1. Home Sweet Homophobia
The old man is in the jacks. He’s standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection, going, ‘Look at you! You colossus! You winner of hearts! You leader of men!’
I’m just watching him, thinking how much of a knob he’s become since he found that wig in Helen’s attic and stuck it on his head. He’s, like, running his fingers through it, smoothing it across his head and he’s going, ‘You’re a lion! You’re strong! You’re virile! And this is the moment you were bloody well born for!’
I’m there, ‘You know, it’s an actual miracle that I turned out to be the genuinely lovely goy that I am.’
He’s not even embarrassed to find out that I’ve been standing there listening to him the entire time. ‘Hello there, Kicker!’ he goes. ‘I’m running through some vocal exercises. Vox Populi, Vox Dei and what-not!’
This is in the Morker Hotel, by the way. We’re here for the launch of this new political porty of his – New Republic or whatever he’s calling it. There must be, like, five hundred people in the main conference room – we’re talking reporters from all the papers, radio and TV stations, then a load of just randomers who’ve turned up to hear Charles O’Carroll-Kelly outline his vision for a new Ireland.
I’m here for the free bor.
He goes, ‘I was talking to your mother this morning. She said she hasn’t seen you.’
I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, that might have something to do with the fact that she’s in prison?’
‘Well, you could go and visit her.’
‘I’ve actually got better things to be doing with my time. It might have escaped your attention, but my marriage is in serious trouble.’
‘It hasn’t escaped my attention, Ross. You’re living under my roof. I’m just saying that your mother needs our support at this time.’
He stops smoothing his hair and stares at it for a few seconds. He seems to like whatever way it’s sitting because he leaves it then and storts washing his hands. I slip over to the hand-dryer and, when he’s not looking, I twist the air nozzle so that it’s facing upwards.
‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘she should have thought of that before she killed a man.’
He stops what he’s doing. He’s like, ‘Killed a man? You don’t seriously think she did it, do you?’
I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. Would you?’
He goes, ‘Of course she didn’t do it! This is Fionnuala we’re talking about! Ari died of a heart attack! She’s being fitted up, Ross!’
‘Why would they fit her up?’
‘Think of the timing! What, I announce that I’m setting up a new political party to challenge the existing order and the following day my ex-wife, who remains a dear, dear friend, is charged with murder? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so. Here, don’t forget to dry your hands.’
He walks over to the hand-dryer and stands with his hands underneath it. I hit the button and he ends up getting a blast of hot air right in the face. It travels up his forehead and totally messes up his hair, so it looks like he’s just walked Dún Laoghaire pier in a hurricane.
‘Someone must have turned the nozzle the other way around,’ I go. ‘Shit one.’
He’s like, ‘Look at my hair!’
‘It’s not actually hair, can I just remind you?’
He goes back to the mirror and storts trying to smooth it down again, but for some reason it won’t go back to the way it was. There’s bits of it that insist on standing up, even when he wets his hands and tries to force it down. And he storts getting into a serious flap then, going, ‘I can’t face the public like this! I look bloody well ridiculous!’
I’m there, ‘I’m agreeing with you. It’s a bummer.’
He races over to the door, opens it and shouts, ‘Hennessy! Crisis!’ and a few seconds later his solicitor comes rushing in, followed by the famous K … K … Kennet, who’s working as his driver these days. It’s hilarious – he’s got the uniform and everything.
Hennessy’s like, ‘Jesus, what happened?’
‘Never mind the whats and the what-nots,’ the old man goes, still going at it but making it actually worse. ‘What are we going to do?’
I’m laughing my hole off, by the way.
Hennessy takes out his comb and tries to smooth it down, but it still keeps popping up again in places.
Kennet goes, ‘Ine arthur h … h … h … habben an idea, so I am,’ and he heads for the door.
‘Hurry!’ the old man goes. ‘I should have been on stage ten minutes ago.’
You can hear the crowd in the function room growing impatient. They’re, like, stamping their feet.
Kennet returns with a can of something in his hand. ‘It’s m … m … m … mousse,’ he goes. ‘I gorrit offa boord outsoyut.’
The old man goes, ‘Well, come on, then, get on with it! I can’t leave people waiting all day!’
Kennet sprays a bit into his hand, then – hilarious – storts massaging it into the old man’s head while Hennessy goes to work with the comb. They make a complete focking hames of it, though, because the old man ends up with what looks like a really bad comb-over. And the crowd in the conference room is getting seriously pissed off waiting now. They stort a slow-handclap.
‘Give me that!’ the old man goes, demanding the mousse. He squeezes some of it into his hand and has a crack at trying to fix the damage that the other two have done. He sweeps all of his hair backwards, so now it’s suddenly long at the back, like an actual mullet, then he runs his fingers through the sides, slicking the hair back around his ears.
The result is genuinely one of the most ridiculous hairstyles I’ve ever seen. The old man stares silently at himself for a long time.
‘That’s it!’ he suddenly goes, a smile breaking out across his face. ‘That’s the look I’ve been after!’
Hennessy goes, ‘It’s, er, certainly very different.’
‘It’s magnificent! Now … let’s go and share our vision for a new and better Ireland!’
We head for the conference room. I go in first and look for a seat. Helen gives me a wave to tell me there’s a free seat next to her. That’s what a cool person she is. Way out of my old man’s league. I’ve always said it. The seat is in the middle of a row and the people who are already sitting down do the usual thing of rolling their eyes at the inconvenience of having to let me past, so I do my usual thing of accidentally-on-purpose kicking them in the ankles if they don’t move their feet out of the way fast enough.
Helen goes, ‘Hi, Ross. Is everything okay?’ because the crowd are not only slow-clapping now, they’re going, ‘We want Charles! We want Charles! We want Charles!’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, he had a bit of a wig malfunction. His head looks a focking state. Wait’ll you see it.’
Hilariously, the M.C. for the day ends up being Kennet. M.C. focking Stammer. He steps up to the mic and goes, ‘L … L … L … Layuties and gentlemen. Will you p … p … p … pleeyuz p … p … p … put yisser hands togetter for the P … P … P … President of New Republic, Mister Ch … Ch … Ch … Cheerdles O’Cattle-Keddy!’
The audience goes bananas. People love my old man. I’ve never really understood why. Out he walks, waving to the crowd. And that’s when there’s suddenly a change in the atmosphere in the room. People are still clapping, but at the same time they’re staring open-mouthed at his hair, trying to figure out if it’s for real, or if he’s ripping the piss.
I turn to Helen and I go, ‘It’s genuinely funny, isn’t it?’
She’s like, ‘What happened?’
I’m there, ‘It was obviously someone’s idea of a joke to turn the nozzle on the hand-dryer upside-down. It went all over the place and he ended up putting product in it to try to fix it.’
‘He looks like that what’s-his-name – in America?’
‘Who?’
‘He was on the news this morning.’
‘I wouldn’t make a habit of watching the news, Helen.’
The old man steps up to the mic. Silence falls on the room. His opening line is, ‘I love Ireland!’
Which is horseshit, of course. He always says we’d have been better off economically and every other way if we’d stayed port of Britain. He gets a round of applause for it anyway.
‘Yes,’ he goes, ‘I love Ireland! So much so that I stayed here, through years of recessions and economic downturns, even when many of my business friends were saying to me, “Get out, Charlie – the place is bloody well finished!” I never, ever gave up on this country! And today, I’m asking you – the much-put-upon people of this troubled, troubled land – not to give up either!’
