Gráinne and Joe are visiting the old dear, because she wants to set herself up as a TV lifestyle expert - but it might be time to bring this wagon to a halt, writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly.
One of the - I suppose - upsides of having to move back to the family gaff is the nosebag. Utter weapon of mass destruction that the old dear is, you wouldn't actually believe the things the woman can do with a sprig of fennel and a griddle pan.
I get up pretty early on Thursday evening, roysh, big-time Hank, and the first stop of course is the fridge, to get myself a bit of breakfast before catching the last 10 minutes of Sharon Ní Bheoláin on Six One.
You'd want to see what's in there - we're talking Mediterranean lasagne, we're talking pork and chicken terrine, we're talking smoked bacon, blue cheese and pineapple pasta, not to mention a humongous chocolate and amaretti mousse.
So I lay it all out on the island in the middle of the kitchen - the full bulimia buffet - and I'm throwing it into me like there's no actual tomorrow? That's when the old dear walks in. I actually catch the hum of her Chanel No 5 first and I look up - my mouth stuffed to the gills with, like, cherry tomatoes and baba ganoush - and I go, "This is revolting - I'd make a better meal with my feet."
"Ross!" she goes, giving it the big-time drama queen act. "My food! What have you done?" I'm like, "You should be grateful anyone's prepared to eat your slops."
She goes, "But . . . I'm having Gráinne and Joe for dinner . . . " and I'm there, "I've just saved them a day on the bowl tomorrow then . . . whoa, whoa, whoa - did you say Gráinne and Joe?"
She ignores me, roysh, and storts picking her way through the mountain of leftovers, trying to salvage something to serve up to them. I'm there, "Are you saying Gráinne actual Seoige is coming here? Why would she . . ."
"She's offered me a job," she goes, examining a piece of rocket for teethmorks. "She wants me to do a regular slot on the show." I'm like, "As what?" and she goes, "A lifestyle expert," on the big-time defensive. "This might come as a surprise to you, Ross, but there are people out there who are interested in my views on cooking, fashion, make-up . . ." I go, "Yeah - other sad wagons," and I just crack up laughing in her face.
She manages to pull together, like, a plate-and-a-half of food, which she puts back in the fridge - Gráinne and Joe will have to hit the chipper on the way home at this rate - then she goes upstairs to change.
I grab a beer and sit down in front of the old Liza. I'm thinking, imagine sitting looking at Gráinne Seoige every day - now that's a job I wouldn't mind getting up early in the afternoon for.
And just as I'm thinking this, roysh, I just happen to notice the old dear's Salvatore Ferragamo knee-high boots in the corner of the room and I don't know why, roysh - it's probably the beer - but I end up having one of the best ideas I've ever had in my life.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, roysh, and listen - she's having a Paddy Power, which means she's out of commission for the next, like, 20 minutes or so.
When you walk through our front door, there's, like, a wall immediately in front of you. What I do, roysh, is I grab the boots and put them on the floor, behind the wall, with just the actual foot part of them sticking out.
Then I hit the kitchen, grab the recycling bin and stort whipping out empty wine bottles. Holy shmoley - she's been tanning the Châteauneuf du Pape, by the looks of it, the soak. I grab six empty bottles, roysh, and scatter them around the hall, where they're, like, visible from the door.
Then - perfect timing, roysh - the doorbell rings and the old dear shouts down the stairs, "Ross, could you get that, please? I'll be down in just a minute." The most beautiful woman in possibly Ireland is at the front door and, you can imagine, I end up nearly ripping the thing off its hinges.
"Hey," I go, giving her one of my big-time flirty looks, while obviously blanking Joe. "I'm a big fan . . . of all your stuff. The pleasure is mine . . . believe me." She's like, "Thank you . . . Em, is Fionnuala home?" and for a second, roysh, I totally forget the plan and nearly invite them in.
Then I remember myself and go, "Oh, she is here, yeah. I was just about to wake her," and I step aside, roysh, and Gráinne and Joe's eyes just go wide when they look down and see, like, the boots and the bottles strewn up and down the hall.
Joe's like, "What the . . ." and I'm there, "Ah, that's my old dear for you - she fairly lashes into it in the afternoon. She sobers up pretty quickly, though. I'll just go and throw a bucket of water over her," and I stort heading for the kitchen.
Gráinne storts sort of, like, backing away, while Joe suddenly rediscovers the moonwalk. They actually can't get out of there fast enough.
Gráinne's like, "Tell her we'll, er, phone her . . . when she's feeling better," and I'm there, "Kool and the Gang," watching them disappear up the driveway.
God, she's unbelievable-looking, that woman.
I slam the door, roysh, and I end up just collapsing with the laughter.
I actually slide down the wall and end up sitting on the floor, with tears just streaming from my eyes.
The next thing, roysh, the old dear comes trotting down the stairs, sort of, like, surveys the scene for a few seconds and straight cops what's happened here.
Of course I'm laughing too hord to even acknowledge her.
And that's when, totally out of the blue, she goes, "I want you out, Ross," and all of a sudden I'm not laughing anymore. "I'm tired of your unpleasantness. I don't want you here. Go upstairs, pack your bags and be gone."
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