Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m there, ‘I’ve never seen any evidence of that. If it’s true, she hides it very well.’

  ‘Hey, you might not have noticed it, but girls pick up on these things. Not that I’m complaining!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s helping our children to discover their unique gifts, Ross – I don’t care if it’s because she fancies their dad!’

  ‘Yeah, no, I was thinking about that, Sorcha. It’s storting to look like they don’t actually have any unique gifts? Maybe we should take them out of there and let three other kids have their place?’

  ‘Sasha says she hasn’t given up yet. And, anyway, look at the change in them since they storted going there.’

  We’re in the cor – I should have mentioned that – and Sorcha is driving. Yeah, no, I’ve agreed to go with her to a live taping of Muirgheal Massey TD’s new feminist podcast in a room above The Glimmer Man in Stoneybatter.

  I know, right? What the actual fock?

  I’m there, ‘I didn’t think Muirgheal was a feminist anyway,’ trying to subtly put her off the idea of going. ‘I remember she said some horsh things about you when she was, like, deputy leader of my old man’s porty. I wonder should we just go for a few drinks in town instead – and I’m saying that out of loyalty to you?’

  ‘I think it’s fine for people to change their minds on issues,’ she goes. ‘Politically, she’s obviously matured. No offence, Ross, but I think the time she spent in New Republic opened her eyes to the way women in public life are treated. There’s no doubt there was an element of sexism involved in her being dumped from the porty by your dad.’

  My old man booted her out because she was plotting to take over the porty behind his back. Not that I’d ever defend him. All I’m doing is stating the facts.

  I’m there, ‘So are you two, like, bezzy mates again? I’ll bring you back to all the shit she said about you.’

  ‘She reached out to me by email,’ Sorcha goes as she porks the cor – badly, as usual, even though I don’t want to seem sexist. ‘She said she had regrets about a lot of things that happened.’

  I’m there, ‘Doesn’t sound like an actual apology.’

  ‘Well,’ she goes, ‘I just thought, okay, I’m going back to the Oireachtas in September. I’m going to be bumping into her all the time. And I remembered that thing that Hillary Clinton said – we are stronger together. So we agreed to bury the hatchet. And she invited me to her next live taping. She’s actually interviewing Croía tonight!’

  ‘Jesus Christ. We should have gone for pints first. Four sounds like a good number.’

  Into The Glimmer Man, then up the stairs we go. We’re late. It turns out that Sorcha got the time wrong and the thing has already storted. Muirgheal and Croía are sitting on two hord chairs at the top of the room and there’s a crowd of, like, fifty or sixty people – all women – sitting there listening to them. Sorcha spots two empty chairs in the middle of the third row and we take them, apologizing to the people who have to move their legs slightly to let us past. There’s a lot of tutting and eye-rolling going on.

  Stronger together, my hole.

  Croía is saying something about the white cisgender patriarchy and how they’re basically all assholes and the entire audience claps. I sit down and look over my shoulder. I’m there, ‘I wonder are they serving drinks up here?’

  Sorcha shushes me. Actually, quite a few people shush me.

  ‘I should probably tell you,’ Muirgheal goes, ‘that Croía and I know each other very well. She was, in a large way, responsible for awakening my own feminist consciousness and I’m proud to say that, in my capacity as a member of Dáil Éireann, she is an adviser to me on Women’s Issues. Croía, tell us about this exciting new venture that you’re involved in.’

  ‘Thanks, Muirgheal. Yeah, so I’ve started a publishing company called Woke Reads. And what I’m planning to do – obviously crowd-funded – is to republish classic works of literature from a feminist perspective. And when I say a feminist perspective, I obviously mean with all the casual misogyny removed.’

  Everyone laughs, then claps – even Sorcha. I suddenly feel very, very male.

  Muirgheal goes, ‘Because there is a lot of – let’s be honest – sexism in these books, isn’t there, even if it’s too subtle for a lot of people to see it?’

  ‘I mean, it storts with Sleeping Beauty,’ Croía goes. ‘A children’s story, in which a woman is awoken from a coma by the uninvited sexual attentions of – surprise, surprise – a man of privilege. Let’s set aside the highly offensive cisgender-white-male-as-rescuer trope for a minute and just focus on the message that this so-called fairytale sends out to young boys and girls on the issue of consent.’

