She’s quiet for a few seconds and then she goes, ‘I really miss them.’
And I’m like, ‘We really miss you, Honor. I really miss you,’ and – oh fock – here come the tears. Yeah, no, I’m suddenly bawling. And she’s trying to comfort me again.
She’s like, ‘Dad, come on, don’t cry.’
I’m there, ‘It’s focking rubbish, Honor.’
‘What’s rubbish?’
‘Everything. Life. It’s boring without you. I feel like I’m missing an orm or something.’
‘I miss you, too.’
‘And everyone’s taking the piss because they know I don’t have you there to back me up. They’re sensing that the Rossmeister General is weak and they’re all suddenly loving it.’
‘Keep a list, will you? For when I get home?’
‘Oh, I will. I’m definitely going to do that.’
She’s like, ‘Anyway, Dad, I have to go. We’re going horse-riding.’
And I’m there, ‘Look after yourself. And say hello to Erika for me.’
But by then she’s already hung up.
Sorcha’s old dear is not a happy rabbit. She’s there, ‘Why is nobody talking about the elephant in the room?’
‘It’s not an elephant,’ I go. ‘It’s an Audi A8 luxury sedan.’ And it’s going to be in the room until at least this afternoon, when the AA have promised to send a man with a tow truck to remove it.
‘You know perfectly well what my wife means,’ Sorcha’s old man goes. ‘Fionn and Hillary could have been killed.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Let’s just be grateful that no one was hurt,’ because the two boys escaped without even a scratch and Brian seemed to even enjoy the experience of having an airbag go off in his face. It’s actually something that’s on my own bucket list.
I’m there, ‘Let’s also be grateful to me for actually saving Fionn’s and Hillary’s lives.’
Fionn goes, ‘Yeah, I’ve already thanked you, Ross.’
‘If it wasn’t for my quick thinking – and quick feet, I could add. I was thinking of Simon Warburton on Vincent Clerc. Poor Alain Rolland would have had a decision to make if that was a match situation – even though I know he’s a fan of mine. I’d have just walked. Made it easy for him.’
Sorcha’s old dear practically explodes. She goes, ‘Those boys are out of control!’
And I’m like, ‘So what’s your solution? Send them to Australia as well? Jesus, you’ll have the house to yourselves at this rate. Which is probably your plan all along.’
Sorcha goes, ‘They ruined the day for everyone. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.’
Which, again, is horseshit. I’ve embarrassed her worse than that on dozens of occasions – Jesus, I brought a lapdancer to her graduation dinner! – although I don’t think anyone would thank me for reminding them.
I’m there, ‘Sorry, I’m picking up on the vibe here that you all think this is somehow my fault? They’re orseholes – I’m accepting that. What am I supposed to do about it?’
And Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Try parenting them!’
‘What, reading science shit to them like Fionn there? Chromium and Millennium and whatever the fock else there is?’
‘I’m saying those boys are the most badly behaved children I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. And that’s down to you – and also portly down to you, Sorcha, I regret to say, because you came up with this ridiculous idea that their bad language would just stop of its own accord.’
Sorcha’s old dear goes, ‘Instead, they’ve graduated to this – stealing cars and joyriding them at people.’
I’m not going to stand here and listen to her try to blame me and Sorcha for the way our children have turned out.
I’m there, ‘And who bought them a soccer ball two Christmases ago?’
The woman pretends not to know what I’m talking about. She’s like, ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Oh,’ I go, ‘so you’re totally unaware of the link between soccer and petty crime? One is a gateway to the other! Look up the focking stats!’
‘How dare you speak to my wife like that?’ Sorcha’s old man goes.
‘And how dare you and your wife buy my children Manchester United Soccer jerseys and then act all innocent when they turn out to be – let’s be honest here – little focking thugs?’
‘They wanted those soccer jerseys,’ Sorcha’s old dear tries to go, which is poor from her. ‘They asked for them.’
And I’m there, ‘If Sorcha had asked you for a chainsaw at that age, would you have given her one? Or her sister? Okay, somebody tell me her name!’
