The new Nigella? The only thing more disgusting than watching the old dear cooking on TV is watching Oisinn lap it up
OISINN'S NEW gaff on Shrewsbury Road is some pile of stones. We're talking eight bedrooms, we're talking indoor pool, we're talking gym, home cinema, hot tub, blahdy blahdy blah.
What I called around for was to tell him that his leg isn't actually broken, that we got the plaster cast put on it while we were on the stag, when he passed out after 14 hours of solid drinking.
The original plan was to tell him during my best man speech? But you could say my conscience got to me. Wouldn't be fair to have him coming down the aisle with his new bride, on crutches.
He opens the door quickly, like I caught him in the middle of something. Turns out he's watching Seoige and O'Shea - an interview with the nine-year-old victim of a happy slapping who was helped out of a coma by the voice of X Factor finalist Ray Quinn.
I think I've probably mentioned once or twice how deeply in love I am with Gráinne Seoige - and that's even before I saw her face in its full glory on Oisinn's 92-inch Bravia.
"Now I get why you're nocturnal," I go but Oisinn shushes me.
"The thing I'm waiting for is on next . . ." Before I get a chance to ask what, all of a sudden - whoof - my old dear's big pilchard face is filling every inch of the LCD screen.
I think I actually scream - it's that horrible to look at.
They should give out one of those warnings - viewers may find the following scenes disgusting - when they're going to have her on, especially in these days of HD television.
I'm looking at her there, tarted up to the nines, the ugly smelt. Monica John's obviously had a visit. Turns out she's on to talk about, get this, her new cookery programme on RTÉ2 on, like, Tuesday nights.
It's called FO'CK Cooking.
Oh, yeah, I see she's storted using the O'Carroll again, just when it suits her.
Oisinn laughs - my so-called friend - and I can suddenly feel my blood boil to the point where I can't actually hear what's being said. All I'm picking up is, like, odd words and phrases. Not cooking but passion-cooking . . . Food suited to the way you live . . . Lightly blistered halloumi . . .
Gráinne's going, "Okay, and you're going to demonstrate something for us here today," and the old dear goes, "Yes, a particular favourite of mine, Gráinne, is key lime meringue torte," and they move over to this, like, kitchen area, where Gráinne asks her about her new book while the old dear storts cracking eggs and separating the yolks with her actual hands.
"It's a book that I think has been waiting to be written in this country," she's going. "A multicultural love story, focusing on the relationship between Dermot, a truck driver from, I don't know, Ballybrack or one of those wretched places, and Nadia, a Romany girl who lives with 47 members of her extended family on a roundabout on the N3 . . ."
While she's saying all this, roysh, she's letting that focking egg slime dribble through her fingers and it looks like - I don't even want to think about what it looks like - and worst of all, she's giving these dirty little smiles to the camera, like Nigella Lawson or a cheap meat flick.
Oisinn's roaring laughing, of course.
"So the book follows their efforts to form a relationship," Gráinne goes, "in the face of almost insurmountable social and cultural obstacles?" "Yes - and lack of basic sanitation," the old dear goes.
Gráinne's like, "Well, no one can accuse you of ducking the big issues of the day," and I'm thinking, I'm disappointed in that girl. She's in serious danger of being scratched off my To Do list.
"Now, Fionnuala, tell us what you're doing now." "Well, Gráinne, I've sliced the lime in two and now I'm spearing both halves. Now, when you're doing this, don't be afraid to really disembowel the lime . . ." and she really drags out the word.
Oisinn's going to pass an organ, he's laughing that hord now.
"You want to suck every last drop of juice out of it!" I jump up. "Where are you going?" Oisinn goes.
I'm there, "How would you like it if that was your old dear up there?" He's like, "Ross, my old dear's in her sixties . . ." "And your point is?" "She looks like Miss Morple." "Yeah and how would like her constantly humiliating you in public?" "Look, don't get me wrong," he goes, "I'm laughing. But at the same time, I really admire your old dear, for using what she has - it can't have escaped your attention, Ross, that she's a very sexy woman . . ."
I'm like, "Sexy? When she walks into the bank, they turn off the cameras."
"Well," he goes, "I think she's stunning. As do a lot of men in this country. I'd put her in the same bracket as Mary Kennedy. That's why RTÉ are turning her into the new Nigella . . ."
And I swear to God, roysh, it's like she can hear him because, at pretty much that exact minute, she stops mixing the egg whites and sugar and licks the spatula. Not just licks it either - fixes the camera with what she obviously thinks is a sultry look, then puts the entire blade in her mouth and slowly pulls it out, running the length of it down her tongue.
Oisinn lets out a huge cheer, then cracks his hole laughing again.
When he's calmed down, he goes, "So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"
I'm there, "Sorry?" "You said there was something you needed to tell me before the wedding." "Oh, nothing," I go. "Nothing that can't wait."
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