Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘That’s a side-effect of these pills – short-term memory . . . thingy’

Man, I feel great. I actually feel better than great? I feel like I could walk through pretty much walls. Those little blue pills that I bought in the gym are everything the dude said they'd be. I've got, like, five times more energy than usual and the fat is just falling off me. And there are no side-effects, aport from – yeah, no – some mild hallucinations and rapid hair growth.

"Oh my God," Sorcha goes, "are you shaving again?"

I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror with foam all over my face and a razor in my hand. I don’t answer her. It’s another one of those roratorical questions.

“Ross,” she goes, “you only shaved this morning.”

I’m there, “Well, I come from a very hairy family, Sorcha. My old dear is famous for her two o’clock shadow. She shaves first thing in the morning – by lunchtime you could use her face to sand the floor.”

“Yeah, that’s not funny, Ross. And by the way, when are you going to move that washing machine?”

“What washing machine?”

“Er, the one I mentioned, like, an hour ago?”

That’s another side-effect, by the way – short-term memory, em . . . thingy.

“It’s been in the hallway for a week,” she goes. “You’ve promised me, like, 50 times that you’d move it to the utility room and I’m still waiting.”

“I’ll do it today.”

“You can ask Ronan to help you.”

“Ronan?”

“He’s downstairs.”

I didn't hear him arrive. Or maybe I did and I've forgotten. If the gear the Russians are on is anything like this, they'll probably forget there even is an Olympics – problem solved.

I finish shaving and I follow her downstairs. Ronan is sitting in the kitchen, drinking a power shake while Honor reads him some of the horrible things she said to celebrities on Twitter this week. "Selena Gomez keeps blocking me," she goes, "but I'm creating, like, 40 or 50 new accounts every day to get at her. What she doesn't realise is that she has an actual career, whereas I'm doing this, like, full-time."

I’m there, “What she doesn’t realise, Honor, is that you’re an unbelievable competitor and that’s a quality that happens to run in this family. Ronan, how the hell are you?”

He’s there, “All’s good in the hood, my friend. How are you feeling? Two weeks to the race, what?”

“Yeah, no, I’m feeling pretty excellent, Ro. I’m storting to have all sorts of crazy comeback dreams involving the All-Ireland League and proving a point or two to my critics.”

“The way you’ve been thraining, Rosser – I was saying it to Sorcha there, Ine proud of you.”

I suddenly can’t look my son in the eye.

I’m there, “Yeah, no, you said you’d help me get in shape for this race and you’ve definitely done that.”

He goes, “And you’ve done it wirrout thrugs, Rosser. That’s the amazing thing.”

“Hmmm.”

“You’ve proved that you doatunt need chemikiddles.”

“Well,” Sorcha goes, “I’d be proud of him if he just moved that washing machine out of the hall.”

I’m like, “What washing machine?”

She’s there, “Very funny, Ross.”

I’m not joking, though. I thought she said it was a fridge.

Honor looks at me and goes, "I still hope Garret beats you! It'd be really funny because all that work you've done will have been for, like, nothing?"

I’m there, “Hey, save your casual bullying for the likes of the Kordashians. I’m going to beat this dude – trust me.”

“You’ve only been training for – oh my God – three weeks. He’s been training for, like, a year?”

“Yeah, no, I know what you’re doing, Honor. You’re keeping me grounded so I don’t get complacent.”

"No, I actually want you to lose. It'd be hill air!"

I’m there, “Well, I really don’t think that’s going to happen,” and as I’m saying it I stort unbuttoning my shirt. Honor’s jaw hits the Maplewood floor and Sorcha’s eyes are out on literally stalks. I’ve got an upper body like an Abercrombie model and that’s not me being full of myself.

I hit the deck and I stort doing push-ups – at the same time counting them off. I’m like, “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

I get a sudden flashback to the Irish oral in the Leaving Cert. I obviously didn't have a word of the language going into that room and Bean Uí Comhal had warned us not to just sit there like a dope. The examiner, I couldn't help but notice, was a bit of a honey, so as soon as she storted with the conas atá tús, I whipped off my shirt, hit the floor and gave her a show.

Okay, I ended up getting an NG, but it was fifteen minutes she won’t forget in a hurry. I’m guessing she still talks about it.

I’m going, “Thirty-five . . . Thirty-six . . . Thirty-seven . . . Honor, get on my back.”

She’s like, “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious. Stand on my back. I need to feel some resistance.”

Honor steps onto my back. She not only steps on it, she actually grinds her heel between my shoulder blades with the intention of, like, seriously hurting me? But I keep doing the push-ups. I'm like, "Seventy-four . . . Seventy-five . . . Sorcha, you join her."

Sorcha’s there, “Excuse me?”

“Stand up on my back there next to your daughter. Come on, I want to see what this body can do as much as the rest of you.”

Sorcha steps up onto my back and I keep going – slower than before, but my orms are strong enough to bear their, like, combined weight?

I reach 100 and Sorcha and Honor hop off. Except I’ve still got this sudden, like, adrenaline rush. I stand up, walk out to the hall and pick up the washing machine slash freezer, then I carry it down to the utility room – we’re talking above my actual head – with my wife, son and daughter just staring at me with their mouths slung open like seals waiting for herring to be tossed.

“Oh my God!” Sorcha goes – and she says it like she’s suddenly fallen in love with me all over again. “Oh my literally God!”