fact.”

She goes, “I doatunt care if he’s getting maddied. I just want to go on habbon sex wirrum.”

“But he’s already told you he’s not interested.”

“And I’ve toalt him that, udless he does, Ine godda tell Grievous what happened between us. Do you want to steert a war?”

When she clocks my abs, her eyes stort spinning like pinwheels. I rub my hand over them and give her one of my famous chat-up lines

“A war?”

“Ine talken about a feud. Between eer famidy and yoo-er famidy.”

“Yeah, no, we’re southsiders, Malicious – we don’t really do feuds. The worst we’d do to you is be really, really nice to your face, then say stuff about you behind your back – you’re a secret drinker, or your new coat is faux fur rather than actual?

“Ine in lub with your son. And I have to warden you, Ine used to getting what I want.”

I decide then it’s time to do what I do best. I decide to make her fall in love with me. I lean against the doorframe and I give her one of my looks. I’m like, “You know, you’re a very attractive woman, Malicious.”

She’s not, by the way.

I’m there, “You could have any man you wanted.”

Again, she couldn’t. She genuinely couldn’t.

She laughs. She knows where this conversation is going. She’s suddenly serious then. She leans forward and she kisses me on the mouth. She tastes of minibar.

“Take off your shoort,” she goes.

I laugh then? I’m like, “My shirt? What, here in the corridor?”

She nods. So I do what I’m told. I’ve no problem doing it either. I’ve been doing a surreal amount of sit-ups lately. When she clocks my abs, her eyes stort spinning like pinwheels. I rub my hand over them and give her one of my famous chat-up lines: “I’m Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – what’s your superpower?”

But my powers are useless on her, because she ends up just laughing cruelly, then shoving me backwards into the corridor and slamming the door in my face.

I tried. At least I did that. I stort making my way back towards the lift slash elevator. I’m putting my shirt back on and wiping the lipstick from my mouth when I suddenly become aware of a figure standing at the far end of the corridor.

And I don’t even need to look twice to know that it’s Grievous Bodily Horm.

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