‘FOCKING FOCKING WOOF WOOF!’ Brian shouts. ‘FOCKING PRICK!’
Sasha shakes her head. She goes, ‘No child is beyond help, Ross. And I’m saying that because this is what I do.’
I’m like, ‘What?’
‘Have you heard of Little Cambridge? It’s a Montessori School in Ranelagh?’
Of course I’ve heard of it. The waiting list is longer than the one for Columba’s.
I’m there, ‘Are you saying that’s you? As in, that’s your successful business?’
‘Yeah, I storted it ten years ago. And we pride ourselves on being able to unlock the potential in every child.’
‘I mean, is there any chance you’d –’
She knows where I’m going with this because she suddenly cuts me off.
She goes, ‘We’re actually at full capacity at the moment?’
I look down. Oh, Jesus Christ. Leo is quite literally humping Sasha’s leg, going, ‘WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!’
‘Like father, like son,’ I go, trying to laugh it off, but I think she sees the resignation in my eyes when I say it. ‘I’ll just go in and ask for a bucket of water to fock over him.’
And that’s when Sasha goes, ‘I’ll take them.’
I’m like, ‘What? Really?’
‘What can I say? I like a challenge!’
‘Oh, they’re definitely that. I could tell you some of the shit they’ve done even in the last few days, but I’d be scared you’d change your mind.’
‘Give me your number,’ she goes.
Which I do. I rhyme off the digits and she puts them into her phone.
She’s like, ‘As it happens, you’re in luck. I’m going to have some vacancies coming up soon. I’ll text you in a week or two.’
I’m there, ‘You won’t regret this, Sasha,’ even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure she will.
I manage to peel Leo off her leg and off Sasha goes.
And I’m suddenly filled with this happy feeling. There is someone in the world who thinks she can unlock the potential in my kids. At the very least, this is going to mean a week of peace and quiet for me, giving me time to focus on picking the right team for the three summer Tests, before Sasha finally accepts that there’s fock-all she can do for them.
Yes, I can’t remember when I last felt this happy. But then, all of a sudden, a cor drives by. I look up and I recognize it as my old man’s Bentley. Kennet is behind the wheel. He slows down and the window in the back opens and my old man sticks his head out of it and shouts, ‘Wonderful news, Kicker! We! Are! Pregnant!’
Ronan is leaning against the wall of the Newman Building, smoking one of his famous rollies. I walk up to him and I’m like, ‘What’s the story? I’ve been ringing you for the last two hours.’
He goes, ‘Rosser, what are you doing hee-or?’
‘What am I doing here? I’m here as a witness. Your girlfriend has accused poor Phinneas of, I don’t know, something or other.’
‘Microaggreshidden.’
‘That was it. Look, I played rugby with the dude – twice, as a matter of fact – and I can tell you that he’s innocent, even though I don’t properly understand what he’s being accused of.’
‘It’s the casual and unthinking degradashidden of addy soshidilly deproyuved group by a member of the domidant culchodder.’
‘He just asked you where you lived, Ro.’
‘He shoultn’t hab, but. It’s like some wooden who’s white complimenton a black boord or a black fedda on he’s afro.’
‘Are you saying that’s not cool now either?’
‘It’s not heerd to wontherstand, Rosser. Aston somewooden from a disadvaddenteged backgrowunt wheer they’re from – whether intentionoddy or unintenionoddy – sends a denigrating message to that peerson.’
‘I don’t think that was his intention. You told him Finglas and that was that.’
‘He shoulta known bethor than to ast me, but – he’s apposed to be a leckchodder.’
‘Yeah, in Sports and Exercise Management. Give him a focking break, Ro. Are you saying you’re going to give evidence against him?’
‘Huguette says that this is how racism and discriminashodden throyuv – because we doatunt cawdle out the subtle prejudices revealed in eer evoddy day exchayunges.’
‘The only reason we’re here, let’s be honest, is because Phinneas called her the Sushi Girl in the Orts Café last week.’
He drops what’s left of his cigarette, twists it into the ground with a Nike Air Max and goes, ‘I’ll see you insoyut, Rosser.’
