Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

All of a sudden, I hear a familiar voice in the queue behind us. It’s like, ‘Theer thee are!’ and when I turn around, it ends up being Ronan with Shadden and little Rihanna-Brogan, who’s, like, three now? It ends up being hugs and kisses and banter all round – it’s ‘Sorcha, you’re like a bleaten model, so you are!’ and ‘Jays, you’re piling on the pounds there, Rosser! You’ll have to keep him away from the throyfle, Sorcha, wha’?’ and all the rest of it.

  Sorcha turns around to little R&B and goes, ‘And what’s Santa Claus bringing you this year? Because I know you’ve been a good little girl!’

  Ronan whispers to me, ‘Is Honor alreet, Rosser?’ because she hasn’t said a single nasty thing to Shadden yet – not even about her hoopy earrings. Again, she’s just, like, staring into space.

  I’m like, ‘We think she’s either hit her head or she’s planning something evil.’

  Ro just nods. He has a daughter himself. It’s all ahead of him.

  I ask him how things are going. I can’t believe he’s going to be sitting his Leaving Cert next June. He’s there, ‘All good in the hood, Rosser. Ine godda be fiddin in me CAO application in anutter few weeks.’

  I end up just shaking my head. I’m in genuine awe of my son. ‘Your CAO application,’ I go. ‘I’m not exactly sure what that even is, but I’m so proud of you, Ro.’

  While this conversation is taking place, little R&B is telling Sorcha what’s on her Santa list, except it’s the funniest thing – she’s got, like, a half-southside, half-northside accent? She’s going, ‘Oh my God, I’m so excited, because I’ve asked for, like, a Flutterboy Floying Fower Feerdy. Then I’m getting, like, a Teksta Robothic Puppy and, like – oh my God – a surproyuz!’

  A bunch of wans behind us – skanks, basically – are listening to her and they’re going, ‘Ah, she’s a gas little one, idn’t she? She should be on the tedevision, so she should!’ and Shadden turns around and explains to them that she spent the first half of her life in Killiney and the second half in Finglas.

  I’d have told them to mind their own focking business.

  I turn around to Ronan and I go, ‘Are you alright for money, by the way?’

  He’s there, ‘Ine moostard, Rosser.’

  ‘I’m just saying, Christmas is an expensive time and blah, blah, blah. If you need moo, I can throw you a few grand.’

  ‘You’re veddy good, but we’ve everything bought, Rosser.’

  After waiting around for, like, an hour, we finally reach the top of the queue, where we meet Shadden’s old man. He’s the scrawniest Santa Claus I’ve ever seen. He’s like Hagrid out of Harry Potter, except on his deathbed.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ is his opening line. He gives me a wink, then he looks at Honor and goes, ‘You look like you’re a long way f … f … f … from howum! Have you been g … g … g … good this year?’

  He has some balls asking that, given that he’s the one who has to sign on at the local Gorda station twice a week.

  ‘Yeah,’ Honor goes, ‘I don’t see how that’s even relevant. I’ve never been good and I always end up getting whatever I want for Christmas. There’s no reason to think that this year will be any different.’

  That’s actually true. It’s nice to see Honor suddenly back to her old self, though.

  Kennet goes, ‘Well, doatunt be teddin me you w … w … w … want a b … b … b … bleaten pony or something. Because with the greatest widdle in the wurdled, I wouldn’t be able to firrit on me sled!’

  Focking widdle in the wurdled. I blame programmes like Love/Hate for glamorizing the Dublin accent. I’ve sat through it with Ronan three or four times – I’m talking about all five seasons – and his accent is becoming so strong, I might have to hire Imelda May to interpret for him.

  Sorcha turns around to Kennet and goes, ‘And these are our little boys, Santa – Leo, Johnny and Brian – and they’ve been – oh my God – so good!’

  He’s there, ‘Ine d … d … d … delirit to hear it, so I am.’

  ‘Fock you!’ Leo goes. ‘You focking focker.’

  Kennet looks at Sorcha – even he’s in shock and he’s just spent two years on D Wing.

  Sorcha goes, ‘We’re doing the whole not responding thing?’

  Kennt’s like, ‘Eh, feerd enuff.’

