Free The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years by Paul Howard Page B

show of me in BT2.’ He goes, ‘I have only one thing I want to say to you, Ross. I want you to find somewhere else to live. Your mother and I are tired of your unpleasantness, frankly. We think it’s time you stood on your own two feet in life. And we want you out of the house by the end of next week.’
    I’m like, ‘Fock.’

    I’m in Reynards, roysh, and I’m with this bird, Helena I think her name is. I sort of, like, know her to see from the rugby club, not bad looking, a little bit like Thora Birch but with less eye make-up. Anyway, there we are, roysh, basically wearing the face off one another and I come up for air, roysh, and she looks at meand goes, ‘Oh my God, I have fancied you for SO long.’ I’m like, ‘I’ve fancied you for ages too.’ I couldn’t swear blind that her name is Helena. She goes, ‘ OH MY! GOD! you are going to think this is SO sad, but a couple of years ago, you got off the Dart in, like, Killiney, and I was walking just behind you, and you left your ticket on, like, the turnstile thing. And I picked it up. It’s been in my wallet for, like, two years. Will I show you?’ I stort, like, edging away from her. She goes, ‘Oh my God, you probably think I am such a weirdo, do you?’ Nope, I think you’re a focking psycho. I’m like, ‘No, no, I’m just going to get us another bottle of wine.’ She picks up the bottle on the table and goes, ‘But we’re not even halfway through this one.’ I’m like, ‘I just want to see if they’ve got anything dearer.’ I head for the cloakroom, grab my jacket, get the Fightlink home.

    It turns out the old pair were serious about focking me out of the gaff, roysh, unless I apologised for what happened. As if. Packed my rucksack and opened the front door and the old man comes out of the sitting room, roysh, big sad face on the focker, and he goes, ‘We could put this behind us, Ross. All you have to do is say you’re sorry.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh. Get real.’ Of course the old dear comes out then, playing the whole concerned parent bit, going, ‘Ross, where are you going to stay?’ I’m like, ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business anymore, do you? Take a good, long look at me, both of you. It’s the last time you’ll ever see me.’
    I could hear the old dear bawling her eyes out, roysh, and I kind of regretted saying that last bit because I was still hoping the old man would give me the money for my cor insurance, which is up, like, next month. Of course he probably won’t even pay itnow, that’s the kind of dickhead he is. Anyway, roysh, the reason I was able to be so, like, Jack the Lad about being focked out was that I already had somewhere else to stay. Fionn’s old pair had bought him an apartment in Dalkey for his twenty-first and basically I was going to be, like, kipping on his sofa for the foreseeable future. But I needed funds, so I had to, like, get a job, which meant dropping out of college, though I didn’t mind that so much because I’m pretty sure I failed all my summer exams again and the idea of having to do first year a third time was SO wrecking my head, and we’re talking TOTALLY here.
    Basically I had a job lined up pretty much straight away. I’d had a few scoops the night before with JP, who’s doing an MDB, we’re talking Managing Daddy’s Business, namely Hook, Lyon and Sinker Estate Agents. When he floated the idea of working with him, I was like, ‘JP, I’d literally do anything. Well, within reason. I’m not photocopying, or answering phones, or shit. I don’t want anyone taking focking liberties. But I need lids, man. I’m desperate.’ He goes, ‘Ten-four, Ross. I’m hearing you. Let’s fast-track this idea.’ JP speaks fluent morkeshing. I’m like, ‘What I want is to stort on Monday morning.’ He goes, ‘I’ll talk to the old man tomorrow. See if he’ll take the idea off-line. I’ll touch base with you in the afternoon.’ So JP texts me the next day,