There’s, like, a giant logo on the wall behind him, which is green, white and orange – a massive N, then underneath it a massive R.
He goes, ‘Independence hasn’t worked out quite the way we hoped it would! And there’s a very good reason for that! We don’t choose the best people to lead us! We elect secondary school teachers, barristers who are in love with the sound of their own voices and the intellectually limited sons and daughters of some political dynasty whose name meant something once but doesn’t anymore! That’s how we’ve ended up with a Taoiseach with the personality and political gravitas of a County Council Cathaoirleach and a Minister for Finance who should be teaching long division to children in bloody well Dooradoyle!’
There’s, like, howls of laughter.
I turn around to Helen. I’m there, ‘He has them eating out of the palm of his hand.’
It’s very disappointing.
I go, ‘By the way, thanks again, Helen – for, like, putting me up?’
She’s there, ‘It’s fine, Ross. Erika’s room is empty anyway.’
‘Well, it’ll only be until Sorcha cops herself on, which will be hopefully soon.’
The old man’s still banging on. He’s going, ‘We have been governed by the same three political parties for the best part of one hundred years and they have done a very bad job of it! Which is why we have to find an alternative to the failed political configurations of the past! We elect Fianna Fáil and they turn out to be crooks, so we give Fine Gael and Labour a shot and they turn out to be useless, so we put Fianna Fáil back in! And on and on and on! We have to break the cycle! That is why I am proud to announce the arrival of an alternative to the parties who have spent the last ten years betraying the Irish people and selling this country out!’
That gets a massive roar of approval.
‘These politicians,’ he goes, ‘who are supposed to be representing your interests have instead put you on the hook for billions and billions of euros’ worth of debts that have nothing to do with you! Let me repeat that – nothing to do with you! And yet you’re paying them! Through austerity! Through property tax! Through water rates! Through the Universal Social Charge! Through whatever ruses they can come up with to pick your pockets!’
There’s, like, boos from the audience.
He goes, ‘Back in 2008, following the inverted commas crash, the Gerhards and the Jean-Claudes called our politicians in and they said, “You’re billions and billions of euros in debt! You’ve got a serious problem here!” That was our time to say, “It sounds to us like you’ve got the serious problem, mein Freund!” But our so-called leaders didn’t say that! They were too anxious to be seen as good Europeans, whatever the hell that even means! So they told the suits in Brussels and in Berlin, “Look, we don’t know anything! We’re just a bunch of simple Irish idiots! Tell us what to do!”
‘We surrendered to the IMF, the EU and the EC bloody-well B and their demands that, for the sins of a greedy few, the entire Irish people should be vanquished economically! This idea runs like a red thread through the so-called bailout deal, which seeks, on the one hand, to burden the economy of a great people with an unbearable load and, on the other, to destroy it as much as possible, to cut off all its opportunities, while – with a clever sleight of hand – private debt is turned into public debt!’
There’s, like, more boos.
He goes, ‘As the leader of New Republic, I am offering you, the people of Ireland, a viable alternative to the failed politics of the past! Which is why the Establishment is already running scared of us! They’re terrified of New Republic and what it represents! Some of you may have heard that my wife, Fionnuala, was arrested last week on – I’m going to speak frankly here – trumped-up murder charges in an effort to discredit me, to hurt me, to silence me! Let me say this! They! Will Not! Succeed! I am going to help to prove her innocence – that is a promise!
‘I’m also making you, the people of Ireland, a promise! There’s going to be a General Election sometime in the next year – and every man and woman in every constituency in this country will have an opportunity to vote for a New Republic candidate!’
Cheers.
‘We can break the cycle!’
Cheers.
‘We will break the cycle!’
Cheers.
‘Our Programme for Government,’ he goes, ‘will contain a number of pledges, some of which I can reveal to you today. Once we are elected, we will take immediate steps to abolish water charges …’
Roars.
‘… residential Property Tax …’
Roars.
‘… and the Universal Social Charge!’
Roars.
‘We will restore Public Sector Pay!’
Roars.
‘We will ensure that our hospitals and our schools are adequately funded!’
Roars.
‘We will put Ireland first! And we will make Ireland tremendous again!’
All hell breaks loose. People stort going ballistic. They’re on their feet, clapping and cheering. From somewhere near the front, Kennet shouts, ‘Ch … Ch … Ch … Cheerles O’Cattle-Keddy for T … T … T … T … Taoiseach!’
And, quick as a flash, someone shortens it to, ‘CO’CK for Taoiseach!’ and within seconds that becomes the chant. Everyone’s going, ‘CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach!’
I turn around to Helen and I notice that she’s got, like, tears streaming from her eyes. At first I think it must be, like, pride? But when I smile at her and tell her that her husband is full of shit, she points out something that I, for some reason, missed?
She goes, ‘He called Fionnuala his wife, Ross.’
I’m there, ‘Er, I’m pretty sure he said ex-wife?’
But she goes, ‘He didn’t, Ross. He called your mother his wife.’
Little Leo is holding the ball in his two hands. This is in the middle of, like, Herbert Pork.
I go, ‘That’s it, Leo, get a proper feel for it. Let your, I don’t know, subconscience become aware of the weight, the shape and the texture. Now, throw it to me! Come on – throw it back!’
He throws it alright – except not to me? He just focks it on the ground in front of him. He goes, ‘Focking fockpig!’ then he laughs, like a dope.
I look around for the other two. Brian is sitting down on the grass, just shouting, ‘Fock you! Fock you! Fock you!’ at the top of his voice, while Johnny is walking around in circles singing Somewhere Only We Know – the Lily Allen version as well.
I’m not making excuses for myself, but I genuinely don’t think I can improve their skills by working with them only one day a week, and I’m pretty sure Joe Schmidt couldn’t do it either. If they’re going to improve as players, I need access to them three or four days a week. I might need to explain that to Sorcha if this separation continues for much longer.
I’m there, ‘Okay, Leo, let’s try that again,’ scooping the ball up with one hand and giving it back to him. ‘But let’s see can we do it right this time?’
Before I even give him the signal, he just, like, drops it on the ground. I suppose, if you were being charitable, you could say he knocks it on, but the truth is he just drops it out of sheer lack of focking interest. Then he bends down and storts smacking it with his hand. I’m standing there thinking, imagine if Leo Cullen was here right now and saw this kid who I supposedly named after him doing that. The big man wouldn’t just be hurt – it’d break his focking hort.
I’m about to give it up for the morning and bring them to Dundrum to fill their bellies with turquoise ice cream, when Honor – sitting on a bench a few feet away – suddenly looks up from her phone and goes, ‘Show him – don’t tell him.’
Obviously, I’m thrown by this? As in, my daughter showing an actual interest in what I’m doing. I’m like, ‘What do you mean by that, Honor?’
She stands up and puts her phone away. She picks up the ball, puts it in Leo’s hands, then she takes his two shoulders and turns him around, so that he’s standing side-on to me. She positions Leo’s two hands on the ball. And, by the way, I can’t help but notice that she positions them perfectly?
‘Now, Leo,’ she goes, ‘you have to spin it as it leaves your hands, okay? Can you do that? Like this,’ and she shows him how to perform a pretty good offloading action with his hands. ‘On the count of three,’ she goes. ‘One … Two … Three!’
And Leo throws the ball. No, he doesn’t just throw it. He ends up delivering – honestly? – one of the most perfect passes I’ve ever seen in thirty years of watching and playing the game of rugby. I catch the ball as it hits me hord in the midriff.
Honor goes, ‘There!’, then she walks back over to her bench, sits down and takes out her phone again.
