The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 3
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Guess who was spotted this week looking equal parts hot and ridiculous in every kind of synthetic fabric currently manufactured by the miracle of chemical engineering? None other than Colin Farrell (or his doppelgänger) down near the Village. Obviously, no one loves him. Friends don’t let friends dress like this (unless it’s cosplay or part of a bedroom role-play fantasy). If you take a look at the pictures above, you’ll certainly understand my horror at finding anyone willing to wear lime green Lycra and Speedo running shorts. The only explanation I can think of is that he was drunk (you know how those Irish enjoy their whiskey…and beer…and any and all alcohol).
I could have forgiven the spandex, but I can’t forgive the freaky feet. Toe-shoes are never okay. They’re weird and disturbing and really, really pretentious. And, as an aside, for those of you who are interested in looking like a hobbit, this particular brand of toe-shoe will set you back $635. That’s right! You too can look like a weird little man for the very low price of six hundred and thirty-five dollars!!! WTF?
Also, for the record, Colin needs to invest in a cup. Yes, I enjoy the occasional bulge, but this bulge was verging on concealed weapon status. If he continues to run around in these spandex shorts, he will only have himself to blame for the gropings. Goodness, if I’d been within arm’s reach, I definitely would have copped a feel. Amiright, ladies? You all know how I like my bangers and mash, and there’s nothing more Irish than sausage!
Booyah!
<3 The Socialmedialite
Chapter Two
Calories: 4,000.
Workout: 4.5 hours in total.
Eggs: Could go to my grave quite happily without ever seeing another one.
*Ronan*
I’d just finished doing fifty chin-ups when the phone started ringing.
And if that wasn’t the opening line of a narcissistic arsehole, then I didn’t know what was. I’d spent way too much time around privately educated, privileged rugby brats, and their ways had finally rubbed off on me.
At least I didn’t say I was getting my pump on.
Anyway, I’m not a narcissistic arsehole. However, I might be a bull-headed idiot with too short a fuse who lets his temper get the better of him when there just so happen to be paparazzi hanging about, but that’s a story for another day. Or you could go out and pick up a tabloid.
Yeah, I was going through a bitter patch, but I had every right. I was sick of my private life being splashed all over the papers. Somehow, I’d never connected the idea of being good at a sport with the possibility of becoming a “celebrity.”
I understood my role; I did my best for my league and for the sport. I knew what rugby needed from me, and I wasn’t planning on letting anyone down. But if there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who wrote about other people’s personal lives for a living. Those people could all do with taking a dive off a very high building, in my opinion.
You see, bitter.
Picking up a towel, I wiped the sweat from my neck then went to pick up the phone. My little sister Lucy’s face was flashing on the screen which made me less hesitant to answer. I thought it might be my publicist, Sam, with some new instructions on how I could clean up my public image, and I was in no mood for that shite.
“Luce, how’re you doing?” I said as I held the phone to my ear and looked out at the Manhattan skyline before me. Some people might have been well up for living in a penthouse apartment in the center of New York, and yeah, it was my choice to come here; but I hadn’t anticipated there would be nowhere to drive. Driving was one of the only things that kept me sane. Me and my 1969 Chevy Camaro and the open road. No stress, just miles and pure freedom. Ah, that was the life.
I should have done my research.
In order to make up for the lack of driving, I’d been working out more than usual, which was always a good thing when you played professional rugby for a living. Well, technically I was suspended from the team; but fingers crossed I’d be back in a couple of months, and I wanted to return fighting fit. You wouldn’t think it to see the dark, moody eyebrows I was sporting, but I was a silver-lining sort of bloke. It wasn’t my intention to be irritable; life had just dealt me a crap hand lately.
“Morning, bro. You sound out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Lucy replied. There was something about her tone that put me on edge. Usually she was cheerful and upbeat. The girl was full of sunshine. Right now she sounded hesitant, and, almost as if I was having a moment of foresight, I knew I wasn’t going to like the reason why.
“Timing’s perfect. How’s everything at home?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Ma’s still spending too much money on clothes. I’m trying to teach her that material possessions don’t equal happiness. It’s a work in progress.”
Ever since I’d made the big time, my mother had acquired expensive tastes. I didn’t mind. My mother and my sister were the only real family I had. If my money could give them a good life, then I was all for it.
I chuckled softly. “It’s not like she’s snorting cocaine, Luce. She likes dresses. What woman doesn’t?”
“There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start, Ronan.”
My smile grew. I always enjoyed baiting her. “What? Girls like pretty things. It’s a known fact.”
“You know what, I don’t even feel bad about what I have to tell you now. Take out your computer. There’s something you need to see.”
My smile vanished and was instantly replaced with a frown as I walked through the penthouse to find my laptop. I flipped it open and brought up a new window. “What is it this time? Has Brona been spreading her lies again?” I asked.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s actually kind of funny. I read this blog all the time because I love the girl who writes it. At least, I think it’s a girl. It could very well be an old bald fellow in a basement with a pet rabbit. It’s called New York’s Finest, and you were featured on Saturday. Only get this, she thinks you’re Colin Farrell. How hilarious is that?”