My phone suddenly rings. At first, I just presume it’s the old man again. Yeah, no, he’s been ringing me every second day and leaving long, rambling messages about how everyone in the clinic is suddenly delighted with the quality of his fun gel. I don’t even check that it’s him. I just answer the phone going, ‘Yeah, I’m sick of hearing about how wonderful your focking jizz is, okay?’
But it ends up not being my old man at all. It ends up being Phinneas McPhee. He goes, ‘Er, Ross?’
And I’m like, ‘Sorry, Dude, I thought you were my dad.’
‘Oh, er, right. Anyway, how are you?’
And I’m there, ‘Top of the world, Phinneas. If my life got any better, I’d begin to suspect that Richard Curtis was secretly directing it. What’s the Jack?’
‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me ringing you. I got your number from Garry Ringrose.’
‘I didn’t know Garry still had it. It’d be nice if he returned my texts once in a while – especially when I go to the trouble of sending him pre-match motivational quotes that are specifically tailored to him. You can tell him that next time you see him.’
‘The reason I’m ringing is because, well, I’ve got myself into a bit of trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ I go. I stand up and I walk out of the kitchen – just for a bit of privacy. ‘What kind of trouble are we talking?’
He goes, ‘Look, what are your memories of our conversation last week?’
‘The main one was you putting Ronan’s girlfriend back in her box. I should have high-fived you at the time. That’s going down as a definite regret. That’s not why you’re ringing, is it?’
‘Er, no, it’s not why I’m ringing. Do you remember me asking your son where he was from? We were talking about Gaelic football at the time.’
‘Yeah, no, I kind of zoned out for that bit of the conversation. I’ve zero interest in any sport other than rugby.’
‘I asked Ronan if he played for UCD and he said no, he played for a local club near where he lived. And I asked him where he lived and he said –’
‘Figglas,’ I go. ‘Meaning Finglas. Yeah, no, I remember that bit, weirdly enough.’
‘The thing is, Ross, as a result of that conversation, I’ve been accused by the Students’ Union of committing an act of microaggression.’
‘Of what?’
‘Microaggression.’
‘Okay, I’m hearing the words – it must just be that I don’t know what it means.’
‘I’ll just read this thing to you that I found on the internet. Microaggression is an action or a statement – or, in this case, a question – that implies an indirect, subtle or unintentional discrimination against members of a marginalized group, such as a racial or ethnic minority or someone who comes from a socially disadvantaged area.’
‘Ronan does come from a socially disadvantaged area. Jesus, the magician at his tenth birthday porty was wearing a focking stab vest! They call him David Cop-a-Feel, by the way, because he can be a bit handsy around the moms, especially if he’s had a few. Actually, that’s probably why he keeps getting stabbed.’
None of this seems to put Phinneas’s mind at ease.
He goes, ‘A lot of people, especially young people, think you shouldn’t ask where people come from.’
I’m like, ‘What? Why?’
‘Because to ask
someone where they come from is to make an issue out of their socio-economic circumstances.’
‘But say if it’s a job interview situation – how are you supposed to know who you should or shouldn’t hire if you’re not allowed to ask where the candidates come from? You could end up giving the job to someone from – okay, I’m trying to think of somewhere really bad to make my point. The obvious one is Bray.’
‘The thing is, Ross, with the way campus politics is now, I could be in a huge amount of trouble here.’
‘Young people have definitely lost it. We haven’t even talked about the whole jazz hands thing.’
‘Ross, I could lose my job.’
‘For asking someone where they’re from? Are you shitting me?’
‘I’m just saying, this girl could make life really difficult for me. I’ve been invited to attend a meeting of the Students’ Union to explain myself.’
‘Explain yourself? Jesus, I don’t envy you that.’
‘I was wondering would you mind if I called you as a witness for me?’
‘Er, unfortunately, I don’t have any wheels at the moment – long story.’
But then he plays the rugby cord.
