I'm pretty sure that this Ayaan Hirsi Ali autobiography is at the hort of Sorcha's strop. It would take, like, a total Slick Mick to turn this situation to his advantage, writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly
'Where are you?" I go. Sorcha practically bites my head off down the phone. "Enjoying some me-time," she goes and then, when I don't say anything, she's suddenly there, "Not that it's any of your business but I'm in Starbucks in Blackrock reading Ayaan Hirsi Ali's autobiography . . . " Of course she lost me at the word "reading".
I'm like, "Don't move - I'll be there in five," and before she has a chance to say no, I don't actually want to see you, the old Rossmeister's walking through the actual door.
She looks tremendous, it has to be said, and she's bought half of Fran and Jane, judging by the bags at her feet. "Do you want another one of those," I go, flicking my thumb at her chai latte with soya milk.
She looks up from her book with, I suppose, total disgust and goes, "Ross, what do you want?" It's time for some plain talking.
I go, "I just want to know what the Jack is - as in, with us and shit?" "There is no us," she goes, pretty much slamming the book shut.
I'm like, "But what you said - as in, a couple of weeks ago . . . ", but then she's like, "That was . . . at a certain time. I was emotional. I didn't mean it." I go to grab her hand and I'm like, "Babes, you need me," and that's when she storts having a total eppo.
She's there, "Oh my God, you men really need to get over yourselves, you know that? Where do you get the notion that women are somehow subservient to you? That they're not, like, people in their own right? That what makes them beautiful and unique as women should be hidden from view? That what makes them sensual beings with real urges should be cut off with a scalpel . . . " I'm pretty sure a lot of this shit is not my actual fault, so there's no way I'm taking the rap for it.
I'm like, "Hey - chillax, babes . . . ", but she goes - at the top of her voice - "Chill-ax? Chill-ax?", then stands up, gathers up her bags and just, like, storms out of there, leaving nothing behind her, except the hum of Tuberose Gardenia by Estée Lauder and this book she's been reading.
It has to be said, roysh, I haven't seen her this pissed off about men since she went through that Aimee Mann phase a couple of years ago and I'm pretty sure that this book is at the hort of it.
I look at the cover. It's got this, like, bird on it and - this isn't meant to sound racist - but she's black.
I go to put it in the bin, roysh, but Storbucks has those tiny little circular ones that you can fit fock-all into and just as I'm about to, like, leave it there, on the condiments counter, I hear this voice go, "Such an amazing book, isn't it?" I whip around and I swear to God, roysh, for 10 seconds I think I'm actually staring at Jennifer Flavin, that's how beautiful this bird is.
She's, like, sprinkling chocolate on her cappuccino, going, "I mean, whenever I have to be brave - like when I had to resit all of my Blackhall exams this year - I just think of Ali Hirsi Ayaan. Her courage - it's just, like, oh my God!" I'm nodding sort of, like, thoughtfully, like you do at school when you're cracking on to know what the teacher's banging on about.
She's giving it, "I mean, to take on, like, an entire civilisation, to challenge religious and cultural norms that are so sacred to people that they're prepared to kill to protect them - that's like, woah! And to keep challenging those norms under constant threat of death, it's like, Oh! My! God!" Without even batting an eyelid, I end up going, "I agree. But it's also like, where do men get off thinking that birds are somehow, I don't know, subservient, if that's the actual word? I mean, women are pretty much people in their own right and what makes them beautiful and unique shouldn't be hidden from view and blahdy blahdy blah . . . "
"You know what?" she goes. "You're actually a pretty cool person," and, to cut a long story short, 10 seconds later, Slick Mick here is putting her number into the old Wolfe.
I go outside, roysh, and I'm standing at the traffic lights, when this other bird is suddenly standing beside me, waiting to cross and it would not be an exaggeration to say she looks a little bit like Kelly Ripa. So what do I do? I flip open the book, at no page in particular, and stort, like, tutting to myself and sort of, like, shaking my head, as in, I can't actually believe what I'm reading here.
And this girl, roysh, she actually ducks her head to see what book it is. I show her the cover and she goes, "Oh my God, I so have to read that. She is an amazing woman, even if she has allowed herself to be used by George Bush and America's neoconservatives to justify their actions in the Middle East . . . " It's like, uh-oh - I'm clearly out of my depth here. I'm thinking of that poster that Oisinn has on the inside of his toilet door - basically all the dip-shit stuff that George Bush has said in his time - but I can't think of anything specific, except that he thought there was an actual country called Cuba.
Instead, I find myself going, "I just think to, like, take on an entire civilisation, to challenge religious and cultural - I don't know - things, even under constant threat of death, I just think it's like - for want of a better word - oh my God!" She smiles at me. "Now I have to read it," she goes.
I'm like, "You can have this actual copy," and then I go, "I could give you a ring when I'm finished it," and I raise one eyebrow, like James actual Bond and she laughs, roysh, and nods her head, really appreciating the slickness of the manoeuvre.
Then she goes, "Okay, it's 087 . . . " and it's as easy as kicking away a blind man's stick.
See, it's pretty much established fact that birds like sensitivity in a goy, but this book is drawing the kind of female attention I only get usually when I bring Honor to Dundrum shopping centre.
So now I'm staring into the window of Café Java, at this total Rose McGowan wannabe sitting on her own, and I'm thinking, I could actually murder a vanilla latte.
That's when Sorcha rings.
"I'm not looking for a major hort-to-hort," she goes. "I left my book on the table in Starbucks - can you get it for me?" "I've got it here," I go, at the same time waving it at Rose.
"Well, drop it up to the house," she goes. "I want it." And though it probably comes across as childish, I'm like, "You know what - I want it too. I think we're going to have to discuss some kind of joint custody arrangement."