My frown slowly disappeared as I typed in the name of the website and brought it up. Being mistaken for a famous Irish actor when you were in fact a famous Irish rugby player was positively whimsical when compared with some of the PR disasters I’d experienced of late. Then the article popped up, and I was frowning again.
There was a picture of me standing by the bar at my mate Tom’s restaurant last week, signing autographs for a couple of women. It looked like it had been taken from a low angle, as though the person who took it was sitting at a table. It was a completely unexceptional picture until you factored in the plethora of red arrows that surrounded it, each one pointing to some perceived flaw in my appearance.
Apparently, I chose my outfit while drunk, my footwear was disturbing, and my cock and balls were on display. I scowled and tried not to get pissed. I was going to give myself high blood pressure if didn’t quit getting so worked up about the media. Still, it was irritating how this blogger had totally ripped into what I was wearing. Clothing for me was all about function. I wore what was best for training purposes and gave not one iota of shit what I looked like.
Scrolling down, there was a short article written by someone who referred to themselves as The Socialmedialite, who called me both a leprechaun and a hobbit, and then went on to suggest I invest in a cup. Well, when I say “me,” I mean Colin Farrell because that’s who this person thought I was, which is ridiculous because I barely even look like him.
“Oh, you so look like him, Ronan,” Lucy disagreed down the line, and I realized I’d said that out loud.
“I don’t. This blogger is an idiot if she can’t see how much I don’t look like him. I bet she does her research on flipping Wikipedia, the amateur.”
I scrolled down the page to the next post to see she’d snapped a photo of Bradley Cooper getting out of his car in workout clothes. There was a wet stain on his pants that was obviously sweat or spilled liquid. Nevertheless, The Socialmedialite had composed an article containing a list of possibilities as to how the stain had occurred. Some of the stories were way too detailed which made me think she was in serious need of a life. A number of readers had even commented below with their own scenarios. One person thought his personal groomer had tried to foist a bottle of clove oil on him to shave his face, and Bradley had swiped away the offending article, stating he would never shave off the source of all his sexy power, thus resulting in the stain.
Seriously, some people.
“This site is ridiculous,” I muttered while Lucy snickered in response. “It’s not even funny. And sausage is more German than Irish.”
“What are you talking about? It’s hilarious. It objectifies men in the same way women have been objectified for centuries. Turnabout is fair play, you know.”
“It’s stupid. And anyway, I’m way too tall to be a hobbit.” I stood up and walked over to look at myself in the mirror. At five feet eleven inches, I thought I was a decent height for a man.
“Oh, wow. Vanity, thy name is Ronan. She’s already getting to you, isn’t she? And she called you a hobbit because of those godawful shoes you were wearing.”
I could have forgiven the spandex, but I can’t forgive the freaky feet. Toe-shoes are never okay. They’re weird and disturbing and really, really pretentious. And, as an aside, for those of you who are interested in looking like a hobbit, this particular brand of toe-shoe will set you back $635. That’s right! You too can look like a weird little man for the very low price of six hundred and thirty-five dollars!!! WTF?
Also, for the record, Colin needs to invest in a cup. Yes, I enjoy the occasional bulge, but this bulge was verging on concealed weapon status. If he continues to run around in these spandex shorts, he will only have himself to blame for the gropings. Goodness, if I’d been within arm’s reach, I definitely would have copped a feel. Amiright, ladies? You all know how I like my bangers and mash, and there’s nothing more Irish than sausage!
Booyah!
<3 The Socialmedialite
Chapter Two
Calories: 4,000.
Workout: 4.5 hours in total.
Eggs: Could go to my grave quite happily without ever seeing another one.
*Ronan*
I’d just finished doing fifty chin-ups when the phone started ringing.
And if that wasn’t the opening line of a narcissistic arsehole, then I didn’t know what was. I’d spent way too much time around privately educated, privileged rugby brats, and their ways had finally rubbed off on me.
At least I didn’t say I was getting my pump on.
Anyway, I’m not a narcissistic arsehole. However, I might be a bull-headed idiot with too short a fuse who lets his temper get the better of him when there just so happen to be paparazzi hanging about, but that’s a story for another day. Or you could go out and pick up a tabloid.
Yeah, I was going through a bitter patch, but I had every right. I was sick of my private life being splashed all over the papers. Somehow, I’d never connected the idea of being good at a sport with the possibility of becoming a “celebrity.”
I understood my role; I did my best for my league and for the sport. I knew what rugby needed from me, and I wasn’t planning on letting anyone down. But if there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who wrote about other people’s personal lives for a living. Those people could all do with taking a dive off a very high building, in my opinion.
You see, bitter.
Picking up a towel, I wiped the sweat from my neck then went to pick up the phone. My little sister Lucy’s face was flashing on the screen which made me less hesitant to answer. I thought it might be my publicist, Sam, with some new instructions on how I could clean up my public image, and I was in no mood for that shite.