  Again, more clapping.

  ‘I’m not saying I’m planning to rewrite Sleeping Beauty,’ she goes. ‘I think there are problems with it that are beyond fixing. I would just focking ban it.’

  Muirgheal goes, ‘So tell us which books you think could be made less offensive to women.’

  ‘Well, Jane Eyre is the obvious one. Mister Rochester locks his wife away in the attic because of her mental health issues, yet Charlotte Brontë tries to persuade us that this man is some kind of romantic hero. Which is highly insulting to women. So in the version I’m planning to rewrite, it won’t be, “Reader, I married him.” It’ll be, “Reader, I told him that his attitude towards mental illness made him a focking asshole and I discovered that it was preferable to be alone than to be married to a misogynist creep.”’

  The crowd love that.

  ‘Rebecca would be another one,’ she goes. ‘A timid, weak-minded woman falls in love with a man who murdered his first wife because she refused to adhere to a set of man-made rules governing how women should act within a marriage? And don’t even get me started on Little Women!’

  Again, there’s more laughter and more clapping. The interview eventually, thankfully, ends and Sorcha tips up to her two former mates to say hello and fair focks. I’m standing just behind her.

  Sorcha air-kisses Muirgheal and tells her that was amazing. Then she turns to Croía and goes, ‘Hi, Croía!’ but Croía doesn’t answer her – instead, she just stares at me.

  ‘So it’s true,’ she goes. ‘You took the asshole back.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘We’re very happy, Croía.’

  Croía goes, ‘Your very own Maxim de Winter,’ whatever the fock that even means, then she finally hugs Sorcha and goes, ‘How are you, beautiful?’

  ‘I’m really, really good, Croía. That sounds like an amazing, amazing project you’re working on. It’s so needed.’

  ‘How’s your baby? A boy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, we called him Hillary, after, obviously …’

  She doesn’t mention that I’m not the father. I’m being totally ignored, by the way?

  ‘Muirgheal,’ Sorcha goes, changing the subject, ‘your podcast is also amazing. I’ve downloaded and listened to, like, nine of them already! They’re great to listen to while driving the boys to and from Montessori!’

  Muirgheal goes, ‘Thanks, Sorcha. When are you coming back to the Seanad?’

  ‘I’m thinking probably September.’

  ‘That’s good. Because we need strong women in both chambers right now. Especially if we’re going to take on that sexist, racist –’

  Muirgheal stops and looks at me.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, you can say his name. I hate my old man as much as the rest of you.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Croía goes. ‘I seriously focking doubt that.’

  All of a sudden, someone walks up behind me and I hear them go, ‘I really enjoyed that.’

  And Croía goes, ‘Thanks. I believe you’ve met my niece, Ross?’

  I turn around and – yeah, no – it ends up being, hilariously, Huguette. I actually laugh in her face. I shouldn’t, but I’m possibly cranky due to not having had a drink tonight. I’m there, ‘How the hell are you, Huguette? I hope the clappin
g didn’t upset you too much!’

  She’s pissed off, but she has no comeback, except, ‘I thought this was supposed to be a safe space, Croía? Why have we let male energy into the room?’

  I’m there, ‘Sorcha, this is Huguette – do you remember I told you. She’s Ronan’s, er –’

  ‘I’m not Ronan’s anything,’ the girl goes.

  And I’m there, ‘I know. I was going to say ex –’

  I tell myself to shut the fock up.

  ‘What I mean is,’ she goes, ‘I’m not defined by my relationships with anyone, especially men.’

  That’s weak. I let her know by pulling a face.

  Then Croía decides to get involved. She goes, ‘I hear your son is a misogynist wanker like you.’

  I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’

  In fairness to her, Sorcha tries to defend Ronan’s honour. She goes, ‘He’s actually a lovely, lovely goy, Croía.’

  But Croía’s there, ‘When it comes to men, Sorcha – no disrespect – but you’re a bit of a Jane Eyre-head.’

