I'm drowning my sorrows and watching the running of the bulls, aka the mini-marathon, when something falls in my lap that sets my heart racing
THERE'S SOME AMOUNT of shmugly birds do that mini-marathon. I'm watching on TV in Kielys and I swear to God it's like the running of the bulls.
It's typical of me to come up with a cracking one-liner like that when there's, like, no one around to appreciate it. It doesn't cheer me up for long anyway, roysh, because I'm suddenly thinking about Sorcha. See, she always does the race - walks it, of course. It was the same shit, year in, year out. From Paddy's Day until the end of May, every night, she'd be training, morching up and down Newtownpork Avenue, swinging her orms like a coked-up orangutan.
Then she'd do the actual race. And afterwards she'd come home and present me with her mangled feet to massage. So there I'd be, rubbing Molton Brown into these two gone-off rashers while she announced that the victims of whatever flood or famine she was into that particular month would have to survive without her next year.
"I'm getting too old for this," she'd go.
I'm suddenly aware of, like, someone standing over me? "I've been staring at you for 20 minutes," a voice goes. "I've seen happier faces in the morgue." It's Hennessy. I'm there, "My actual wife and daughter are going to live on practically the other side of the world. With some tosspot whose guts I basically hate. Er, tell me what I've got to smile about again?" "Your actual wife is soon to be your actual ex-wife," he goes. "And you know what that tosspot's going to save you in alimony over the course of a lifetime?" He whips out his Mont Blanc, the black resin and platinum one the old man bought him for his fiftieth, and storts doing all these, like, calculations on the back of a cigor box.
"I don't care about the money," I go. "He's wrong for her. He's, like, cheating on her and shit?" "And what about you?" he goes. "Didn't exactly keep your zipper fish to yourself, did you?" He stares hord at me, sort of, like, examining my face, then goes, "You're going to tell her, aren't you? Jesus." I'm there, "Probably no point. She's hordly going to believe me." It's amazing, roysh, but he suddenly produces a little white envelope and puts it down on the bor in front of me. I know what it is before I even open it.
Hennessy's a total focking lowlife and thank God for him.
I stort flicking through the photos. The first two are of Cillian with that Olga Kurylenko lookalike I saw him with coming out of Yo Thai. But there's other birds too, other restaurants, other boozers. You'd have to say he does well for someone who never played rugby.
I'm there, "You hired, like, a private detective? I don't get it - as in, why if you don't want Sorcha finding out?" He thinks for a few seconds, then goes, "It's like, you're playing poker and the dealer accidentally drops an ace in your lap. Even if you've no intention of cheating, you still stick it up your sleeve, right?" I haven't a bog what he's talking about.
"I'm going to leave those with you," he goes. "Do with them what you must." Then he stops suddenly and he's like, "You know, there's a really good streak in you, Kid - and it's going to be your downfall." When he's gone, I get another pint of the old Preparation H in, then I end up looking at the photos, over and over again. One of the birds looks like Mary Elizabeth Winstead. I mean, this goy's nearly in my league.
But then I think about Sorcha, roysh, and how, like, devastated she'd be if she ever knew. It's going to take a lifetime to get over me - this isn't exactly going to help the whole, I suppose, healing process. It's, like, she's happy with this loser. She's going off to make, like, a new life for herself. Then I think of something Father Fehily used to say - you won't make yourself happy by taking away someone else's happiness. And that seals the deal. By the time I've finished my pint, I've made up my mind that I'm not actually going to tell her. I put the photos back in the envelope and stick it in the old sky rocket.
I go outside then and wait for the bualadh. Three 46As pass by, full. People coming home from the race. Eventually, one stops. I throw the driver an Ayrton. "Don't worry about the change receipt," I go. "I wouldn't go to O'Connell in a coma." I suddenly look down the aisle and - oh my God - what are the chances? Sorcha and Cillian are sitting on the back seat. They obviously left the cor at home because of the traffic.
"Hi, Ross," Sorcha goes, sounding actually pleased to see me, but it's the sight of him massaging her feet that makes me flip. What happens next, roysh, happens unbelievably quickly. Without even thinking - blinded by, I suppose, rage - I whip out the envelope and drop it in Sorcha's lap. "This is what your so-called boyfriend's been up to behind your back," I go. He just, like, freezes, even though he doesn't know what's in the envelope yet. The second he sees the first photo, though, he reaches for the bor on the emergency door and, in one movement, shoves it and jumps out onto Morehampton Road.
Suddenly there's, like, a screech of tyres and everyone in the bus turns around in time to see Cillian climbing to his feet and then hobbling to the side of the road. Some focking risk assessor. It would have been bad enough getting hit by a cor - imagine the humiliation of being creamed by the Viking Splash.
I'm thinking, this scene needs one of my world famous punchlines, maybe something to tie in with the whole mini-marathon theme. Looks like his race is run. Or, I knew he wouldn't last the distance.
But I see the lost look on Sorcha's face and the first tears spill out of the corner of her eyes. And there's nothing else to do in that moment except pull the emergency door shut, hold her hand and - for once in my focking life - keep this big Von Trapp of mine shut, opening it only to tell her, every two or three stops, that she can do better. Way, way better.
TXT ROSS
Readers in need of advice can text Ross on 087-9773781
Some goy who doesn't give his name is just there, "Two bogger jock types in munster jerseys in krystle lst wknd with all the best lookin birds swarming around dem. The new taoiseach's a bogger. So's the new ireland coach. Are our kind becoming, like, an endangered species?"
Yep - protected only by our enormous trust funds.
Some dude called Paul goes, "Just been to Sex in de Cirry with Herself. Between the yap yap yap and the ticking body clocks it's hard to hear the movie. Target rich environment for you, though."
Is it just me or is the only decent looker in that crew the ginger?
Dozer goes, "When you can't afford a Guilbaud's lunch, And Mastercard aren't your fan, When you start to feel the credit crunch, A pint of Ken's your only man."
When your reputation as a total ledge, Proves as fake as a southside tan, When all you can afford is an 07 reg, A pint of Ken is your only man.