ROSS O'CARROLL KELLY:Eight hours ion Donnybrook Gorda station with Columbo from Killinaskully - and then I sport Cilian with some bird who's def not Sorcha
THURSDAY AFTERNOON I'M steering the beast through Donnybrook, The Blue Corpet Treatment on full blast, seat back, sunnies on, slick as an otter in a tux.
It's when I hit a red outside Bang Olufsen that I happen to look in the old rearview and cop this bird, we're talking Megan Fox material, behind me in a white chocolate clearcoat Lincoln Navigator. She's singing away, roysh, to whatever song she's got on, really giving it loads, which is pretty cute, so I end up turning on the radio and flicking through the presets to try to put a song to the lips.
It turns out it's Push the Button.
So the next thing, roysh, I'm driving with one hand and looking for a pen and a piece of paper with the other. By the time we've hit the next lights, she's in the lane beside me and I've written my mobile number down on the back of my last driving test failure report and I'm holding it up against the window on, like, the passenger side?
Even by my standards it's a pretty bold move, but it works, roysh, because when I take away the piece of paper, she's laughing, shaking her head and keying my number into mobile.
The next thing, my phone rings and I answer it going, "Hey - I see you're a Sugababes fan." "Oh my God," she goes,
"this is, like, so random. What's your name?" I'm there, "You genuinely don't know?" and in fairness she actually doesn't. Must be the old Oakley Doakleys. "I'm Ross O'Carroll-Kelly," I go, whipping them off. "As in the Ross O'Carroll-Kelly?" She's like, "Oh my God!" Her name turns out to be Eimhear spelt the Irish way and after, like, 30 seconds of conversation I know that this girl's a keeper. Well, she's literally a keeper - she plays in goal for Three Rock.
I'm there, "So, what are you doing later, Gator?" and she laughs, roysh, as if to say, I cannot actually believe my luck here.
"As in, do you fancy going for drink?" As I'm saying this, roysh, I'm passing under the bridge at, like, UCD and I have to go, "Eimhear, hang on a sec, there's some J Oker in the fast lane here doing, like, sixty, holding everyone on the road up." Now, I know it's a cop cor, roysh, but I don't think that's any excuse.
Bear in mind now, I don't even beep him - I just give him a couple of flashes of the old lights, and he pulls into the slow lane. But as soon as I pass him, on goes the focking siren and now he's flashing at me, presumably to get me to pull in, which is what I do.
So the next thing I've got Sergeant Dick O'Toole from Killinaskully at the window, telling me I was breaking the shpeed limish and yousen a mawbile, which is illegal under shection yada yada yada.
I hand him my licence and go, "It's a fair cop - gimme the points, Dude," then I close the window again and I put the phone back up to my ear again, in time to hear Eimhear go, "Oh my God, are you in, like, trouble?" "Er, if you call a few penalty points trouble, yeah."
The next thing, the goy's tapping on the window and I'm there, "Hang on, Babes - Columbo's back." Now, there's an old saying, roysh, that I should actually heed, but I don't? Never get into a scrap with a bogger - you'll both get dirty and the chances are the bogger'll love it.
But the next thing, roysh, he's shouting at me to heng up thet phawn and he's quoting all sorts of laws at me that I'm supposedly breaking and that's when I end up losing it. It's, like, no more Mr N Sync. I flick my thumb in the direction of UCD and I go, "Hey - like I said to the head of sports management in that place - spare me the lectures," which is a cracking line, you have to admit.
It was eight hours before I got out of Donnybrook Gorda Station.
Hennessy was out in Portmornock with the old man and claimed he had his mobile switched off. So he ends up bailing me out and of course then I have to listen to him banging on about his performance on the back nine while I sit in reception and thread the laces back into my Dubes.
So the next thing we're outside, roysh, and I'm wondering how I can get away from him without having to say thank you, when all of a sudden I spot, like, a familiar figure, slinking out of Yo Thai, with a bird who, even from this distance, is a ringer for Olga Kurylenko.
It's Cillian.
And unless she's had some pretty serious plastic surgery since I met her coming out of Laura Ashley a week ago, that is not Sorcha.
He's all over this bird. Too busy to see me. Too busy to notice me step out into the middle of the road and take a photograph of him with my mobile.
"What are you doing?" Hennessy goes.
"Sending it to my ex-wife," I go. "Let her see what kind of a goy she's got herself mixed up with." "Have you got rocks in your head?" Hennessy suddenly goes. "She marries this loser and she's no longer a financial drain on you. As your father's solicitor, I have to advise you, Ross, it could be the most expensive text you ever send."
TEXT ROSS
Readers in need of advice can text Ross at 087-09773781
Some dude called Evan goes, "See u got ur eye wiped at d irish book awards, judging dev swept everything."I know. A book about a shopkeeper from Coronation Street - who'd have thunk it?
The Eggmeister goes, "Yo rosser hav u checked out the tribute to ur mate rosanna's old man on you tube. Key in wnc lady in red."Okay, I'm only plugging this because it's the funniest, deeply unsettling thing I've ever seen in my life.
Some dude called Former Stud goes, "Hey ross, im 41, recently separated, lookin 4 advice on where2 find yummy mummies on d southside."Given that you're 20 years too old for them, I'd say try 1988. Failing that, become a Yogalates instructor.
Some dude who doesn't give his name goes, "Can u explain the diff between a SudDublinise Sally in AFitch sweats + Uggs and a D8 Tammy in PJs n slippers?"The world and four postcodes, my friend.