Narcissism is a word that's just not in Ross O'Carroll-Kelly's, like, words, but what's a goy to do when his rugby shirt makes him look so wrong?
One of the things I really love about myself is that I'm not, like, a jealous person? A lot of people have been coming up to me lately, asking me if I ever look at the Dricster and think that I should be where he is today, given that I was always a far superior all-round player and obviously better looking.
But I just go, basically no, I'm not jealous at all. In fact, I actually rang the goy the other night, roysh, to say good luck in France, hope you get over the injury, blahdy blahdy blah.
And I hit him with an unbelievable line, roysh, which I think succeeded in cheering the goy up. I was like, "Believe it or not, I've actually got sinus problems myself at the moment. Yeah, every day, Sorcha rings me up, going, 'Sinus a cheque for a Fendi silk dress. Sinus a cheque for a Miu Miu tote bag . . . '" Of course Drico turns the gag around on me then by going, "Sorry, who is this?" and then all of a sudden hanging up.
This conversation took place outside Kielys and what I didn't notice at the time was that that focker McWilliams was standing, like, ten yords away, smoking a Montecristo the size of David Wallace's leg and obviously thinking, oh my God, that joke is so going into my next after-dinner speech.
All of which is, like, by the by. Where this story is actually going is, I'm walking through the door of Kielys and suddenly the weirdest thing happens.
First, I feel a bouncer's hand on my chest. Then I hear eight words that, as long as I live, I thought would never be aimed in my direction.
"Would you not be more comfortable in Longs?" If the goy wasn't six foot eight, he could have considered himself decked. Instead, I gave him a line I hate using. "Sorry, do you actually know who I am?" He looked at me blankly, roysh, so I went, "I've been coming to this battle cruiser for, like, eight years. You've got my Leinster under-nineteen jersey hanging up behind the bor." So he's suddenly, like, squinting at me, scrutinising - if that's the right word - my boat race.
Eventually, he's like, "Ross? Is that you?" I'm there, "Are you extracting the actual urine?" "Sorry, I didn't recognise you," he goes. "Why are you wearing a League of Ireland shirt? You haven't got yourself mixed up in something, have you?" It's like, hello? I'm like, "League of Ireland? This is the new Ireland rugby jersey!" "Couldn't be," he goes, shaking his head, like he doesn't want to believe it? Then he's suddenly, like, checking out the ground around my feet, going, "The collar must have fallen off, did it?" "No," I go, "this is what it basically looks like," although one or two things are storting to make sense now, namely the two security gords who followed me around Donnybrook Fair when I swung in for a sausage roll to line the old Malcolm O'Kelly.
"Jesus," he goes, "it's hideous." I'm looking over both shoulders, going, "Sorry, did Trinny and Susannah die and ask you to keep the focking flame going? Move it," which works, because he suddenly steps to one side and in I go.
The place is, like, jammers, as usual, but the atmosphere is different, if that makes any sense? I'm, like, looking around for a familiar boat but I can't find one. It's like, yeah, everyone's wearing green jerseys, but they're also talking in a strange language which I just can't place.
I don't think I've ever been so happy to see JP and Fionn.
"What's the Jack in here?" it seems natural enough to ask.
"Judging by the number of yerrahs and be-to-hokeys," Fionn goes, "not to mention the amount of stew they've shifted in the last hour, I'd say these people are Limerick hurling fans." I'm like, "Hurling fans? In Kielys? But how?" "Look at their shirts," JP suddenly goes. "They look more like rugby jerseys then these do," and he grabs a handful of cotton and polyester.
Fionn's there, "Did you hear about Oisinn? He was walking down Pearse Street this morning - wearing his jersey obviously - and a goy coming out of the drug treatment clinic held the door open for him." I sit down. I'm actually going to need a straighter or two. "Goys, what's happening to the world?" I go. "A Lidl practically in Foxrock and a rugby shirt that looks like . . . " "Hey, chillax," JP goes. "Oisinn says he has a plan." I whip out the old Wolfe Tone. "No," I go, "leave this one to me. I'm not exactly without influence myself. Being made to look like skobies - this is the kind of thing the players should go on strike over." I ring Drico's phone. It's like, Number Blocked. He's obviously taking the joke to a new level now.
It's at that exact point that Oisinn arrives in, looking - it has to be said - a very happy bunny.
"It's fixed," is all he says.
We're all like, "Fixed? Dude, what's the Jack?" "Well," he goes, knocking back a mouthful of the old vitamin H, "as you may or may not know, I've got a cousin in transition year in Alex." We're all like, "And?" And he's there, "For the next two weeks, her and fifty of her home economics class will be at the airport - sewing emergency collars onto all Ireland rugby jerseys." It's, like, total relief - and obviously high-fives all round.
"Dude," I go, "you are an actual legend." And I'm able to admit that. Like I said, it's one of the things I really love about myself.