I’m just, like, staring at her in total wonder. I tip over to where she’s sitting, suddenly scrolling down through her Twitter feed. ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘Lena Dunham is such a virtue-signalling bitch.’
I’m like, ‘Honor, who taught you that?’
She looks at me all defensively. She goes, ‘I’ve been swearing since I was, like, two?’
I’m there, ‘I don’t give a fock about the swearing. I’m talking about the way you just showed Leo how to throw the ball. Oh my God, you were studying my Rugby Tactics Book, weren’t you?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t draw anything on it this time, so don’t stort accusing me.’
‘I’m not angry with you, Honor. I’m actually impressed.’
‘Whatever.’
‘I mean it. Here I am, trying to teach the boys the basics, and I might as well be reading rap lyrics to a focking hen. I was on the point of giving up. But you’ve just helped me believe again in my ability to coach.’
She just shrugs like this means nothing to her one way or the other, then she goes back to her Twitter feed. And that’s when it suddenly hits me – the reason for her sudden interest in rugby. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself that I haven’t thought for a minute how this separation might be affecting her. She’s trying to make a connection with me – to possibly let me know that she’s on my side?
I sit down on the bench beside her. It’s time for one of our famous father–daughter chats. ‘Look,’ I go, ‘I know the last week or two have probably been difficult for you – especially not having your dad around the house.’
She’s there, ‘I don’t give a shit. I don’t like you that much anyway.’
‘I know that’s not true.’
‘It is true. I find you really irritating.’
‘I can be irritating – I accept that. But there’s also a bond between us.’
‘I don’t think there’s a bond.’
‘There’s a definite bond – even if you don’t realize it. Look, I know it can be difficult for children when their parents get separated or divorced.’
That does it. She’s suddenly like, ‘Are you getting divorced?’ her face all worried.
I’m there, ‘Of course we’re not getting divorced! Look, all marriages go through a bad patch. Sometimes it’s hord to put your finger on what exactly is wrong.’
‘You rode Caleb’s mother.’
‘Yes, I did ride Caleb’s mother. But that’s all it was, Honor. Your mother has always found it in herself to forgive me for shit like that. She’s always been putty in the hand in terms of my ability to get her to take me back. The difference this time is that her old man is in her ear, poisoning her against me. So it might take me a bit of time to worm my way back in there.’
‘When are you coming home then?’
‘She just needs time to work shit out. I’d say it’ll definitely be within the next two to three weeks, though.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes, I do. And I’m going to make you another promise as well.’
‘Is it money?’
‘No, it’s not money. My promise is this – until Sorcha decides that I can move home again, I’m going to make sure you get to enjoy the best of both worlds.’
Being a father is something I do well. I don’t think anyone’s questioning that.
She goes, ‘What does that mean?’
I’m there, ‘I suppose what it means is that you’re going to have me and your mother spoiling you. I was thinking we might even hit Dundrum and get you some of that ice cream that looks like Kryptonite.’
‘Will you buy me a present for a thousand euros?’
‘What is it? Am I allowed to even ask?’
‘I don’t know yet. I just want you to buy me something for a thousand euros. You and Mom getting separated has left me really, really sad inside. I think I might need counselling.’
‘Then a present for a thousand euros is what you shall have. Grab that rugby ball there and let’s stick the boys back in the cor.’
She looks a state. But then she always looks a state. The difference this time is that she’s finally admitting it.
‘Look at my hair!’ she goes – this is in the prison visiting room. She grabs a few strands between her thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s the hard water, Ross! Just look at what it’s done to my hair!’
‘It’s like pubic hair,’ I go. ‘I’m agreeing with you. You’ve also put on weight. And I’m only stating that as a fact. A lot of weight.’
‘Well, as it happens, I was thinking of going on a hunger strike.’
I crack my hole laughing – no choice in the matter. I’m there, ‘It’d be the shortest focking hunger strike in history. All they’d have to do is put a plate of focking pork belly on the landing and you’d eat it through the gap under your door.’
‘Ross, must you be so unpleasant?’
‘Hey, I came to visit you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did – and I’m very grateful.’
‘Try showing it then. The whole conversation doesn’t have to be about you, your hair and the size of your focking orse. I’ve got shit going on in my own life. The whole world doesn’t stop revolving just because you possibly killed a man.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone, Ross!’
‘So you keep saying. Poor Ari. I mean, I thought you were capable of a lot of things, but not actual murder.’
I look around me. There’s some rough specimens of humanity in here. The only way to tell the difference between the prisoners and the visitors is the stripy pyjamas. And by that I obviously mean that most of the visitors are wearing pyjamas.
‘What the fook are you looking at?’ some girl screams at me across the floor after I make the mistake of staring at her for a second or two longer than is polite. ‘I’ll slash your bleaten throat for you – and your fooken ma’s.’
It’s like being on the last Luas to Fortunestown, I’m guessing.
‘That’s Pamela,’ the old dear goes. ‘She’s in the bedroom next to mine.’
I’m like, ‘Bedroom? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s called a cell. You’re in denial.’
‘She’s on remand for grievous bodily something or other. Oh, Ross, I can’t stand it in here.’
‘Well, you better get used to it, because you’re looking at twenty years minimum.’
‘Twenty years? I can’t spend twenty years in this place. I’d be in my sixties when I got out.’
‘I’m going to let that go because I know you’re having a hord time. The point I’m trying to make is that you’re probably never getting out of here.’
‘Well, at least your father believes in my innocence. He thinks the entire thing is politically motivated.’ She smiles at me. Jesus Christ, she’s got a face like a sat-on pomegranate. She goes, ‘He’s been in to see me every second day, you know?’
I’m there, ‘That better not be a dig at me. Like I said, I’ve got better things to do.’
‘Don’t be so defensive, Ross. I’m just saying it’s nice that he believes I had nothing to do with Ari’s death. He looks wonderful these days.’
‘It’s only a wig.’
‘And he’s so excited about this new party of his. You know, he reminds me of the old Charles.’
‘You say that like it’s a good thing.’
‘It is a good thing. He was the first man I married, remember?’
‘Well, unfortunately for you, he’s not the one you’re going to have to convince that you didn’t kill Ari.’
‘They’re saying I dropped something in Ari’s bath to give him that hort attack. A two-bar electric heater, Ross – like poor people use to heat their homes! They’re saying that I electrocuted him, then dried him off, dressed him in a tracksuit, dragged him downstairs and left him beside the treadmill. Does that sound like something I would do? Ross, please look at me when I’m talking to you!’
I end up having to look at her? It’s horrible.
She goes, ‘I know that you and I have never been close – and that’s mostly my fault. I realize that. But do you honestly think I’d be capable of doing what I’ve just described?’
I’m there, ‘For two billion squids?’
‘For any amount of money.’
There’s just, like, silence between us then.
‘Do you know what I would love?’ she goes.
I’m there, ‘Don’t ask me to smuggle a bottle of gin in here.’
‘I would love to see the twins.’
‘What twins?’
I genuinely haven’t a clue who she’s talking about.
She goes, ‘Your twins.’
I’m there, ‘They’re not twins. They’re triplets, you focking drunkard.’
‘Triplets! Yes, of course!’
‘A handy way for you to remember the number would be to think to yourself, okay, how many sheets to the wind am I usually by eleven o’clock in the morning? Oh, yeah, it’s three.’
‘Well, I would love to see them. Do you think you might bring them with you on your next visit?’
‘Who said there was going to be a next visit?’
