Sorcha and her friends reckon if they dress up like they're coming back from a sun holiday instead of, like, New York, they'll never get pulled in by Customs, writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly
THEY'VE BEEN seeing a fair bit of my ugly mug out Rathmines direction the last few weeks. Wednesday nights, roysh, Tramco are doing these, like, Flirt or Flaunt nights, where I've been reliving my glory days, dropping Jägerbombs like they're going out of actual fashion and rediscovering that I've still got the moves. Never mind flirt or flaunt - is he human or is he dancer? That's the, all of a sudden, question.
Thursdays have become a kind of, like, recovery day for me? So the last thing I need is the old STBX ringing me up at six o'clock on Thursday night looking for a favour.
She's in New York for the week, shopping with Chloe and Sophie and possibly Claire from Brayruit, and it's obvious she wants something because it storts off all pleasantries.
"I'm re-reading Barack Obama's autobiography," she goes. I'm like, "Who?", actually genuinely meaning it.
She's there, "Oh my God, Ross, there's so much hope here at the moment. The States is an amazing place to be right now. And you should see the clothes I bought." Suddenly she's off: "A Viktor Rolf shirt dress. A pair of Sergio Rossi eelskin pumps in blue. A Narciso Rodriguez strappy sheath. An Ed Hardy bikini - we all got those.
"A pair of Jil Jacobsen floral cuffs. A giraffe print Escada halter. A red Malandrino floor-length - oh my God, the exact same one that Dita Von Teese is wearing in this month's Closer, if you can get your hands on a copy. Two pairs of Earnest Sewn jeans. Those fuchsia stilettos I wanted from Barneys. A Gerard Darel crochet bag that was reduced to, like, $500. A vintage Van Cleef Arpels necklace that's going to go so well with my billowy chiffon Dior . . . " Sorcha turns into Joe focking Pesci when she storts talking about clothes. I throw the phone on the floor and - no exaggeration - watch 20 minutes of Xposé, take a dump and fix myself a sandwich before picking up the phone again to find that she's still going.
"A Michael Kors jacket that might be a bit mother-of-the-bride - you'll have to tell me. A pair of Tony Burch strappy sandals. An Abaeté ruffle dress. An Anya Hindmarch Kennedy bag. A pair of Jee Vice sunglasses - oh my God, the exact ones that Katherine Heigl wears . . . " I end up having to interrupt her. "I'm presuming you want me to collect you from the airport?" I go.
She's like, "We're at JFK now - would you mind?", and, being too nice for my own basic good, I tell her I'll see her first thing in the morning. Before I hang up, I go, "Hey, how are you going to get all that clobber through Customs? You know they're hitting people coming back from the States in a major way?" "It's fine," she goes. "Claire said if we dress like we're coming back from a sun holiday instead of, like, New York, we'll never get pulled in. And she's from Bray, remember." Famous last words, of course.
Half-eight the next morning, I'm waiting at the arrivals gate. The flight landed, like, 40 minutes ago but there's still no sign of them. Nine o'clock, then quarter past - still nothing. Half-nine, Sorcha finally answers her phone, sounding pretty upset. "They do pull skangers in," she goes. "Cigarette smuggling.
"Ross, they're being so unreasonable," and then I hear her scream, "Don't focking touch that! That's an original Laila Azhar!" which probably isn't going to help her case.
"Sorcha," I go, "just pay the actual duty and be done with it." She's like, "Ross, they'll be able to abolish the 1 per cent levy if I pay what I owe on this lot." I hear Chloe - or maybe it's Sophie - telling, presumably, the customs officers that they have attitude problems - serious attitude problems - and that probably won't help either.
"No," Sorcha goes, "the four of us are just going to stand here all day if we have to - have, like, a silent protest?" Then she hangs up.
Of course I shouldgo home at that stage. But what can I say? I obviously still care about the girl - she's still the mother of the daughter - and, as a lot of you out there know, I can be a sucker for a pretty face.
So I end up spending the morning and most of the afternoon in the seating area, doing what I usually do, actually - watching five or six hours of daytime television. Syl Fox, rare syndromes and the importance of making a will - allgood.
It's just after four o'clock when I suddenly hear a siren outside. At first I presume it's the Feds, thinking maybe it's turned, I don't know, violent in there. But it's not, roysh - it's two actual ambulances.
Seven or eight, I suppose, attendantsspill out of them and peg it through the gate. I jump up off my seat and wander over to the railing.
It's, like, 15 minutes before anything happens. Then the double doors open and they shuffle through, the four of them - Sorcha, Chloe, Sophie and Claire - wearing nothing except what I presume are their Ed Hardy bikinis. Honestly, your nuts would freeze just looking at them, and of course they haven't got an ounce of fat between them to keep them warm. The four of them are hunched over, with, like, blankets around their shoulders, shuffling along, and I end up getting a fit of the giggles - they look like that focking Famine monument on the way down to the Point.
"That's, er, my wife," I end up having to tell one of the ambulance dudes before the four of them go off to the hospital.
"Well, she's suffering from exposure," he goes, "possibly even hypothermia." I just shake my head and go, "She really should wear more clothes."
Follow Ross's adventures online at
irishtimes.com/blogs/lifewithross