‘You know,’ he goes, ‘seeing as we both played for UCD.’
I’m there, ‘Fine, I’ll take my wife’s Nissan Leaf. Although I could point out that we only played, like, two matches together, given that I was injured slash boozing for most of the year I spent in Belfield. So when is this trial?’
And he goes, ‘Friday afternoon – and I’m not actually on trial, Ross?’
And in his innocence, he seems to genuinely believe that.
I’m searching the house for my Rugby Tactics Book, having decided to spend the morning picking my squad of thirty-one for Ireland’s summer tour of, like, the States and Japan.
Except I’ve no idea where I put it. I mean, I’ve literally turned the house upside-down – the bedroom, the study, the kitchen – looking for the thing, but I can’t actually find it.
So I end up just picking up a random piece of paper in the kitchen, then I sit down at the island and I scribble down the names of James Ryan and Rory O’Loughlin. It’s important that we win all three Tests, but at the same time I’m keen to bring a few new faces in with the World Cup just two years away. Then I have a little smile to myself thinking how delighted the goys would be to get the call from me.
That’s when Sorcha’s old man walks into the kitchen and decides to burst my bubble.
‘I thought it might interest you to know,’ he goes, ‘that two of your children are trying to stuff another one into a cement mixer.’
He says it in a really smug way as well. I stand up from the table and I go into the living room. And – yeah, no – he ends up being right. Brian and Leo are trying to shove their screaming brother head-first into a cement mixer, although, in their defence, there’s no actual cement in it and it isn’t switched on.
We’ve got the builders in, by the way, repairing the damage that the boys did when they drove my cor through the front of the house. I shove Brian and Leo out of the way, then I grab Johnny by the ankles and I pull him out.
Sorcha walks into the room then, carrying Hillary and with a concerned look on her face. She’s like, ‘Why have you written “James Ryan” and “Rory O’Loughlin” on the back of Hillary’s Baptismal Certificate?’ but then she sees me hugging Johnny and trying to calm him down and she goes, ‘Oh! My God! What happened?’
I’m there, ‘Brian and Leo shoved Johnny head-first into the cement mixer. I doubt if they’d have got the thing storted, though.’
Mind you, I would have said the same thing about my cor.
Leo picks up a shovel and tries to hit me with it, but I manage to dodge it easily enough.
‘Focking push me,’ he goes, ‘you focking wanker.’
I take the shovel from him.
Sorcha’s there, ‘Ross, I asked you to watch them.’
And I’m like, ‘Yeah, I was actually trying to get some work done. If anyone is to blame, it’s the builders for going off on their lunch break and leaving all this shit lying around.’
‘I can’t believe you actually just said that.’
‘I’m just making the point, Sorcha, why do I always have to babysit them?’
‘Babysit them? Ross, they’re your children. It’s not called babysitting when it’s your own children – it’s called parenting.’
Ah, that old chestnut. It’s obvious that her old pair have been in her ear again. I mention that as well – that this is all coming from them.
She goes, ‘Maybe I’ve realized they’re right, Ross. We are going to have to do something about their behaviour – otherwise, they’re going to grow up worse than Honor.’
I’m there, ‘They’re already worse than Honor,’ pissed off that I have to keep defending my daughter. ‘At least a lot of the shit Honor does is funny. Hilarious, in fact – provided you’re not the one on the other end of it. Brian, put that chisel down.’
‘Shut the fock up,’ he goes, ‘and give your focking hole a rest.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Like my dad, I’m storting to question whether we did the right thing in choosing to ignore their swearing.’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, that was your idea, can I just point out?’
‘Something needs to change, Ross.’
Brian focks the chisel straight at me. I manage to duck just in time – I’ve always had pretty amazing reflexes – and the thing ends up embedded in the wall behind me.
‘Ross,’ Sorcha goes, ‘take them out.’
I’m like, ‘Where, though?’
‘Anywhere. Just get them out of here.’
I throw them into the back of Sorcha’s Nissan Leaf and I drive through Dalkey, then Sandycove, then Glasthule, trying to think of a place that serves brunch and hasn’t explicitly banned my children from the premises.