‘Ross, please.’
‘Twice, so far, I’ve mentioned that I have shit going on in my life and you haven’t even asked what.’
‘They’re not ill, are they? Those poor little babies!’
‘No, it’s just that Sorcha has kind of focked me out of the house and I’m now having to live with the old man and Helen.’
‘Your father never mentioned that.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. He’s like you – totally wrapped up in himself.’
‘What on Earth has gotten into Sorcha?’
‘Hey, I’ve given up trying to understand the female mind.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘I rode a woman. With a skinhead. That was a major port of it. So right now I only have access to the kids one day a week.’
‘Sorcha is coming to visit me tomorrow. Do you want me to talk to her?’
‘It probably wouldn’t do any good. Anyway, at the moment we’re just separated, although her old man is obviously in her ear. He’s using this to convince her to cut me out of her life once and for all.’
‘I know exactly how it feels, Ross, to be the victim of an injustice.’
She definitely knows what buttons to press with me.
‘Well, my situation is slightly different,’ I go, ‘in that I did actually ride the woman.’
She puts her hand down on top of mine. She’s there, ‘So you’re saying you do believe me?’
And the truth is, well, I honestly don’t know.
Fionn is back from the States.
Yeah, no, he shows up in Kielys while we’re having Friday night pints, the usual suspects – we’re talking me, we’re talking JP, we’re talking Oisinn, we’re talking Christian. The conversation had been about me – and, to a lesser extent, Christian – helping Seapoint avoid relegation to Division 2C of the All Ireland League. Oisinn was actually going, ‘You certainly answered your critics with that final kick of the game, Ross – especially the ones who said you were basically a choker who pissed away whatever talent you had.’ And that’s when Fionn decided to make his entrance – with his glasses and his whole routine.
He walks in and he’s all, ‘Hey, I thought I might find you in here!’ and then suddenly it’s hugs all round and the conversation ends up being about his year in New York advising the United Nations on the problem of international piracy and the threat posed by Abu Sayyaf and other Islamic militant groups to merchant ships in the Southern Philippines.
‘Yeah, we were talking about rugby,’ I go, ‘and specifically my heroics in the All Ireland League, until you decided to walk in and try to steal the show.’
Even then, he can’t acknowledge my achievement in coming back after fifteen years out of the game. He goes, ‘Jesus Christ, Ross, I heard about your mother. I’m so sorry. I actually still can’t get my head around it.’
‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘they’re saying she dropped a two-bor electric heater in his bath, the poor focker. Mine’s a pint of Heineken, by the way.’
He catches Mary’s eye and draws a circle in the air to say same again all round.
He’s like, ‘This is Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly we’re talking about. We’ve known her since we were kids. There’s no way she’d be capable of killing someone. I don’t think.’
I’m there, ‘That’s nice to hear. My old man thinks it’s an attempt to destroy him politically.’
‘Charles is doing a good enough job of that himself,’ JP goes. ‘He’s saying he’s going to abolish water chorges, property tax, the USC – and fix the health service. People aren’t going to fall for that. No offence, Ross.’
I’m there, ‘None taken. I’ve got enough on my plate anyway without getting involved in his bullshit. The even bigger news, by the way, is that me and Sorcha have broken up.’
JP goes, ‘Shit one,’ in fairness to him.
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, me up to my old tricks again. I’ll never learn. So we’ve ended up separated. I’m still hoping I can weasel my way back in there, so don’t even think about making a move on her, Fionn.’
Because he would if he thought he had a chance – he’d be on her like a seagull on vomit.
He makes a big point of ignoring this and instead asks Oisinn what he’s up to these days. Oisinn tells him he’s sort of, like, easing his way back into business – still waiting for the next big thing to come along, whatever that happens to be.
That’s when Christian gets a text message. He reads it and goes, ‘Hey, Muirgheal’s thinking about dropping in – is that cool with everyone?’ and he can’t keep the smile from his face. We all know that feeling when you first meet a girl and you still haven’t found out that she’s a focking nightmare like all the rest of them. I end up having to bite my tongue. A boys’ night out is a boys’ night out. End of discussion.
Fionn goes, ‘Muirgheal? Why is that name familiar?’
I’m there, ‘Do you remember a bird called Muirgheal Massey? She was in Mount Anville – she went for Head Girl the year Sorcha won it and she was massively pissed off about it. JP rode her on the pitch in Lakelands Pork.’
‘It was actually Templeville Road,’ JP goes. ‘And I didn’t ride her – just to say that, Christian. I only kissed her.’
Christian’s there, ‘Hey, I don’t mind. We all have a past!’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, Lauren’s living in France and seeing some cinematographer called Loic, who has zero interest in rugby – isn’t that right, Christian? That’s the kind of people she’s associating with these days. She made her bed. She can focking lie on it now.’
Christian goes, ‘So what will I tell Muirgheal? Is everyone cool with her popping in? She’s actually outside. She’s with Sorcha.’
I’m like, ‘Sorcha?’ hating myself for sounding so desperate. ‘That’s very interesting.’
‘Yeah, no,’ he goes, ‘they’ve been campaigning for marriage equality in Donnybrook all day.’
I’m there, ‘Hey, I’ve no problem with it – marriage equality or them swinging in for a drink,’ and I’m thinking this might be a great time to persuade Sorcha to give her own marriage another go, especially if I can get her on the Cointreau.
Anyway, they arrive in. And it’s not just Sorcha and Muirgheal – they’re with the famous Magnus. Oisinn goes, ‘Okay, who’s that big blond dude with Sorcha?’ obviously trying to get a reaction from me. ‘The really, really good-looking one?’
I refuse to take the bait. They spot us standing up at the bor and over they trot. Fionn ends up getting all the attention, of course. Sorcha goes, ‘Oh my God, you’re home!’ and it ends up being hugs and UN talk and all the rest of it. She makes a big point of totally blanking me, by the way? She’s obviously still pissed off with me. She introduces him, though – the famous manny. ‘Everyone,’ she goes, ‘this is Magnus.’
And everyone’s just like, ‘Hey, Magnus!’
He goes, ‘Hi, guysh, it’sh gute to meet you.’
The accent is comical. I might sneakily record a few seconds of it and send it to Jerry Flannery. I know he’ll get a kick out of it.
Muirgheal goes, ‘Oh my God, what a day we’ve had!’
Sorcha turns around to Fionn and goes, ‘This is Muirgheal, I don’t know if you remember her. We were in Mount Anville together. She was, like, Deputy Head Girl when I was Head Girl?’
No one does passive-aggressive like my wife.
Fionn goes, ‘It’s really nice to meet you, Muirgheal. And you’re campaigning for marriage equality?’ showing an actual interest – which is a tactic of his.
Muirgheal’s there, ‘Yeah, it was actually my idea to torget older voters and try to challenge the traditional view of marriage as being between a man and a woman.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘In fairness, I think we both had the idea? Because I gave a talk to my grandmother’s Active Retirement group, remember?’
‘I think I did suggest it first, though, even though that’s not important. What we’re trying to do is get older people to just, like, open their minds and see that love comes in many different forms.’
‘And the amazing news is that they’re – oh my God – actually listening!’ Sorcha goes. ‘Do you know what my grandmother said to me after I gave – like I said – the very first talk to the Foxrock and Deansgrange Active Retirement Association? She said that, twenty years ago, the idea of a man marrying a man, or a woman marrying a woman, was as ridiculous to her as the idea of a man marrying his car, or a woman marrying her dog.’
