Cillian's in London, which means a chance to swing by Sorcha's, take her for a spin in the dweeb's new cor and try to, like, reseal the deal And save the planet, writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly
I may or may not have mentioned before that, when she was at school, Sorcha won a special merit prize in the Texaco ort competition for an amazing painting of a baby seal that had been pretty much clubbed to death - with a thought bubble coming out of its head, going, "Why?" Well, what I've never told anyone until now is that she gave the picture to me as, like, a gift? I ended up cutting about an inch off the bottom of it, the inch containing her signature, and I put my own on it, then lashed it up on the wall of my bedroom.
Over the years, I can't tell you how many girls, going through the usual edge-of-the-bed doubts about going all the way with me, decided to go the final few furlongs once they clapped eyes on that little dead ball of fuzz. I suppose it suggested, like, a sensitive side to my personality? I used to call him Seal the Deal.
I tell that story as, like, background to what happened on Thursday afternoon. Cillian was out of the office, boring people rigid at some conference in London, so I left work early and swang out to see Sorcha, portly because I know it annoys him and portly because I want to know if I could have her back if I wanted her. Which I don't, by the way.
Imagine, roysh, her surprise when I arrived at the door and went, "I'm just on the way to the recycling centre - just wanted to see if you had anything . . ." Birds are suckers for goys who care about shit.
"Ross," she goes, looking over my shoulder, "you don't even have a cor," which is not a bad point.
"I was thinking of getting a Jo," I go and she tells me to come in, even though, at this stage, she clearly thinks I'm Hertz Van Rental.
No sign of Honor. Yeah, no, Sorcha's old dear has her on Thursdays.
We go out to the shed and she storts pulling out all these old boxes, most of them from stuff we bought that time we drove up to Ikea. I actually consider that trip the stort of the end of our marriage. All those rows over the assembly instructions. Flatpack, believe it or not, is the Swedish word for divorce.
As she's handing me the last of them, she goes, "Recycling, Ross. Pardon me for saying it but it's like, okay - too weird?" She looks well, in fairness to her.
I'm there, "I don't know, I was watching that focking Discovery Channel the other night," which is actually true. "They had this dude on who said that every hour, three species of life on earth go extinct." That's rocked her back on her heels. "Oh my God," she goes, more than once.
I'm there, "Most of them are crap, in fairness - plants and sponges and fish you can't even see. Nothing cute, in other words. Makes you think, though, about all the damage we're doing to the planet . . ." That's the line that seals this particular deal. Good-looking and cares about CO2 emissions, whatever the fock they are.
"Forget the taxi," she goes, "we'll take Cillian's cor," meaning the brand new 08 Chrysler 300C porked outside. I've been dying to have a shot of it.
All the boxes won't fit in the boot and I couldn't be orsed breaking them down, so we end up just putting the last few on the back seat. Then I sit in behind the wheel.
"What are you doing?" she goes. "You're not insured to drive this," and I'm there, "I am. I'm covered to drive anything - including women crazy," and I snatch the keys out of her hand and stort her up.
Once we're on the road, I stort giving it loads, going, "This little baby's far too hot for someone like him to handle," and of course she knows what I'm really getting at.
Then, roysh, totally out of the blue, I stort reminding her about the time we went to the States, as in New York, and we ended up hitting the meat-packing district. Stella, as she calls her, had opened a new shop, near Borneys.
Anyway, we're passing this, basically, slaughterhouse and this dude with blood all over his overalls made, like, a sexist comment to Sorcha, which is something I hate. So I ended up decking him. One punch - lights out.
"Why are you ever telling this story?" she goes. "I thought you behaved like a Neanderthal that day." I'm there, "I was just thinking, what would Cillian have done in that situation? Probably audited him." She shakes her head and goes, "Oh my God, Ross, you are so immature." I'm wearing my tight white Abercrombie, which I have to admit shows off my biceps unbelievably well, so I very subtly roll the sleeve up a couple of inches, just to let her get a better eyeful.
See, for all her love of pandas and dolphins and dudes on death row, what Sorcha really wants is a man who's an actual man.
"You should be grateful to him," she goes. "He gave you that ransom money." I'm there, "He didn't give it to me - it was a Lindsay. Now he's got me working for him, the dweeb. I honestly thought you'd end up with someone who played rugby." It's as I'm saying this, roysh, that I'm suddenly aware of something moving around my feet. I look down and I totally freak. It's, like, a mouse.
I can't remember my exact words but it was something along the lines of, aaaggghhh! Sorcha's going, "What's
wrong? What's wrong?" and I'm like, "It's a focking mouse! In the actual cor!" and she's there, "Oh my God, it must have been in one of the boxes!" I don't understand how she's being so calm. I'm trying to, like, stamp on the thing but it's too quick for me and every other cor on the road is, like, blaring me out of it, because I'm swerving all over the gaff.
"Don't kill it!" Sorcha's going. I don't get the chance to. It all of a sudden shoots up the leg of my Chinos and - I admit this - I'm suddenly screaming like I don't know what.
I've got my eyes closed and I'm slapping my trousers and, what with one thing and another, I end up leaving the road and wrapping Cillian's brand new Chrysler around a tree.
I dive out of the driver's seat and off the mouse pegs it, with no idea how much SH 1T he's got me into here.
I look at the damage and typically me, make the mistake of trying to see the bright side. "Good news for the environment," I go. "One less cor on the road."