  Huguette is clearly still hurt by Ronan dumping her orse because she goes, ‘Only someone who really hates women would sleep with forty girls while still in their teens.’

  I should keep my mouth shut. But I’m suddenly remembering what she did that day to poor Phinneas McPhee and how she basically destroyed a good man – albeit, St Michael’s – just for sport. A voice in my head is just going, ‘Don’t say it, Ross! Don’t say it, Ross! Don’t say it, Ross!’

  But, unfortunately, I do say it?

  I go, ‘I’m just delighted to hear that my son has moved on. Oh, I don’t know if you know this, Huguette, but he rode your mate, Rachel.’

  I walk into The Fumbally and I spot Oisinn and Magnus straight away. They wave at me across the floor, then they stand up – a nice touch – just as I reach their table. It ends up being hugs all round and I tell Magnus that he looks well. Which he does.

  Or certainly better than he did.

  He goes, ‘I want to shay thank you again, Rosh, for helping to shave me.’

  He means save. I’ve never shaved another man in my life and I don’t intend on storting now.

  I’m there, ‘Don’t mention it, Dude,’ and I sit down opposite them. ‘It’s what friends do for each other.’

  He’s like, ‘I totally losht it, Rosh. There ish no doubt about that. It wash jusht the exshitement of working for a multi-nashional tech giant that really knowsh how to treat itsh shtaff well. I got totally shucked in.’

  I’m there, ‘It was like you’d joined a cult, wasn’t it, Oisinn? Except one where you become really, really, really boring. And you’re shit at rugby, by the way – even the tag kind.’

  Oisinn laughs, in fairness to him.

  Magnus goes, ‘Well, you shaved me, Rosh. And I owe you for thish.’

  And I’m there, ‘Friends don’t owe each other shit. But I am going to let you buy me lunch.’

  They’ve just come back from the South of France, where a couple of weeks in the sun, sipping piña coladas, managed to fix the damage that working in Facebook did to his mind. Gaycation Ireland is reopening for business in a week’s time and all is suddenly well with the world again – for them, anyway.

  Oisinn goes, ‘Seriously, Ross – thanks.’

  I’m like, ‘Dude, we’re a team, aren’t we? Father Fehily told us we’d always be a team. I know sometimes it seems like I’m the only one who remembers that – what with certain ex-teammates who shall remain nameless getting my wife pregnant – but it’s still a fact.’

  ‘Let’sh order shome food,’ Magnus goes, trying to attract the attention of a passing waitress.

  I’m there, ‘I’ve heard good things about the pulled porchetta.’

  And that’s when my phone all of a sudden beeps. It’s a text message and it’s from Ronan. It just says, ‘Need to talk to you Rosser.’

  It’s, like, three days later and I’m watching TV with the boys in their room. The door suddenly swings open and in walks Sorcha with Hillary in her orms. She goes, ‘Oh! My God!’

  And I’m like, ‘What?’ because it could be literally anything.

  Bear in mind, I haven’t even told her yet about Honor wanting to stay in Australia. But it’s not that. It ends up being something totally random instead.

  She goes, ‘Have you been watching the news?’

  I laugh – portly out of relief and portly at the idea of me watching the news. Even when Sharon Ní Bheoláin’s reading it, I watch it on mute.

  I’m there, ‘Er, no, I haven’t, Sorcha. What happened?’

  She goes, ‘Someone’s leaked a load of emails – showing that Fianna Fáil are considering pulling out of their Confidence and Supply agreement with the Government!’

  I must stort actually following what’s going on in the world. It would mean I wouldn’t have to keep pretending to understand what people are talking about half the time.

  I’m there, ‘That is a real bummer, Sorcha. That has seriously, seriously bummed me out now.’

  She’s there, ‘Do you know what this means?’

  ‘Being honest, Sorcha, no.’

  ‘Leo Varadkar said he considers it a major breach of trust. Oh my God, thousands of Micheál Mortin’s emails have been dumped onto the internet. In one of them, he calls Varadkar smug, arrogant and smormy.’

  ‘Yeah, he went to King’s Hos, Sorcha. This is news to absolutely no one.’

  ‘There could end up being a General Election! Oh my God, I wonder who hacked his account?’