I’m there, ‘It does feel a bit random alright – even though I’m obviously one hundred percent cool with it.’
‘But then she said, “This isn’t for my generation, Sorcha. We’ve had our time. This is for the next generation. And if this is what they want, then we owe it to them,” and my eyes were – oh my God – literally welling up with tears?’
‘Well,’ Muirgheal goes, ‘I think I really got through to them at the Donnybrook and District Friends of the Elderly tonight. And tomorrow I’m doing the bowls club in Shankill.’
‘Skank Hill,’ I go.
Hey, if I don’t say it, no one else will.
I’m like, ‘Sorcha, do you fancy a Cointreau?’
She’s like, ‘No, thank you,’ without even looking at me. ‘Muirgheal, I thought I told you I was going to do the talk at the bowls club?’
‘Oh my God, Sorcha, why do you have to turn everything into a competition?’
Oisinn tries to change the subject then. He’s like, ‘So what’s the story with you, Magnus?’ and he’s got a big, shit-eating grin on his face. ‘You’re a friend of Sorcha’s, are you?’, implying that there might be something going on between them.
Magnus goes, ‘I’m actually working ash a nanny for her. But alsho I am helping with the campaign.’
I’m like, ‘Magnus is gay, by the way. He’s a gay. He’s a gay man. Whatever the proper phrase is.’
And suddenly I find everyone staring at me with a mixture of surprise and disgust.
Sorcha goes, ‘Okay, how is that relevant, Ross?’
I’m there, ‘It was just in case they were worried.’
‘Worried? Why would Magnus’s sexuality worry them?’
‘Yeah, no, I only said it just in case they were wondering whether there was anything going on between the two of you. I wanted to put their minds at ease.’
Muirgheal tries to get in on the act then. ‘Oh, so you think it’s okay,’ she goes, ‘to define somebody by their sexuality, do you?’
Jesus Christ.
Magnus, by the way, isn’t bothered in the slightest. He isn’t even following the conversation anymore. He’s just, like, staring at the muted TV in the corner of the bor. There’s some kind of – I swear to fock – soccer match on the screen. In Kielys, bear in mind! There was a time in this pub when they’d sooner put live animal porn on than soccer. Clearly not anymore.
‘Ah,’ he goes, ‘they are showing the goalsh from Shwanshea againsht Arshenal on Monday night.’
That’s what he says. I’m there, ‘Whoa, are you saying you’re a soccer fan?’
‘You mean futebol?’
‘No, I mean soccer.’
He’s like, ‘Of coursh!’ and he shrugs his shoulders like it’s a ridiculous question to ask anyone. ‘I played futebol professionally for IFK GÖteborg until I wash maybe twenty-shix, twenty-sheven yearsh old.’
‘Meaningless.’
‘Then, shadly, I wash injured. Alsho, I have five capsh for Finland.’
‘And did you mention any of this to my wife? When she interviewed you for the job of minding our children?’
‘I didn’t conshider that informashion relevant.’
‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I bet you didn’t.’
Sorcha goes, ‘Ignore him, Magnus.’
I look at the rest of the goys, expecting back-up, but I get none.
JP goes, ‘What’s wrong with soccer, Ross?’ and that’s a direct quote.
Er, the ridiculous shape of the ball? The scum of the Earth who play it? Where do you want me to stort?
Then Oisinn, of all people, goes, ‘Just because you love rugby, it doesn’t mean you have to hate every other sport. We’re supposed to be living in an age of tolerance.’
And I’m suddenly made to feel like a bigot for thinking something that it was perfectly okay to think a few years ago, specifically – and I’m just going to come out and say it – I don’t want someone who’s mixed up in soccer looking after my children. I’m about to say it, but in the end I decide to keep my mouth shut.
As Father Fehily used to say, ‘Knowledge is knowing you can push the envelope. Wisdom is knowing it’ll still be stationery.’
‘Aroyse and f … f … f … foddy Cheerlie, wha?’
Kennet’s in cracking form. It’s annoying.
‘Well, Ine certainly f … f … f … foddying him,’ he goes.
I’m there, ‘You’re paid to follow him – you’re his focking dogsbody.’
‘Ine saying I’d foddy him to the ends of the Eert. Lot of people will feel the s … s … sayum way arthur he’s speech the utter day. What he said about making Arelunt thremendous again – it’s what people want to hee-or, idn’t it?’
I’ve no idea what people want to hear. Especially in this port of the world – namely Finglas. I only drove out here to find out how Ronan was getting on, what with his Leaving Cert being only, like, two weeks away. The answer, by the way, is not great. He’s sitting at the kitchen table trying to concentrate on his books, but Rihanna-Brogan is watching an illegal download of Rio 2 – It’s On in the Amazon on her iPad and she’s singing along to the songs, while Shadden is hoovering underneath his feet and Dordeen is sitting at the table, smoking like a crematorium and staring at him like he’s a focking dog reading the dishwasher manual.
‘How are you fixed?’ I go.
Ro’s like, ‘Not bad, Rosser. Lot of woork to do between now and me foorst exam, but. Ine alreet on Matts, Histody and Biodogy, but I’ve a feer bit of catching-up to do on the utters – especiady Chemistoddy.’
‘Would you not think of maybe going to the library to study, Ro?’ just trying to subtly tell Shadden and Rihanna-Brogan to give him some space and Dordeen and Kennet to maybe fock off home to their own gaff. ‘It just seems there’s a lot going on here.’
Dordeen twists the butt of a cigarette in the ashtray, then takes another one from the packet. She goes, ‘I’ll teddle you what he’d want to be doing – he’d want to be forgerring all about this stoodying shit. Waste of bleaten toyum. He’s gorrra a lubbly geerdle there and a little babby to be looken arthur. Should be out eerding a wayuch, stead of sitting arowunt alt day with he’s nose in a buke. It’s not natur doddle.’
I’m like, ‘What do you mean it’s not natur doddle?’
‘Me and Shadden’s fadder, we habn’t a single qualification between the boat of us,’ and I sit there staring at her for a good ten seconds, waiting to find out what this might be evidence of.
I’m there, ‘Is that sentence finished, Dordeen?’
She goes, ‘Yeah, it’s fidished. What Ine saying is that Shadden shouldn’t be expected to spend the next howebber many years of her loyuf waiting arowunt for your son to fidish skewill.’
‘It’s not skewill, it’s college.’
Kennet throws his ten cents’ worth into the pot then. He’s like, ‘Alt we’re saying is that Ronan would be bethor off putting he’s touym and edergy into he’s business. There’s muddy to be mayud ourrof it.’
Ro set up this, like, Love/Hate Tour of Dublin last year. Nudger, Gull and Buckets of Blood are going to run it for him until he finishes college.
‘Moy advice to Ronan,’ Kennet goes, ‘is if you want to go to coddidge, then do – be all mee-uns, gerrit ourrof yisser systoddem – but what you should be concenthraten on is that tewer. It’s yisser breath and buthor. It’s what puts foowut in that freezer.’
Shadden at least sticks up for him. ‘I wanth him to go to coddidge,’ finally turning off the hoover. ‘The Lub/Hate thing idn’t godda last forebber, especiady when it’s been off the teddy a few yeeors. Ronan’s got brains to burden. Be a bettor future for us alt if he gets a good educashidden.’
There’s no fear of that, I’m tempted to say, trying to concentrate in this focking nuthouse.
‘Ro,’ I go, ‘even if you want to come with me to my old man’s for the day. Him and Helen are usually out. You’d have the gaff to yourself. I’d make you tea and blah, blah, blah.’
