Ross O'Carroll Kelly:Retreading old ground, and revisiting past conquests, will have to wait when there's a best mate in need.
'You hurt me last time," she goes.
I tell her: "There's no way that's going to happen again."
"Sneaked out in the middle of the night," she goes, "no note, nothing. Then never rang."
"I was scared," I tell her, with a totally straight face. "Scared by how perfect it was."
This is me in my element, of course, breaking down opposition defences, patiently going through the phases.
"Er, hello?" she goes. "My cow just died - so I don't need your bull?" I take the hit, recycle again, mention that she looks a bit like Audrina Partridge.
She brightens up, like she really wants to believe it? She says she loves The Hills.
There's no doubt I'm getting through. She mentioned cows and I'm suddenly thinking, I suppose I'm a bit like one of those electric cattle fences - even though I'm dangerous and I hurt like hell, some silly moos just can't stay away.
And that's not meant to sound sexist.
Her name's Branna. A face from the past. Ran into her coming out of Reiss, which goes some way towards explaining how we ended up in Davy Byrnes, having lunch, retreading old ground. She stands up to get the round in. I knew there was a reason I liked this girl.
Halfway across the floor, she suddenly stops and stares at the TV. It's, like, Sky News. There's, like, six or seven goys up in court. Plotting to blow up airplanes, apparently.
She looks suddenly sad. She shakes her head. She says they're the reason she wasn't allowed to bring her Aveda facial spritzer in her hand luggage when she went to the US last summer.
I'm not making any claims for myself here - I have the brains of a backward woodlouse - but if you X-rayed this girl's head, it'd be like a snow globe in there.
The old Wolfe rings. I check caller ID. It's Oisinn.
"I need to see you," he goes. "It's urgent," and he doesn't need to say anything else. I'm out of there. No note. Nothing. Because that's what mates do. That's what best men do.
He looks terrible. Hasn't shaved. Hasn't washed. Bags under his eyes. Hair all over the shop. For a minute, I mistake him for Doreen, his intended.
"She's gone," he goes, straight out with it like that.
I'm like, "Gone?" and he just nods, like he doesn't have the energy to say it again.
I go to the cabinet where he keeps his Scotch and pour two big ones.
Then I'm like, "Shoot."
"Ross," he goes, "for the last two years, I've had a problem with gambling . . . "
I'm like, "Gambling? Jesus! Is that not a bit working class?"
"Not bookies gambling," he goes. "We're talking poker. We're talking internet poker."
"Well, I knew you liked it. I remember you stung that dude in - where was it again?"
"Changchun."
"Yeah - stung him for four Ks."
"Well," he goes, "let's just say it's a long time since I stung anyone. That's the thing. I was a pretty good poker player - shit the bed, you know that. You've seen me. But you can do stupid things when it's four o'clock in the morning." Yeah, most of the stupid things I've done have been at four o'clock in the morning.
"Dude, I'm your best mate," I go, suddenly feeling guilty. "I can't believe I didn't know."
He laughs. "Well, you haven't seen a lot of me lately. Man, I'm practically nocturnal."
I'm looking at his leg, slung over the orm of the chair and I'm suddenly feeling guilty about that cast. What seemed hilarious on the stag now seems, in the circumstances, bang triple O.
I'm there, "And what? Doreen found out?"
"Doreen knew," he goes. "We met at a meeting, Ross. Some common interest, huh? Omaha was her thing. Anyway, we got sorted. Stopped. Except I didn't. Just told her I did . . . "
"How'd she know?"
"Borrowed my laptop, checked the history. Then put the engagement ring in an envelope and stuck it though the door."
"Do you mind me asking how much you're down?" I go, expecting him to say, I don't know, ten Ks or something.
"Over two years? We're talking half a mill."
"Half a million yoyos? Are you off your chops?"
"Yes," he goes. "That's what this is, Ross. A kind of madness." I sit there staring at him. The last few years, if I'm being honest, I'd say I was jealous of him. His success. Because everything he touched turned to money. And everything I touched . . . Well, you know.
And all the time I never knew.
"There's places we can go," I tell him. "All sorts," and I go out into the hall and grab the Golden Pages.
Scaffolding. Plumbing contractors. Buildings prefabricated. Of course I haven't a clue what I'm looking for. All I know is I'm not leaving this gaff until we have a plan.
See, this is what we do. A best man is for one day - one drunken day - but a best mate is for life. And women, well, they come and go from our lives.
I think about Branna, sitting there in Davy Byrnes, probably thinking: "I'll give him another hour but then I'm out of here - I've still got my pride."
I watch Oisinn sitting there, playing with the ring, twisting it around the top of his little finger. "Ah well," he goes. "There's the old hort broken again." I'm there, "On the bright side, your leg's not."
He smiles and shakes his head, then waves his finger at me, like he kind of knew all along.
****
Readers in need of advice can text Ross at 087-9773781
Some dude, who doesn't give his name, goes, "Yo rosser, ur nemesis Dorce has moved in 2 our estate, he let all d local kids sign his plaster cast, d popular view is hes a legend, wot u tink of dat?"
What is the world's greatest living Irishman doing living in an estate? What are Magee paying him in, buttons?
Dude called Colm's there, "See dat nu show on rte livin wit lucy where lucy kennedy has to share her gaff each wk with a differnt celebrity. U shud do sometin like dat - 1 wk glenda, next wk blathnaid, wk after amy h . . . "
Yeah. Livin With Loose Me.