  ‘That’d be my old man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, no, I was in Hennessy’s office a few months ago and the old man was reading Leo Varadkar’s emails. And your mate Coveney’s.’

  Yeah, no, Sorcha loves Simon Coveney – she’s always had a weakness for a strong jaw – and has a folder on her laptop full of pictures of the dude, which she thinks I don’t know about.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Oh! My God, Ross! Are you actually serious?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it was that Russian mate of his who did it. I heard him saying he’d hacked the email accounts of everyone in the Dáil.’

  ‘And do you know did he hack the emails of Seanad members as well?’

  What would be the point? I don’t want to say it to her face but I’m thinking, What would be the actual point?

  I go, ‘Er, I didn’t hear the Seanad specifically mentioned, Babes. I think yours might be safe.’

  She’s like, ‘Oh my God, Ross, why didn’t you tell me about this?’

  ‘You know me, Sorcha. I’m not really interested in current affairs. Plus, you were on your holliers.’

  ‘Holliers? I’m on maternity leave, Ross!’

  ‘Exactly. And you didn’t want to be thinking about work.’

  ‘This isn’t work. Ross, this is an attack on our actual democracy!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Well, I genuinely didn’t realize that. I’ve had a lot of other shit on my mind. So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘As in, you don’t have actual proof?’

  ‘Oh my God, I don’t need actual proof if I say it under Oireachtas privilege. Oh, hang on …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The summer recess storted yesterday. The next sitting is in September. Ross, you should have told me about this!’

  She storms off.

  I’m thinking about tipping downstairs to grab a stick of Heinemite from the fridge when my phone all of a sudden rings. It’s Ronan’s number. I’m thinking, Oh, fock!

  What I wouldn’t do for just one simple day.

  I decide to just bite the bullet. I answer it by going, ‘Ro, how the hell are you?’ deciding to just front it out and deny everything.

  He’s there, ‘She knows, Rosser.’

  I’m there, ‘Knows? As in?’

  ‘Huguette. She knows about me and Racher Doddle.’

  ‘W
hat makes you think that?’

  ‘Ine arthur been cheerged by the Students’ Youn Yodden wirrer a rashidilly motivated act.’

  ‘Racially motivated? As in, like, racism?’

  ‘She’s arthur going troo me Facebuke, Rosser. She’s arthur thrawling back troo me feeyut – tree or foe-ur yee-ors ob it – looking for sometin odden me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She fowunt a video I sheered tree year ago.’

  ‘What kind of video are we talking?’

  ‘It was Nudger what took it. He fillumed these tree Muslim wooben.’

  ‘Muslim women? Are we even allowed to say that?’

  ‘He saw them in the Ilac Centodder. Thee had the fuddle hajeeb on – all tree of them. Alls you could see of addy of them was their eyes. One of them took a pitcher of the utter two …’

  ‘Okay, I think I know where this is going.’

  ‘Then one of the wooben in the pitcher says, “Hee-or, I’ll take wood of you two now.”’

  ‘Even though the second picture was going to look the exact same as the first one?’

  ‘It was a fuddy video, Rosser. I joost liked it, then sheered it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I’m cracking up laughing here.’

  ‘Huguette’s not, but. She says it’s racist.’

  ‘And you think she’s only doing this just to get you back for riding her mate?’

  ‘Why edelse would she do it, Rosser?’

  ‘How would she have found out, though?’

  ‘Racher Doddle moost have toawult her.’

  ‘They can’t hold their piss, can they, women? Much as I love them.’

  ‘I’ve been throying her mobile, but there’s no ansodder.’

  ‘Probably wise not to dig too deep into it. Just accept what’s happened and get on with your life, Ro.’

  ‘I caddent joost gerron wit me life, Rosser. Ine godda hab to face the same crowut as Phiddeas when I go back in Septembor. Except I caddent go back now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve no utter choice. Ine godda hab to throp ourra coddidge.’

  Oh, fock. I’m suddenly blaming myself – which is me all over, of course – and I feel this sudden, unbelievable urge to come clean.

  I’m there, ‘Look, Ro, Rachel – or Racher Doddle – didn’t tell Huguette about you two.’