  He hands the boys a present each, then he tries to give one to Honor – a massive one with a big, humungous bow on it – but she walks off without taking it, obviously figuring that it’s probably shit.

  Santa – sorry, Kennet – just goes, ‘Okay, M … M … M … M … Meddy Carrismiss, one and all!’ and then off we head.

  I ask Ro if he fancies a quick pint in The Broken Orms, but he says he has a couple of hours of studying to do. Studying. Tonight. Every day I ask myself, is he really my son?

  ‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ I go.

  He’s there, ‘Ah, we’ll be going to Kennet and Dordeen’s for izzer Christmas dinner.’

  ‘You poor fockers, eating their muck. No offence, Shadden,’ because she’s standing right there. ‘By the way, me and the old man are going to pop out to see you on, like, Stephen Zuzz Day, before we hit Leopardstown. We’ve got a little surprise for you.’

  We do – and he’s going to hopefully love it.

  He goes, ‘What is it, Rosser?’

  I’m there, ‘You’ll just have to wait and see. Have a great Christmas, Ro. You, too, Shadden.’

  We say our goodbyes, then we head back to the cor pork, me holding the boys on their leash, walking next to Honor, Sorcha following about ten steps behind us, carrying the presents.

  ‘Here, Honor,’ I go, just as we reach the cor, ‘did you get the focking whiff of drink off Kennet’s breath? Hey, here’s another brainwave – we could go back and report him for being drunk on the job!’

  But Honor doesn’t answer me, because she’s suddenly staring at her reflection in the tinted rear window of the people-carrier. ‘Dad,’ she goes – and she says it low, so Sorcha can’t hear her – ‘can I ask you a question?’

  I’m there, ‘Of course you can! You can ask me anything you want!’

  And that’s when she says the most unbelievable thing.

  She’s there, ‘Do you think I’m ugly?’

  I’m like, ‘What? Who said you were ugly? Is that why you’re acting weird?’

  ‘It was a question,’ she goes. ‘I just asked you a question.’

  I’m there, ‘Well, it was a ridiculous question. One thing you’re definitely not, Honor, is ugly. I’ve seen some of the girls in your class – what I’m trying to say is, there’s worse than you.’

  She looks sad – it’s like she doesn’t believe me?

  ‘Anyway,’ I go, ‘looks aren’t important. Have you ever heard the expression that it’s what’s on the inside that matters?’

  She’s like, ‘No.’

  I’m there, ‘Well, I see they’re using it now as an advertising slogan for the Beacon South Quarter,’ where Sorcha’s old pair are back living, by the way. ‘And there’s definitely some truth in it, Honor. I mean, they’re obviously trying to draw people in there. But I think what they’re trying to say is that, yes, on the outside, it’s a real focking mess, but on the inside, it’s actually alright. It’s got Imaginosity. There’s some good stuff in Bo Concept. Blah, blah, blah. The point I’m trying to make, I suppose, is that looks aren’t everything.’

  She nods, then gets into the back of the cor. I hate lying to the girl, but, hey, she’s my daughter.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ my old man goes. ‘I’ve always dreamt of being part of a big family Christmas like this.’

  We’ve got, like, a full house – we’re talking him and Helen, we’re talking Sorcha’s old pair, we’re talking Erika, we’re talking her little daughter, Amelie, we’re talking me and Sorcha, we’re talking Honor and the three boys.

  We finished dinner about an hour ago, now we’re sitting around the tree in the living room, doing the whole exchanging presents thing, w
ith the Michael Bublé Christmas album on in the background.

  We’re suckers for the old traditions in this house.

  I’m down on my knees, helping Brian, Johnny and Leo to open their just, like, piles and piles of gifts. The old man has bought them each an official World Cup 2015 replica Gilbert ball. I hand Brian his one and he focks it across the room – I can’t say enough good things about his throwing technique – and smashes a €400 donkey from the Lladró Nativity set.

  Sorcha’s old man tuts while his wife picks up the broken pieces.

  ‘Never mind focking tutting,’ I go. ‘We’ll all remember this moment when he wins his first cap for Ireland. Maybe even hang on to the bits of porcelain, Mrs Lalor. They might be worth something.’