He’s there, ‘Nah, I’ll be alreet, Rosser. Ine moostard – seerdiously.’
It’s at that exact moment that my phone ends up ringing? I check the screen and it ends up being – holy shit – Sorcha. My first thought is that she’s possibly ringing to apologize for overreacting the night I pointed out that Magnus was – I’m just going to come out and say the word – gay. That’s why I end up answering.
I’m like, ‘Hey.’
She goes, ‘Hi,’ even though she still sounds a bit frosty with me. ‘I’m looking for a favour.’
Fock. I immediately regret answering.
I’m like, ‘A favour?’ already trying to come up with an excuse. ‘This isn’t a great line, by the way. I’m only mentioning it in case I suddenly lose you.’
She goes, ‘My grandmother wants to vote today.’
I’m there, ‘Vote? Vote for what?’
There’s, like, a long silence on the other end.
She goes, ‘Today is the day of the marriage equality referendum?’
I’m like, ‘Oh, yeah, no, I knew that. I definitely knew that.’
‘Like I said, I definitely touched a nerve with her and her friends the day I spoke to her Active Retirement group. Do you know what she said to me this morning?’
‘Go on. Again, bear in mind –’
‘She said, “You’ve helped me realize something, Sorcha. Marriage is about love. And as a Christian, it’s my duty to vote for that over the alternative.” Isn’t that – oh my God – such an amazing thing to say?’
‘It doesn’t sound like the woman. But yeah, no, I suppose it is.’
She goes, ‘I actually tweeted it and it’s got, like, thirty Likes already. And six Retweets – one or two of them from people I don’t even know!’
‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I’m just wondering – and I’m not being a dick here – but what does any of this have to do with me? There was talk of a favour?’
‘Yes, I was going to ask you, would you mind driving her to the polling station?’
‘Er, like I said, the line is bad … I’m losing you, Sorcha.’
‘It’s just that I’m going to be tied up all day – mostly monitoring what’s happening on social media. There’s some amazing, amazing stories out there. And my mum and dad are in Galway – they won’t be back until this evening.’
‘Hello? Hello?’
‘Actually,’ she goes, ‘don’t bother. I can always ask Fionn.’
Don’t ever believe, even for a minute, that men are the cleverest of the species. They’re not. In fact, if women could open jors, parallel-pork and impregnate themselves, there’d be no need for men at all.
I end up just going, ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it.’
Sorcha’s granny opens the door and I end up laughing in her face. I know I shouldn’t. It’s the big, dandelion puffball head on her. I always imagine if you sneezed, her hair would end up flying away.
She goes, ‘You’re driving me to the polling centre then, are you?’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’m only doing it as a way of hopefully getting back into Sorcha’s good books. Do you want to maybe go to the jacks first?’
The only reason I ask is because she’s, like, walking up and down on the spot.
I’m there, ‘You seem to be bursting.’
‘I don’t need the toilet,’ she goes. ‘It’s this thing,’ and she pulls up her sleeve to show me her wrist. Again, I laugh, because it turns out she’s wearing one of those, like, Fitbits?
I’m there, ‘Okay, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for it as well,’ because every second focker you meet these days is telling you how many steps he’s walked since breakfast and expecting a ‘Fair focks!’ from you.
She goes, ‘The doctor said I needed to get more exercise. He says I’m too much on that mobility scooter. I have a daily activity goal of one hundred steps per hour. I’m eighty-two, you know!’
I’m there, ‘Can you maybe stop doing it for a minute, though? It’s actually making me want to piss?’
She invites me in, then leads me down to the living room. Her gaff is a typical old person’s gaff. It smells of mince and wet wool and you can’t turn your head to the side without looking at a picture of Jesus or Mary or one of that crew making you feel guilty about shit you’ve done or shit you might be thinking of doing.
I’m like, ‘So, er, let’s get going.’
She’s like, ‘I’ll just get my voting card,’ and then she says the most unbelievable thing. ‘Someone has to put a stop to these gays and their nonsense.’
Now, you can probably imagine my reaction. I’m, like, pretty much lost for words, especially after what she supposedly said to Sorcha about – what was it? – voting for love? I’m like, ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – you’re saying you’re against gay marriage?’
She goes, ‘Of course I am. God created Adam and Eve – he didn’t create Adam and Panti Bliss.’
‘But Sorcha said you were all for it. You told her that it wasn’t for your generation, it was for the next generation.’
‘I only said that to shut her up. She came to the Active Retirement. I was playing dominos with Mrs Culloty and Mrs Rackard. Oh, she gave us all a big lecture. Said if we were against gay marriage, then we were all homeo phobiacs.’
‘I think the phrase might be homophobists?’
‘She said if we didn’t vote Yes in this referendum, that’s what we were. The gall of her to be preaching! I’m eighty-two!’
‘You mentioned.’
‘Mrs Rackard turned to me and shishee, “Isn’t that girl divorced herself?” Says I, “No, she’s separated.” And shishee, “Who is she to lecture us about marriage so?” ’
‘That’s a very good point. I might end up saying that to her. Store it up in case I ever have to use it.’
‘She made a vow. Before God. “Better or worse.” I heard her say it. And how many times have you broken up?’
‘It’s quite a few. I’m not denying that. She gets very jealous.’
Especially when I ride other women.
‘And she’s lecturing me,’ she goes, ‘on what marriage should be.’
I’m there, ‘She’s got some nerve. I’m tempted to use the word hypocrite.’
‘But we didn’t want her telling us we were all homeo phobiacs. Oh, you can’t say anything these days. Mrs Felton got an earful from her daughter for saying that she’d never tell her Confession to a black priest. So when Sorcha came to the centre, we all said the same thing to her: “Oh, we’re with the gays, don’t you worry about that! We’ll all be voting Yes on the day.” ’
‘But you’re actually going to vote No?’
‘I’m a Catholic. Gays getting married to other gays is against my faith.’
‘Well, maybe I could persuade you to vote Yes.’
‘You?’
‘Yeah, no, the point I was going to make is that Sorcha had a lot of gay friends in UCD and every single one of them was sound. And a lot easier to talk to than I expected.’
‘You and Sorcha aren’t the only ones who know gays. I know gays.’
‘What gays do you know?’
‘Mrs O’Reilly’s grandson is a gay. He does her shopping. He’s a radiographer. He gets her bits for her – from SuperValu.’
‘See?’
‘But he’s going to burn in Hell.’
‘Jesus.’
‘He’ll burn in Hell for his carry-on. Unless he repents and stops his nonsense, like the rest of them. Now, wait’ll I find my polling card.’
I decide that I can’t let her do it. It would literally break Sorcha’s hort if she ever found out that her grandmother – who she absolutely idolizes, by the way? – voted No.
It’d be ten times worse if she knew that I knew and I let her go ahead and do it.
‘Okay,’ I go, ‘I’ve got a possible solution.’
She’s like, ‘A solution? What’s this you’re saying now?’
‘Look, I was planning to vote Yes.’
‘That’s your business. As long as you know you’ll be going to Hell as well.’
‘And you’re obviously planning to vote No.’
‘God created Adam and Eve –’
‘Yeah, no, don’t say that again. Look, why don’t the two of us just not bother our holes voting?’
‘What?’
‘If you vote No and I vote Yes, we’re just going to end up cancelling each other out anyway. So why are we even bothering? Why don’t we just stay here and watch … is that Midday on the TV there?’
‘It is. I often put it on. For the company.’