Then into the Newman Building he goes. A few seconds later, Phinneas arrives. He’s wearing – quite literally – a shirt and tie. He looks nervous. I tell him not to be.
I’m there, ‘The entire thing is a focking joke. We’ll get this thing thrown out, then we’ll go on the lash for the rest of the day. It’ll be just like old times.’
Phinneas leads the way to Theatre C where the hearing – yeah, no, that’s the word they’re using – is going to take place. But a serious shock awaits us when he pushes the door and we step inside. There must be, like, two or three hundred students in there, filling every inch of the banked seating area, and a sudden hush falls on the place as the word goes around that we’ve arrived.
I look at Phinneas and Phinneas looks at me. Rugby or no rugby, I get this sudden urge to turn around and walk out of there – fock him, he dug his own grave – but then I hear Huguette go, ‘Okay, let’s get this hearing under way.’
She’s sitting at a table at the front of the lecture hall with two other students – both dudes, and none of them yet out of their teens. Huguette beckons us forward and goes, ‘Thank you for joining us.’
As we approach the front, some dude in a black hoodie stands up and goes, ‘Respectfully, Madam President, I would like to request a suspension of the running order to discuss a matter of extreme urgency. Last night, while in the Clubhouse Bor, it came to my attention that the jukebox, which is in the middle of a public area, populated by students, contains a record by the artist David Bowie called – quite literally – “China Girl”.’
There are gasps in the room and more than a few Oh! My God!s.
The dude goes, ‘Why is it necessary, I’m sure we’re all wondering, to point out that the girl is Chinese? I’m wondering do we, as a union, have to tell the college authorities that defining someone by their ethnicity in this way is not acceptable?’
‘Or their gender!’ a girl behind him shouts. ‘Why is he choosing to make an issue of the fact that the subject of the song is a girl? Is that not a bit sexist – as well as binarist?’
‘It’s totally binarist,’ the dude goes, ‘as well as racist and – like you said – sexist. I’m proposing that we stage a picket outside the Clubhouse Bor until the manager agrees to remove this so-called song from the jukebox.’
The girl’s there, ‘Maybe we should also invite this David Bowie here so we can explain to him how deeply offensive this kind of thing is and how it’s also not cool.’
‘Unfortunately,’ the dude goes, ‘I looked him up on Wikipedia last night and he seems to be dead.’
‘That’s a pity because I was going to say we should ask him to come here and then, on the day, no-platform him. Is he definitely dead?’
‘Yeah, no, it says he died in January of last year.’
‘That’s convenient for him.’
Huguette calls the session to order. She goes, ‘Can I suggest we deal with the issue of this David Bowie person at the end? It’s just that we have a microaggression case that I want to hear now – and it’s particularly serious because it involves a member of the university staff.’
I’m standing next to Phinneas. I look at him. He’s literally shaking. I sit down behind him rather than next to him. It’s just the atmosphere in the room is pretty focked up and I don’t want people to think I’m the one on trial here?
Huguette goes, ‘Mister McPhee,’ and the dude steps forward. ‘There has been a ver
y serious allegation made that on a day last week you committed an act of microaggression against a student – microaggression being a verbal or behavioural act, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicates hostile, derogatory or prejudicial feelings towards a member of a marginalized group, including the economically disadvantaged. Do you have anything to say?’
The poor focker.
He goes, ‘I just asked him where he was from?’ and there’s suddenly a huge, collective intake of breath in the lecture hall. These people need to get out more. And maybe spend less time on the internet.
‘So you do admit that you asked the question?’ Huguette goes.
He’s there, ‘You know I asked the question. You were sitting there at the time.’
‘We will consider your confession as part of any plea for mitigation.’
‘Mitigation? Who the hell do you people think you are?’
‘Unfortunately for you, we’re the UCD Students’ Union.’
Shit. I look around. Everyone in the theatre is doing jazz hands. It’s not looking good for the dude.