  Sorcha’s old man hands Sorcha a present that looks about the size and shape of a book.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, picking at the wrapping paper, ‘what have you done?’

  Of course, it turns out to be a book? Sorcha goes, ‘Oh my God! I don’t actually believe it!’ because it turns out to be a limited edition, leatherbound copy of The Collected Speeches of Nelson Mandela. It’s suddenly made my present of The Notebook on DVD seem way shitter than it needed to.

  The focker loves making me look bad, of course.

  He goes, ‘They’re all in there, Sorcha. His Black Man in a White Man’s Court speech in Pretoria, 1962. His Ideal I’m Prepared to Die For speech when he was released in 1990. His Evils of Poverty, Disease and Ignorance speech after he became President in 1994.’

  I go, ‘That DVD has a special commentary by Ryan Gosling, by the way. I’m just pointing that out.’

  That ends up getting totally passed over, of course.

  ‘I’m going to read, like, one speech every night before I go to bed,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s a year since he passed!’

  Her old man is there, ‘I was recently telling one or two of my Law Library friends about those letters that Mandela sent you!’

  Fock. I hate when this comes up in conversation.

  I turn to Honor and I try to change the subject. ‘Are you not going to open your presents?’ I go, because she hasn’t touched hers yet.

  She’s there, ‘Why would I bother? I know what everything is – I gave you a detailed list.’

  ‘Well,’ I go, ‘there might be one or two surprises in there as well.’

  Oh, that gets her attention. She suddenly storts picking through her pile, shaking and squeezing various presents, as if suddenly remembering the joy of Christmas. ‘Anything I don’t like,’ she goes, as she storts tearing the paper, ‘you can bring it back to the shop and just give me the equivalent in cash.’

  Of course, Helen has to stick her focking oar in then by bringing up the letters again. She goes, ‘Are you saying that Nelson Mandela wrote to you, Sorcha?’

  And Sorcha’s old man sort of, like, puffs himself up and goes ‘My daughter enjoyed a long correspondence with President Mandela.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Even though I call him by his clan name – Madiba.’

  He’s there, ‘Of course – Madiba! He wrote you, what, six letters, was it, Sorcha?’

  She’s like, ‘Eight.’

  I just keep my head down. I help Johnny tear open one of his presents. It’s from Sorcha’s old dear – a focking tennis racket. I look at her for an explanation.

  ‘I thought it’d be good for them to try their hand at lots of different sports,’ she tries to go.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, that’s great, Mrs Lalor.’

  It’s going in the focking bin about ten seconds after she leaves.

  The Mandela thing just won’t go away, though.

  Helen goes, ‘How did it come about that he wrote to you, Sorcha?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Well, I actually wrote him loads of letters while he was in prison? Oh my God, I was, like, such a fan. Okay, this is so embarrassing, but the day he was released from prison, I turned to my mom – she can vouch for this – and I was like, “Oh my God, I’m going to marry him one day!” ’

  She didn’t, of course. She married me. It’s no wonder her old pair think she settled.

  ‘Then, one day,’ her old man goes, ‘totally out of the blue, he rang you – didn’t he, Sorcha?’

  She goes, ‘Yes, he did.’

  He did in his focking hole, by the way. It was Oisinn. One April Fool’s Day. He used to do the voice, see, and we all thought it’d be funny – ‘Your letters meant so much to me while I was in prison’ and blah, blah, blah.

  Sorcha fell for it, of course, and ended up talking the focking ear off him. She went on about the feelings she had for me and asked him whether or not she should switch from Orts in UCD to European Environmental Law in Trinity.

  Anyway, she ended up being so bowled over by the conversation that I genuinely didn’t think our relationship would have survived me telling her that it was just me and the goys ripping the serious piss out of her. So I acted surprised when she told me the dude had called her out of the blue.

  But then, a while after that, she storted to get suspicious, especially when she heard Oisinn doing the impression one night in the Merrion Inn. She was like, ‘Ross, tell me the truth – was that really Nelson Mandela who rang me that day, or was it Oisinn?’