‘Well, so do I. I’ve got a thing for Elaine Crowley. I’ve told her that to her face.’
‘Oh, she’s very good.’
‘She’s better than good. On that subject, we are agreed.’
‘We could have a glass of Irish Mist, couldn’t we?’
Sorcha’s granny is murder for the drink – nearly worse than my old dear.
‘It is after twelve,’ I go, then I nod at the bottle on the sideboard. ‘You go over and fix us a couple of Irish Mists then. It’ll add another few steps onto your total for the day.’
She totters over to the sideboard, then she pours us each a drink while walking up and down on the spot. She has a heavy pouring hand – it’s one of the things I’ve always liked about the woman. She hands me a tall glass filled to the top with whiskey and whatever else is in it, then we both sit down in front of the TV.
‘It’s nice not having to go out,’ she goes.
And I end up having to agree with her. It’s actually true what I’ve heard Sorcha sometimes say – politics definitely is the ort of compromise.
So it’s, like, Saturday afternoon and I’m driving the kids home from Dundrum.
‘Actually,’ Honor goes, staring down at the dozen or so shopping bags at her feet, ‘I hope you and Mom never get back together. I’m getting so much stuff since you got separated.’
I’m like ‘Yes, you are. And there’ll be more. This is going to be what it’s like every Saturday until your mother hopefully cops onto herself and takes me back.’
We arrive back at Honalee. I pull up on the side of the Vico Road and I press the buzzer. But it’s not Sorcha’s voice I hear through the intercom speaker. It’s actually her old man’s. He’s forever in the house these days. He answers by going, ‘Yes?’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it’s Ross.’
He goes, ‘Who?’
He literally says that.
‘You know who it is,’ I go. ‘Just open the gate, you focking cockwomble.’
Which is what he ends up doing. I hop back into the cor. I turn around to Honor and I go, ‘Sorcha’s old man is here – again!’
Honor pulls a face. ‘I focking hate him,’ she goes.
I’m there, ‘Well, I just called him a cockwomble.’
She laughs. She’s like, ‘A cockwomble? That’s actually funny!’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it just came to me on the spot.’
She goes, ‘Good one, Dad!’
I drive through the open gate and up the driveway. ‘Oh my God,’ Honor goes, ‘I totally forgot, she asked them to babysit us tonight.’
I’m like, ‘Er, why? Where’s she gone? And where’s Magnus? Are – I don’t know – Shamrock Rangers playing or something?’
‘No, the two of them have gone in to Dublin Castle to hear the referendum result announced – the saps.’
She can be very funny, Honor. As long as you don’t get on the wrong side of her.
Brian shouts, ‘You focking cockwomble!’
Me and Honor just crack our holes laughing. They really are like sponges at that age. It’s lovely.
Anyway, I’m halfway up the driveway when I suddenly see it, porked in front of the gaff – it’s, like, a removal lorry? I end up just, like, slamming on the brakes. Because men are lifting shit out of it – we’re talking boxes, we’re talking a desk, we’re talking a sofa – and carrying it all into the house.
I’m like, ‘What the fock?’ as I climb out of the cor and Honor says something very similar. Sorcha’s old man greets us at the door.
I’m like, ‘What’s all this?’
He goes, ‘Oh, just our few, meagre possessions. As you are often wont to remind us, Sorcha’s mother and I don’t have much in the world. We do have the love of our daughter, however. And, happily, it’s not something we have to buy,’ and he makes a big point of staring at the ten or fifteen shopping bags swinging from Honor’s orms.
I’m there, ‘You are not moving into my house.’
‘It’s not your house anymore,’ he goes. ‘I told you. You’re finished here.’
I whip out my phone and I ring Sorcha.
Honor’s there, ‘What’s happening, Dad?’
And I’m like, ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
The phone goes straight to her voicemail. I turn on my heel and I head for the cor. Honor’s like, ‘Dad, where are you going?’
‘Fock you,’ Brian shouts as I take him and his brothers out of their cor seats. ‘You focking cockwomble.’
And I’m there, ‘I’m going to Dublin Castle – to find out what’s going on.’
‘Oh, good,’ Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘because she has a little surprise for you.’
I hear it on the news while I’m in the cor. Ireland has voted to change the Constitution to extend civil marriage rights to same-sex couples and I’m thinking, that’s fantastic news – at least I know she’ll be in a good mood.
I throw the cor into the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre, then I walk down George’s Street and onto Dame Street, where the porty has already kicked off. It’s an absolute scorcher of a day and there’s, like, a real cornival atmosphere on the streets? Men and women are hugging each other. Men and men are hugging each other. Women and women are hugging each other. Everyone seems to be crying – not because they’re sad, but because they’re happy.
People are driving by and sounding their cor horns as if to say, ‘Fair focks and fock the begrudgers who tried to stop this from actually happening.’ And I have to say, I feel very proud of what we’ve just done as a country, even though I didn’t bother voting myself.
A massive crowd is gathered outside the gates of Dublin Castle. They’re holding up little green signs saying ‘Equality’ and ‘Yes’ and ‘Tá’ – which is the Irish word for thanks. A bearded man in a dress wraps a rainbow flag around my shoulders and gives me a kiss on the cheek and everyone cheers and I laugh as I push my way through the throng of people to the actual gates. Which end up being locked.
I look through the bors into this, like, courtyord, which again is packed thick with people, waving flags, crying, holding up signs, sitting on each other’s shoulders and generally just savouring the moment. In a way, it’s, like, history?
There’s a dude with his back to me who’s obviously, I don’t know, security of some kind. I’m like, ‘Hey – you!’ and he turns around. ‘Can I get in there, please?’
He’s like, ‘Do you have a pass?’
There’s always one. Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Give a man an orange bib, a clipboard and a walkie-talkie and you turn him into an absolute jeb-end.
I pat myself down, going, ‘Unfortunately, I think I’ve lost it. But my wife is inside there – she was involved in the whole, I don’t know, thing?’
He’s there, ‘I can’t let you in – not without a pass.’
Shit, I’m thinking. I have to get in there to see her. And that’s when I hear what could only be described as a loud squeal behind me, followed by, ‘Oh my God, Ross!’
I turn around and there’s a bird standing in front of me. The face is definitely familiar. I just can’t place her. She obviously picks up on my confusion because she puts her hand on her chest and goes, ‘Oreanna?’
Oreanna! Now there’s a name from the past! I laugh. She laughs as well, which comes as a definite relief because during the brief time we dated – we’re talking, like, years ago? – I accidentally ran over her cat, then accidentally killed her dog.
She’s obviously not one to hold a grudge because she gives me a massive hug and goes, ‘It’s lovely to see you – what a day, huh?’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, everyone seems to be happy alright.’
Then she turns to the bird standing beside her and goes, ‘Eva, this is Ross!’
She’s clearly told her one or two stories about the Rossmeister General because Eva’s face lights up and she goes, ‘Oh my God, this is him?’, and I can’t tell whether she means it in a good way or a bad way.
But Oreanna goes, ‘Ross, this is my girlfriend, Eva.’
And I’m like, ‘Girlfriend?’ because this is obviously new information. ‘I didn’t think you were –’
She laughs. ‘Er, you couldn’t tell,’ she goes, ‘from my general lack of enthusiasm when we slept together?’
I’m like, ‘Not really, no.’
I tend not to notice that kind of thing. It might sound sexist, but I’m usually too focused on my own game to care whether the other person is enjoying themselves.
‘And you,’ she goes. ‘I definitely knew you were gay,’ and she grabs the two corners of the rainbow flag that I’m still wearing around my shoulders and she ties them at the front.