‘So the facts of the case are not contested,’ Huguette goes. ‘In the interests of fairness, I think it’s important that we hear from the student involved. Ronan Masters, where are you?’
He’s sitting in the front row on the other side of the aisle from us. He stands up. He’s besotted with the girl. You can see it in his face.
Huguette goes, ‘Is there anything you wish to say?’
And he’s like, ‘It was like you said, Huguette – happent last week. I was habbon a cup of coffee in the Eerts Café and Mistor McPhee came in. Turdens out he’s a friend of me auld fedda’s. We were thalken about Gah – in utter words – Gaelic football. And says he to me, “Where are you libbon?” or woords to that effect.’
Everyone is just, like, shaking their heads like it’s the worst thing they’ve ever heard.
Phinneas shouts, ‘You said that you were playing for the local club and I just said, “Where do you live?”’
‘Shame!’ someone shouts, then there’s suddenly a chorus of it – people going, ‘Shame! Shame! Shame! Shame!’
Huguette bangs her little – I want to say – gabble on the desk?
‘I understand that this is an emotionally chorged case,’ she goes, ‘but can I ask you to please consider those in the room with anxiety and sensory issues, including autism?’
That quietens everyone down.
Poor Phinneas – not unreasonably – goes, ‘I asked a student where he lived. It was a request for information. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
Huguette goes, ‘Can I just point out that your intention is actually irrelevant? A microaggression is considered to have occurred when the victim feels that they’ve been casually degraded because of their identity as a member of a minority grouping.’
Phinneas goes, ‘But that’s entirely subjective. I’m sorry, but I don’t accept that microaggression is even a thing.’
‘If you refuse to believe that microaggression exists, then how do you know you’re not guilty of it?’
More jazz hands. Phinneas is royally focked here and I suspect he knows it.
Huguette goes, ‘Ronan, can I ask you, did you feel in any way degraded when Phinneas asked you where you lived?’
Ro goes, ‘I ditn’t at the toyum, to be hodest wit you, Huguette. It was oatenly arthurwords, when it was pointed out to me that it wadn’t okay for a fedda in his posishidden to be aston them koyunt of questyiddens, that I steerted to feel a birra what you were thalken about.’
I stand up. I’m like, ‘For fock’s sake, Ro! The girl isn’t even that good-looking!’
Well, you can imagine how that ends up going down. There’s, like, roars of disapproval in the lecture hall and more shouts of ‘Shame!’ until Huguette reminds them once again to have a bit of consideration for people in the hall who might be feeling triggered.
Poor Phinneas has his face in his hands.
I walk up to the front of the lecture hall and I go, ‘I’m sorry, I just want to say something here. I can vouch for this man. I played rugby with him. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for that goy over there, even though he’s my son. I barely recognize him today. And as for her, I genuinely don’t know what Ronan sees in her. But the only reason she wants Phinneas sacked is because he called her the Sushi Girl and I laughed because I thought it was hilarious and I still do. Eating sushi is racist – but not eating sushi is even more racist. You lot would want to cop the fock on. I look around this room and all I see is unhappiness. You’re supposed to be students, can I just remind you? Why aren’t you off getting pissed? Or laid? Instead, you’re sitting around worrying about this shit. I rest my case.’
I look into the crowd. They’re all just staring at me with these big, serious faces on them. I don’t know what kind of reaction I was expecting.
‘Yeah, thanks for that,’ Phinneas goes, ‘Amal focking Clooney.’
Huguette’s there, ‘Given that the evidence is uncontested, I’d like to forward a motion calling on the university to terminate Mister McPhee’s employment. Do I have a seconder?’
I look across at Ronan while he just looks down at the floor. I’m thinking, At least he has the decency to feel bad about what he’s done, even though he says fock-all while Huguette goes, ‘Okay, let’s take a vote on this, then we can move on to the matter of David Bowie.’
I turn to Phinneas and I go, ‘Sorry, Dude, I made my points but they didn’t seem to want to listen.’
He goes, ‘Thanks a bunch, Ross. That’s my job gone. And God knows what my chances are of getting another one.’