  And that was the moment I should have possibly told her. Instead, I went, ‘Sorcha, I swear to you, it had nothing to do with me,’ and then I tried to cover it up further by getting Oisinn to write her a bunch of letters, in which he talked about how things were going politically in South Africa and about me – ‘He sounds like a very wonderful young man’ – and about the career opportunities open to someone with a qualification in European Environmental Law as opposed to a shit-for-brains degree like Orts.

  Oisinn got a mate of his who lived in Cape Town to post them to her, one every fortnight for three or four months until she stopped being suspicious.

  Anyway, like I said, they come up in conversation every now and then and today it’s all anyone can suddenly talk about.

  I’m there, ‘Sorry, why are we all banging on about this? Can we not talk about something, I don’t know, more Christmassy? I hope Ian Madigan’s eating light, for instance – it’s a massive day for him at Thomond tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sorcha goes, ‘speaking of eating, who’s for dessert? I’ve made my famous Nigella Lawson’s Ultimate Christmas Pudding!’

  Honor’s there, ‘Okay, I’m bored now. I’m going to my room.’

  ‘Honor, I said we’re going to have pudding.’

  ‘Er, I don’t want pudding?’

  ‘I soaked the dried fruit in Pedro Ximénez.’

  ‘Do you need your focking ears syringed? I said I didn’t want pudding!’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘How dare you speak to your mother like that!’

  Honor – in fairness to her – goes, ‘Sorry, what focking business is it of yours?’

  He’s there, ‘You didn’t eat your dinner either – a beautiful dinner that your mother’s been preparing since …’

  ‘Monday,’ Sorcha goes.

  Honor’s like, ‘Yeah, for your information, I ate a sprout.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘A sprout is not a meal, Honor,’ and I think to myself, yeah, no, you’ve obviously forgotten how you lost nearly all your baby weight. I don’t call her out on it, though.

  She goes, ‘You have to eat more than the occasional vegetable, Honor.’

  Again – a hypocrite.

  And that’s when Honor suddenly loses it with her. She goes, ‘I’m not focking hungry, okay?’ and she’s, like, screaming the words at the top of her voice. ‘Maybe I don’t want to be fat anymore!’

  Everyone in the room is just like, ‘What?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Fat? Honor, you’re not exactly fat.’

  Honor bursts into tears. ‘I am fat,’ she goes. ‘And you’re trying to make me even fatter – because you’re a bitch!’

  She runs out of the
room and up the stairs.

  Sorcha’s old man tries to throw another ten cents into the mix then. He goes, ‘That girl has no respect for anyone – and it’s not difficult to see from whom she takes her behavioural cues.’

  I’m there, ‘What business is it of yours, you focking knob-end?’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Please don’t start, you two.’

  But, of course, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the traditional family row.

  I’m there, ‘Why don’t you keep your focking opinions to yourself?’

  He goes, ‘I won’t stay here to be insulted.’

  ‘Hey, you’re perfectly welcome to fock off any time you want. I don’t remember even inviting you.’

  ‘My daughter invited me.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been pissing us all off since you arrived, with your book of speeches and your general bullshit. Then banging on about Nelson Mandela and refusing to let it go even when the conversation had clearly moved on to Ian Madigan.’

  ‘You and that daughter of yours – you’re exactly the same!’

  ‘I’m happy to hear it. I’ll take it as a compliment.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Please, stop it! You’re ruining everything!’

  My old man stands up, obviously feeling awkward. ‘We, em, might head off, Sorcha. We said we might pop in and have a drink with Hennessy – the day that’s in it. Thank you for a lovely Christmas dinner.’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Well, we’re not staying either.’

  I’m there, ‘No one’s asking you to. As a matter of fact, I’ll get your focking coat.’

  Suddenly, no one’s having dessert.

  ‘At least stay and watch me flame the pudding!’ Sorcha goes. ‘It’s one of our traditions!’

  But her old man goes, ‘I think it’s best we leave before I say or do something I regret.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, don’t let the door hit you on the way out!’

  He’s like, ‘Merry Christmas, Sorcha,’ and off he focks, with Sorcha’s old dear following closely behind.

  That’s how quickly it all happens. Literally sixty seconds later, Sorcha’s old pair, my old man and Helen have all driven off and it’s only me, Sorcha, Erika and the kids left in the house.