I’m like, ‘What?’
She goes, ‘Oh, just from the way you went about it. I got a sense that women did very little for you.’
I’m there, ‘The thing is, Oreanna, I’m not actually –’
And then I stop, because I notice that she’s wearing, like, a laminated badge around her neck and I suddenly see a way of getting through those gates. I’m there, ‘So are you, like, involved in the whole thing?’
She goes, ‘Yeah, I actually work with the Gay and Lesbian Equality Network.’
‘Happy focking days. Could you get me in – as in, into the actual courtyord there? It’s just that my, er, yeah, no, boyfriend is inside?’
‘Boyfriend. Big-time. Bart.’
I don’t know why I say Bart. But I do say Bart.
I’m there, ‘He’s a quantity surveyor.’
Again, I’m just throwing out random shit.
‘Oh my God,’ Oreanna goes, ‘that’s so lovely,’ and then she turns around to Eva. ‘I’ll give him a pass,’ she goes. ‘He did help me realize it was women I liked.’
Jesus, another one. The goys in UCD used to call me Flipper.
Eva just nods. Oreanna reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ticket, which she then just hands to me. I go, ‘Thanks so much – you’ve just made this day even more special for me,’ because you’ve obviously got to make it sound convincing. ‘I really want to celebrate this day with, like I said, Bart.’
We say our goodbyes and our good lucks to each other, then ten seconds later I’m through the gates and in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, trying to pick my wife out amid all this happy pandemonium going on around me.
It takes me about twenty minutes to find her. I actually notice this, like, drag queen – who bears an uncanny resemblance to my old dear – turn over on his ankle on the cobbles. It’s definitely not the place for heels – in terms of the venue, someone obviously didn’t think it through. Anyway, I notice Sorcha and focking Muirgheal lift him back on his feet, then help him fix his skirt.
I’m straight over there and I’m like, ‘Okay, Sorcha, what the fock?’
To say she’s surprised to see me there, especially wearing a rainbow flag around my shoulders, would be a definite understatement. She’s like, ‘What are you doing here?’
I go, ‘Never mind what am I doing here. What are your old pair doing moving their shit into my house?’
‘You’ve got a nerve. You really have.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth.’
‘Did you bring my grandmother to vote?’
‘Yes, I did bring her. Yes, indeed.’
‘You didn’t, Ross.’
‘Excuse me?’
She actually shouts it this time? She goes, ‘You didn’t bring her to vote!’
I once saw Cian Healy emptying loose change from a Jacob’s Afternoon Tea biscuit tin into a Coinstar machine in Tesco on the Upper Rathmines Road. The printer must have been out of toner because it spat him out a receipt with no actual writing on it. The look Sorcha gives me is the same look Cian Healy gave that Coinstar machine.
‘She didn’t move all afternoon,’ she goes. ‘My mum and dad checked her Fitbit.’
Oh, shit.
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, the thing is …’ trying to come up with an explanation quickly.
‘She only took eight steps,’ Sorcha goes, ‘between twelve o’clock, which was around the time you arrived, and a quarter to six, when my mum and dad called to her house to find her drunk. Drunk, Ross! In front of Nuacht!’
Muirgheal tuts and shakes her head. This has fock-all to do with her – she should stay the fock out of it.
‘Okay,’ I go, ‘if you want the real truth … Let me think here …’
Sorcha’s there, ‘You didn’t bring her to vote, Ross.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘She told us what happened. She said she was going to vote one way and you were going to vote the other way, so you told her there was no point in bothering.’
‘Yeah, no, I’m sorry to have to tell you that that’s what actually did happen.’
And that’s when I suddenly notice her – the granny – standing a few feet to my left, with Magnus as it happens. The woman is wearing – I shit you not – a t-shirt with the word ‘Equality’ on it. I’m too in shock to even speak and she takes advantage of my silence to go, ‘He said he wouldn’t bring me to vote because I told him I was going to vote Yes.’
I’m like, ‘What? That’s not what …’
Magnus shakes his head sort of, like, disgustedly?
She goes, ‘Live and let live is what I say. Isn’t it still love at the end of the day? And who are you to say these gays shouldn’t enjoy the same rights as everyone else?’
The sneaky focking cow. I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, she’s lying, Sorcha.’
Sorcha goes, ‘Yeah, I think you’ve just proven who the real liar here is, Ross. I can’t believe you denied her the opportunity to vote in – oh my God – the most important referendum in her lifetime.’
‘Well, the truth, which you might not want to hear, is that she was actually going to vote No.’
‘I don’t even want to know your reasons for being against gay marriage, Ross. I had no idea I was married to a bigot.’
By now, of course, there are quite a few people in the courtyord listening in to the conversation? I hope it’s not homophobist to say that gay people love a bit of drama.
‘She’s the one who’s the bigot,’ I go, feeling like I’m addressing the entire audience in Dublin Castle now. Which, given the level of attention we’re drawing, I kind of am? ‘She only told you she was going to vote Yes because you went to the Active Retirement and bullied her and her mates into it.’
The granny knows what she’s doing, though, because she goes, ‘I think Sorcha knows which one of us is the liar. You’ve been doing it your entire marriage.’
Sorcha just shakes her head – like she’s more, I don’t know, disappointed than angry? ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘this is definitely the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.’
I’m there, ‘I hordly think it is, Sorcha. I rode your sister.’
There’s a lot of gasps around me. I’m losing this crowd – there’s no denying that.
I’m there, ‘I’m not saying it in a braggy way. I’m just making the point that we managed to come back from that. Me riding your sister. That’s the benchmork.’
And that’s when, for some reason, I look down at her hand and I notice that she’s not wearing her rings anymore. I actually blurt it out. I’m there, ‘You’re not wearing your …’
She goes, ‘Our marriage is finished, Ross. It was from the very minute you drove to Dalkey and had sex with that slut.’
Someone shouts, ‘You go, girl!’ and there ends up being, like, a round of applause from a hundred or so people.
I’m there, ‘Sorcha, please – let’s not ruin this day of supposedly celebration by talking about breaking up. Think of all these people.’
It’s no good, though. I know what’s coming even before she storts fumbling around in her handbag. Then she hands me the envelope. ‘That’s a letter from my dad,’ she goes, ‘formalizing our separation and giving you notice that I’m going to be seeking a divorce on the grounds of adultery.’
There’s, like, cheers and clapping from the couple of hundred or so people who are tuned in to the conversation. I just look around at all these men and women, here to celebrate. And though I try my best not to be bitter, I end up going, ‘Seriously, why would anyone in their right mind want to get married?’
They all stort booing me? Which upsets me hugely, because gay people have always, always loved me. As a matter of fact, men who work at skincare counters in deportment stores often look at me when they’re answering Sorcha’s questions. Sometimes, I can maintain eye contact with them for four or five seconds.
‘You know what? I’ve actually changed my mind,’ I go. ‘I’m now anti gay marriage.’
I hear people saying to each other, ‘He said he’s against gay marriage.’
‘Why are you even here then?’ a man with a pink feather boa shouts. ‘Why don’t you fock off, you homophobe?’
I’m there, ‘I’m saying it for your own good. It’s gay marriage today. But you’ll be looking for gay divorce next – mork my words. One thing will follow the other.’
‘Get out of here,’ this big dude with a shaved head goes. ‘You’re not welcome here.’
And a crowd of maybe two hundred people cheer.
‘You must be mad,’ I tell them. ‘You must all be focking mad.’