A lecturer in Strategy and Operations Management in Sport? I would have thought not very high.
I drive to Foxrock and I pull up outside the house. I don’t even bother taking the kids out of the cor. I’ll only be staying long enough to tell the woman exactly what I think of her in a few short, shorp sentences, then I’ll be out of there.
I let myself in, using my key, which she can have back now because after today I want nothing more to do with her ever again.
Pregnant? In a way, I still don’t believe it.
I stand in the hallway and I shout, ‘Where are you, you focking … I don’t know … you focking …’
But I can’t even come up with an original name to call her. In the end, I have to settle for ‘You ugly, scabrous, ratdog fock,’ but only because I heard Brian shout it out the window at an old woman getting off the 59 bus on Ulverton Road this morning, which meant it was already in my head.
I hear her voice coming from upstairs. She goes, ‘I’ll be down in just a minute, Ross! Go into the kitchen!’
So that’s what I end up doing. At the same time, I’m thinking, I don’t give a fock what she’s cooked for lunch, I won’t be eating any of it. Even if it’s her famous braised lamb shawarma that she used to make for me as a treat on a Friday night. Or her curried tomato bisque that she used to make for me whenever I had a cold. Or her crab cake sliders with mango salsa that she used to make for me when I was hungover. Or her gourmet Gruyère Mac and Cheese that she used to make for me whenever I needed corbs ahead of a big match. Or her spicy squash and feta frittata with mint yoghurt that she used to make for me if I was feeling down in myself because she knew it cheered me up.
She can shove it all up her …
I push the kitchen door and I head straight for the fridge, more out of curiosity than anything. And that’s when I discover that I’m not alone. I’m very far from alone, in fact. There’s, like, one, two, three, four, five, six women in there – all of them good-looking. It would be rude of me not to notice.
I’m like, ‘Hey,’ because – bear in mind – I haven’t had a sniff of anything in months and I’m as focking horny as the last goat on Dalkey Island.
‘Hullo,’ one of the birds goes. She’s from – Huguette would have kittens, no doubt, if she heard me say this – but Eastern Europe. It turns out they all are?
&n
bsp; I just take it for granted that the old dear is interviewing for a new cleaner. I’m there, ‘So she finally gave Salome the bullet, huh?’ except none of them answers me. They might not have good English, which is just as well for them because the old dear tends to insult her staff right to their faces.
I’m there, ‘A little tip, she has cameras hidden all over the gaff, including one in her walk-in wardrobe, which is designed to look like a thermostat.’
And that’s when the old dear walks into the kitchen, looking like Dan Cole dressed as a woman.
She goes, ‘Ross! I hoped we might see you today! I made one of my famous spicy squash and feta frittatas with mint yoghurt.’
I’m there, ‘The old man said you were knocked up, preggers, whatever you want to call it.’
She goes, ‘Not quite pregnant, Ross. We had a call from the clinic to say that the fertilization process has been successful!’
‘That’s not what he shouted at me on the Glasthule Road the other day.’
She smiles at me then and goes, ‘I see you’ve met Lidia, Roxana, Szidonia, Brigita, Loredana and – oh, yes – another one called Lidia.’
And I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was just warning them that you’re paranoid about your shit going missing. Whichever one ends up cleaning for you, there’ll be eyes on her the entire time. The clock on the mantelpiece in the living room is also a camera, by the way, girls.’
I didn’t know that until about a year ago. I shudder to think how many times I wanked off in that room while watching Home and Away over the years.
And that’s when the old dear says it. She says it totally out of the blue. ‘Dorling,’ she goes, ‘these aren’t cleaners. These are the surrogates that your father and I have chosen to carry our babies.’
I’m there, ‘You mean your baby.’
‘No,’ she goes. ‘I mean our babies.’
‘Why do you keep saying babies when you mean to say baby? You must have drunk your breakfast too quickly, did you?’
She goes, ‘Yes, I had a fuzzy navel, Ross – but that was to celebrate the news!’
I’m there, ‘What news?’
‘That Charles and I have six viable embryos for implantation!’
Schmidt Happens Page 24