The teenage Dirtbag years
So there I was, roysh, class legend, schools rugby legend, basically all-round legend, when someone decides you can’t, like, sit the Leaving Cert four times. Well that put a focking spanner in the works. But joining the goys at college wasn’t the mare I thought it would be, basically for, like, three major reasons: beer, women and more women. And for once I agree with Fionn about the, like, education possibilities. I mean, where else can you learn about Judge Judy, laminating fake IDs and, like, how to order a Ken and snog a girl at the same time? I may be beautiful, roysh, but I’m not stupid and this much I totally know: college focking rocks.
PS, I scored the bridesmaids
So there I was, roysh, twenty-three years of age, still, like, gorgeous and rich, living off my legend as a schools rugby player, scoring the birds, being the man, when all of a sudden, roysh, life becomes a total mare. I don’t have a Betty Blue what’s wrong, but I can’t eat, can’t sleep, I don’t even want to do the old beast with two backs, which means a major problem, and we’re talking big time here. Normally my head is so full of, like thoughts, but now I’m down to just one: Sorcha, I’m playing it Kool and the Gang, but this is basically scary. I mean, I’m Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, for fock’s sake, I don’t do love. With a new introduction by Paul Howard, Ross’s representative on, loike, earth.