The Teenage Dirtbag Years
Paul Howard
Language: English
Pages: 132
ISBN: B000K3KT7Q
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
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.
Paul Howard helps Ross O'Carroll-Kelly to write his autobiographical series, now consisting of four titles, largely because Ross can't really write, roysh? Find out more at http://www.obrien.ie/ross.
He is also the author of the bestselling prison expose, The Joy, and co-author of Celtic Warrior, the autobiography of boxer Steve Collins.
A former Sports Journalist of the Year, Paul covered the World Cup in Japan and Korea in 2002, and the rugby World Cup in Australia in 2003, for the newspaper. His account of the Irish soccer squad, The Gaffers, Mick McCarthy, Roy Keane and the Team they Built, was a bestseller in autumn 2002.
The funniest book of the year.
Hot Press
I don't regard the musings of O'Carroll-Kelly as being essentially humourous. I regard them as straight reportage, journalism of a very high order, which holds up a mirror to a way of life, a whole breed of men...
Declan Lynch, Sunday Independent
'Whether you love him or hate him, The Teenage Dirtbag Years will have you coming back for more.'
Erica Walsh, Trinity News
‘In The Teenage Dirtbag Years our dim rugger-bugger anti-hero explores third-level education. This lad makes Beavis and Butthead look like Harvard graduates.’
Ferdia MacAnna, Sunday Independent
'Howard is the author of a superior account of life in Mountjoy and is the comic voice for the next decade.'
Eoghan Corry, Andersonstown News
Man’ slipping away, I make the mistake of going to step over the rope into the VIP section, roysh. Next thing I feel this orm around my neck and my feet are, like, off the ground, and I can see Christian and his orsehole film mates staring in, like, horror as the skobie in the tux carries me out of the cinema and basically throws me out onto the street, in the middle of Knackeragua. He’s there, ‘You were warned,’ and I just, like, dust the old chinos down and go, ‘Your orse is SO fired.’ To
the goy, roysh, telling him that playing for UCD is, like, one of the conditions of my scholarship and shit, but he keeps bullshitting on about how pretty much all of my old team-mates off the S went on to sign for Castlerock and now, just when they’re looking like pulling themselves out of the bottom four of the Second Division of the AIL, along comes one of their own to stab them in the back. He goes, ‘You haven’t played rugby all season, Ross,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s why I’ve got a point to
storts, like, sucking the neck off you. Of course, Monday night, I’m too off my face to fight her off, so I wake up this morning, roysh, in Christian’s gaff – Ailesbury Road, focking amazing pad – and I am absolutely reeking of, like, toothpaste. Christian comes into the room, roysh, and I’m like, ‘What the fock is that smell?’ Of course, he goes, ‘You must rest. You’ve had a busy day,’ and I’m like, ‘Will you quit it with that Star Wars bullshit. Why am I smelling of toothpaste?’ and he’s, like,
falling off you?’ and Fionn’s like, ‘I just moved up from a 34” to a 38”,’ and he, like, cracks his shite laughing, roysh, and highfives Christian and JP and then goes to high-five me, and when I don’t respond, Fionn goes, ‘Anyone with any information on the whereabouts of Ross’s life, please contact Gardaí at Harcourt Terrace.’ JP goes, ‘Yeah, what gives, goy? You’re very quiet,’ and I’m like, ‘I’m cool. Leave it.’ Then he goes, ‘Hey, let me run something past you guys. Your reactions are
crapping on about?’ and he goes, ‘They’re moving the Irish rugby team, Ross. They’re moving them to … God, I can’t even say it … the northside. The northside, Ross, I’m sorry.’ Don’t know what he’s bullshitting on about, roysh, but there’s a stink of whiskey off his breath and a huge whack gone out of the bottle of Jameson he got off his golfing mates for his fiftieth, the bunch of tossers. He always tries to be real palsy-walsy with me when he’s locked. I’m, like, totally storving and I’m there,