In the end, I decide to try the Cookbook Café in Glasthule, thinking they might not remember the last time we were in there. But when I arrive at the door, it turns out that we made a more lasting impression than I hoped. A waitress, carrying a plate in either hand, takes one look at the boys on their leads and just shakes her head at me as if to say, Don’t even think about it.
So what I end up doing is, I tie their leads to the wooden bench outside and I tell them to pretend to be dogs for half an hour while Daddy pops inside for a crispy quesadilla with a side of ham hock hash.
The three of them get down on their hands and knees. ‘Woof, woof!’ Brian goes. ‘Hey, I’m a focking pit bull!’
And Leo’s like, ‘I’m a focking Rottweiler! A focking Rottweiler would kill a focking pit bull!’
They really are morons. More to be pitied than anything.
Anyway, I sit near the window – the whole responsible parent thing – and I order my breakfast, then I borrow a pen from the waitress and on the back of a napkin I stort writing down the names of the lucky fifteen who are going to stort against the States.
I’m actually mulling over the dilemma of who to put in the front row when I notice someone – a female – chatting to the boys through the window. I say ‘chatting to them’, but she’s actually petting them and Leo, in particular, is loving the attention because he’s going, ‘Woof-woof! Woof-woof-woof!’ and the woman is cracking up laughing.
Outside I go.
‘Be careful of that one,’ I go, meaning Leo. ‘He bites.’
She thinks it’s hilarious but I’m not even joking. I’ve nearly lost fingers to the little focker.
I look at the woman. She’s about my age. She’s not great in terms of looks, even though we’re not supposed to notice shit like that any more? There’s very little wrong with her actual features – nice eyes, nice nose, great mouth – it’s just that they add up to less than the sum of their ports, like if you drew a picture of Emilia Clarke on a potato.
Again, you probably can’t say that any more either.
Suddenly, she’s looking a
t me, going, ‘Ross? Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?’ and it tells you everything you need to know about the kind of life I’ve led that I end up having to go, ‘No, sorry, it’s a case of mistaken identity.’
She laughs. She goes, ‘It is you! I’m Sasha Graham! Holy Child Killiney?’
I’m like, ‘Sasha Graham Holy Child Killiney? Oh my God!’
Yeah, no, I recognize her now. She took me to her debs back in the day. One of the many.
I’m there, ‘So what’s the Jack?’
And she goes, ‘Married. Two kids. Successful business. Degree and a Master’s. House on Albert Road.’
Holy Child girls are like that. You ask them how they are and they end up reading you their focking LinkedIn profiles.
I’m there, ‘That, erm, all seems in order.’
‘And you married Sorcha Lalor?’ she goes.
‘I, er, did, yeah.’
I could be wrong, but it kind of feels like an accusation.
I’m there, ‘I married her. Yes, indeed,’ although I don’t mention that we haven’t had sex in months because that would be probably weird.
‘And these are your kids?’ she goes. ‘Oh my God, triplets! They’re gorgeous!’
I’m like, ‘They’re not really,’ and she laughs – again, like she thinks I’m joking. ‘Seriously, they’re not. You can have them if you want them.’
‘Oh my God, don’t tempt me! I’d run away with them!’
‘No, do. Please do. Just don’t come back.’
She laughs again.
Brian and Johnny have entered into a borking contest to see who can do it the loudest. They’re going, ‘WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! FOCKING WOOF!’
Sasha goes, ‘Have they storted in Montessori yet?’
And I’m there, ‘You must be focking joking! There’s nowhere would take them!’
And she must see the sadness in my eyes because she suddenly looks at me all serious. She goes, ‘Oh my God, you’re not actually joking, are you?’
I’m there, ‘They’re little fockers, Sasha. You must have heard the stories about them?’
‘I’ve heard stories about three little boys who … Oh my God, this is them?’
‘Yeah, no, it’s all true. Every focking word. They’re beyond help.’
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