“Luce, how’re you doing?” I said as I held the phone to my ear and looked out at the Manhattan skyline before me. Some people might have been well up for living in a penthouse apartment in the center of New York, and yeah, it was my choice to come here; but I hadn’t anticipated there would be nowhere to drive. Driving was one of the only things that kept me sane. Me and my 1969 Chevy Camaro and the open road. No stress, just miles and pure freedom. Ah, that was the life.
I should have done my research.
In order to make up for the lack of driving, I’d been working out more than usual, which was always a good thing when you played professional rugby for a living. Well, technically I was suspended from the team; but fingers crossed I’d be back in a couple of months, and I wanted to return fighting fit. You wouldn’t think it to see the dark, moody eyebrows I was sporting, but I was a silver-lining sort of bloke. It wasn’t my intention to be irritable; life had just dealt me a crap hand lately.
“Morning, bro. You sound out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Lucy replied. There was something about her tone that put me on edge. Usually she was cheerful and upbeat. The girl was full of sunshine. Right now she sounded hesitant, and, almost as if I was having a moment of foresight, I knew I wasn’t going to like the reason why.
“Timing’s perfect. How’s everything at home?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Ma’s still spending too much money on clothes. I’m trying to teach her that material possessions don’t equal happiness. It’s a work in progress.”
Ever since I’d made the big time, my mother had acquired expensive tastes. I didn’t mind. My mother and my sister were the only real family I had. If my money could give them a good life, then I was all for it.
I chuckled softly. “It’s not like she’s snorting cocaine, Luce. She likes dresses. What woman doesn’t?”
“There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start, Ronan.”
My smile grew. I always enjoyed baiting her. “What? Girls like pretty things. It’s a known fact.”
“You know what, I don’t even feel bad about what I have to tell you now. Take out your computer. There’s something you need to see.”
My smile vanished and was instantly replaced with a frown as I walked through the penthouse to find my laptop. I flipped it open and brought up a new window. “What is it this time? Has Brona been spreading her lies again?” I asked.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s actually kind of funny. I read this blog all the time because I love the girl who writes it. At least, I think it’s a girl. It could very well be an old bald fellow in a basement with a pet rabbit. It’s called New York’s Finest, and you were featured on Saturday. Only get this, she thinks you’re Colin Farrell. How hilarious is that?”
My frown slowly disappeared as I typed in the name of the website and brought it up. Being mistaken for a famous Irish actor when you were in fact a famous Irish rugby player was positively whimsical when compared with some of the PR disasters I’d experienced of late. Then the article popped up, and I was frowning again.
There was a picture of me standing by the bar at my mate Tom’s restaurant last week, signing autographs for a couple of women. It looked like it had been taken from a low angle, as though the person who took it was sitting at a table. It was a completely unexceptional picture until you factored in the plethora of red arrows that surrounded it, each one pointing to some perceived flaw in my appearance.
Apparently, I chose my outfit while drunk, my footwear was disturbing, and my cock and balls were on display. I scowled and tried not to get pissed. I was going to give myself high blood pressure if didn’t quit getting so worked up about the media. Still, it was irritating how this blogger had totally ripped into what I was wearing. Clothing for me was all about function. I wore what was best for training purposes and gave not one iota of shit what I looked like.
Scrolling down, there was a short article written by someone who referred to themselves as The Socialmedialite, who called me both a leprechaun and a hobbit, and then went on to suggest I invest in a cup. Well, when I say “me,” I mean Colin Farrell because that’s who this person thought I was, which is ridiculous because I barely even look like him.
“Oh, you so look like him, Ronan,” Lucy disagreed down the line, and I realized I’d said that out loud.
“I don’t. This blogger is an idiot if she can’t see how much I don’t look like him. I bet she does her research on flipping Wikipedia, the amateur.”
I scrolled down the page to the next post to see she’d snapped a photo of Bradley Cooper getting out of his car in workout clothes. There was a wet stain on his pants that was obviously sweat or spilled liquid. Nevertheless, The Socialmedialite had composed an article containing a list of possibilities as to how the stain had occurred. Some of the stories were way too detailed which made me think she was in serious need of a life. A number of readers had even commented below with their own scenarios. One person thought his personal groomer had tried to foist a bottle of clove oil on him to shave his face, and Bradley had swiped away the offending article, stating he would never shave off the source of all his sexy power, thus resulting in the stain.
Seriously, some people.
“This site is ridiculous,” I muttered while Lucy snickered in response. “It’s not even funny. And sausage is more German than Irish.”
“What are you talking about? It’s hilarious. It objectifies men in the same way women have been objectified for centuries. Turnabout is fair play, you know.”
“It’s stupid. And anyway, I’m way too tall to be a hobbit.” I stood up and walked over to look at myself in the mirror. At five feet eleven inches, I thought I was a decent height for a man.
“Oh, wow. Vanity, thy name is Ronan. She’s already getting to you, isn’t she? And she called you a hobbit because of those godawful shoes you were wearing.”
