I'M LOOKING AT a photograph of the Ireland rugby team heading off to New Zealand and I'm thinking, "I should be on that actual plane." Not as a player, of course. Although there are a few people out there who think that I could still do a job for Ireland even at 31. No, I should be going as, like, a supporter?
Me and the goys were at the last two World Cups and we’d probably be going to this one as well if it wasn’t for the fact that Oisinn is bankrupt, Christian is unemployed and Fionn is about to marry my sister.
“I still think we should have gone to New Zealand and made it the actual stag,” I go.
This is us, by the way, sitting outside Bucky’s on Dawson Street, having a coffee and admiring the passing trade.
Fionn goes – and I'm not making this up – "I don't think I'm going to have a stag, as such." I snort so hord that I end up nearly pebble-dashing him with cappuccino foam. "Dude, I'm your best man. Which means I reserve the right to feed you shots, shave you like a lab monkey and put you on a boat to Belgium – ifthat's what I decide." I look at Christian, Oisinn and JP for back-up. The three of them just nod their heads. He's having a stag. End of. Even though I still think that Erika's going to drop him like a wet coat long before the big day even arrives.
JP turns around to me and goes, “You disappeared pretty early last night.” We were in Krystle, celebrating – for want of a better word – Christian’s return to Ireland.
I sort of, like, roll my eyes. “I ended up leaving with that Crea one I was chatting up. Who, by the way, looked a lot more beautiful in the boozer than she did when I got her back to mine. Another alcohologram. I need to stort drinking slower.” All the goys nod in sympathy. These are, like, true mates. Thick and thin.
Blah, blah, blah.
I ask Christian if he knows what he's going to do yet – for, like, a living? He just shrugs and says he's going to take a year out, spend some time with Lauren, bond with Ross junior. I'm presuming Lucasfilm gave him a humongous wedge when they let him go.
The thing is, roysh, he's not qualified to actually doanything? Like the rest of us, I suppose. In a way you could say that we dedicated our lives to rugby. And not one of us got to pull on the famous green jersey of Ireland. You'd have got long odds on that happening back in 1999. Sorry, I always get a bit depressed when Declan Kidney announces a squad.
“So, Oisinn,” JP suddenly pipes up, “it sounds like things are really happening for you again.” See, this is what happens you leave with a lagoon creature when the night is only getting storted – you end up missing out on everything. Oisinn cops the curious look on my face.
“I’ve come up with an idea for an app,” he goes, “called the Drunken Text Guard. It disables your iPhone if you attempt to write a text message containing certain trigger words and phrases between midnight and seven o’clock in the morning.”
“What kind of words and phrases are we actually talking?”
“I love you. You ruined my life. Can I ring you? You bitch.”
And what can I do except reach across the table and offer the dude the high-five of a lifetime. Declared bankrupt he might have been – owing, like, 75 million snots to various banks and financial institutions – but I knew that the man who gave the world Eau d'Affluenceand a range of scented holy waters wouldn't stay down for long.
"Let's go to Bangkok," I suddenly go. It's crazy, I know. Maybe it's, like, nostalgia for the good old days when the banks were throwing stupid money at everyone. Sorcha persuaded me once to spend two Ks having our auras massaged in a destination spa hotel in the middle of this, like, industrial estate in Tralee. We just lashed it on the Visa. Happy times. "Let's make it a stag to remember." Fionn shakes his head – except he's, like, laughingat the same time? "It'll be Dublin, Ross. If I'm having a stag at all, it'll be happening here." He still hasn't picked up another teaching job. I'm not sure how long he can keep my sister in the manner to which she's blah-blah blahdy blah.
On that subject, I just happen to go, "What's Erika up to today?" He's like, "Oh, she's gone to the airport. An old friend of hers is coming to visit." The old olorm bells suddenly stort ringing. I don't knowwhy? Maybe it's this famous fifth sense of mine. Or maybe it's because I know that Erika doesn't have any friends – not real ones.
I’m there, “All sounds a bit Scooby Dubious to me. What friend are we talking about, Fionn?” He goes, “I don’t know if you remember Jesus Taradella.”
This time I do spray him with coffee foam. Jesus Taradella is an old flame of Erika’s from, like, way back. She knew him from, like, her equestrian days. He represented Argentina at, like, show-jumping and maybe, like, polo as well? Erika was supposedly in love with him back in the day. The dude was seriously rolling in it and he fancied himself as a bit of a player, certainly looks-wise. Probably the best way to describe him would be Argentina’s answer to me.
“You can wipe that look off your face,” Fionn suddenly goes.
I’m like, “I didn’t say a word.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Ross. Look, they became friends again recently on Facebook.”
“Dude, I’m sure it’s plutonic.”
“It’s friendship and that’s all there is to it.”
I knock back the rest of my coffee and cop a sly look at the rest of the goys. It’s obvious they’re thinking pretty much the same thing as me. We’d better make the stag a night to remember. Because there’s not going to be a wedding.
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock