2. Eirexit

I’m back in the old man’s gaff, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the letter – and at one word in particular. The D word. I’m there, ‘I honestly thought she’d take me back.’

Helen is standing behind me with her hand on my shoulder, being as sympathetic as she possibly can. She goes, ‘I expect she feels terribly betrayed, Ross.’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, keep talking to me like that, Helen. A bit of tough love is probably what I need right now.’

‘You cheated on her. You’ve been cheating on her for years. It shouldn’t come as any great surprise that she’s finally wised up and decided that she deserves better.’

‘Yeah, no, maybe ease off on the tough love, Helen. I might need you to say something positive now to even things up.’

‘How many second chances did you think she was going to give you, Ross?’

‘Two or three more. I don’t know. She carried on wearing her rings until she found out that I didn’t bring that stupid cow to vote. There might still be a chance for us if I can persuade her that her granny is a bigot who believes that gay people burn in Hell.’

‘I think you need to respect Sorcha’s wishes, Ross.’

‘She might still change her mind, though. I was thinking about maybe calling over there wearing my Spicebomb by Viktor & Rolf, which she can never resist. Another one that definitely gets her juices flowing is By the Fireplace, by Replica.’

‘Ross, I think you need to accept that your marriage is over.’

‘I can’t accept it. What am I going to say to Honor? I told her I’d be moving back home within a couple of weeks. I made her that promise.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Ross.’

‘Coulda, woulda, shoulda, Helen. The fact is that I did.’

I put down the letter and I end up just shaking my head – I think it’s a word – ruefully? ‘So that’s it,’ I go. ‘It looks like I’m returning to the singles morket.’

Helen rubs the top of my orm in, like, a soothing way? She really is great. She’s there, ‘You don’t need to rush out there and find someone else. I don’t think it would do you any harm to be by yourself for a while.’

‘I know you’re trying to help,’ I go, ‘but you’re being ridiculous.’

And that’s when the old man suddenly arrives home. Into the kitchen he walks, going, ‘Felicitous tidings I bring to thee!’ and he slaps the Sunday Indo down on the table. ‘Feast your eyes on that headline!’

It’s like, ‘New Republic Ahead of Labour in Poll’.

He goes, ‘We’re already the fourth largest party in the country behind Fine Gael, Fianna Fáil and Sinn Féin! And that’s after one month!’

Helen – in fairness to her – goes, ‘Ross is upset, Charlie.’

‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘it doesn’t have to always be about you. Sorcha is divorcing me.’

‘Divorcing you?’ he goes – like the penny has finally dropped. ‘Oh, that’s rather unfortunate!’

I’m like, ‘Is that all you can say?’

And he goes – and I’m quoting him word for word now – ‘You know, I heard her on the radio last night talking about marriage rights for the – inverted commas – homosexual community! Came across very well! Even had me convinced!’

‘Charlie,’ Helen goes, ‘could you be any more insensitive?’

He looks at her and he has literally no idea what she’s even talking about. I don’t bother my hole explaining it to him, because my phone suddenly rings and I can see from the screen that it’s Honor. I stand up from the table and at the same time I answer it. I’m like, ‘Hey, you!’, trying to put a brave face on shit.

There’s no greeting – no nothing. She just goes, ‘You lied to me. You are getting divorced.’

I laugh out loud. I’m just trying to protect her. I’m there, ‘Honor, I swear on my old man’s life that me and your mother are not getting divorced.’

I give him a long stare, then I step out of the kitchen into the hallway.

Honor goes, ‘I heard Mom telling her prick of a dad that she served you with a formal divorce notice in Dublin Castle last night.’

And I’m like, ‘Okay, I admit it, we are getting divorced. But I’m still hoping to persuade her to give it another go. That’s the good news. I know they say don’t give your children false hope, but there’s a definite chance we’ll look back on this one day and laugh.’

There’s, like, silence on the other end of the phone. I’m there, ‘I hope that’s put your mind at ease, Honor.’

She doesn’t answer me one way or the other. Instead, she says the most unbelievable thing to me. She goes, ‘I want to take up rugby.’

I’m there, ‘Rugby? The game of rugby?’

‘Yes,’ she goes, ‘the game of rugby.’

‘But you always said rugby was for saps and homosexuals.’

‘That was before. Now I’ve grown to like it.’

‘Hey, no offence taken, Honor. Can I just ask you, though, was it my recent heroics for Seapoint that made you want to follow in my footsteps?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe a little bit? You’ve heard one or two stories? People are going to talk. I have to accept that.’

‘You’re such a focking narcissist. I just like the game, that’s all.’

I’m suddenly realizing that this all stems from her looking through my Rugby Tactics Book. I’ve obviously inspired her. I’m there, ‘Can I just say, Honor, that I’m absolutely delighted? Because your brothers are turning out to be a massive, massive disappointment to me, certainly in terms of rugby. The next time we’re in Herbert Pork, they can stay in their focking stroller and it’ll be just me and you throwing the old shaved coconut back and forth.’

She goes, ‘I’m not talking about just throwing the ball around in Herbert Pork. I want to play – for, like, a team?’

I’m there, ‘An actual team?’, because there’s a bit of me that finds the idea of women playing rugby ridiculous. ‘What team are we talking?’

She goes, ‘Old Belvedere Minis are having a trial next Saturday. I want you to bring me.’

And I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, no, we’ll definitely go and check it out.’

When I hang up, the old man is telling Helen that he’s asked Hennessy to be his Attorney General if he wins the election and Hennessy has said yes. ‘We’re going out to celebrate tonight,’ he goes, ‘with a couple of John Shanahan’s finest sides of Certified Irish Angus! And let’s see if he doesn’t have a bottle of 2004 Échezeaux Grand Cru, Romanée-Conti knocking around!’

Helen totally innocently goes, ‘You’re not supposed to be eating red meat, Charlie. Or drinking. Remember what the specialist said about your heart?’

‘Oh, damn that bloody specialist! Damn his bloody eyes! You can’t win an election eating … what was that awful thing you made last night?’

‘It was brown rice risotto with pumpkin.’

It was every bit as disgusting as it sounds, in fairness, and that’s not me taking my old man’s side.

‘Churchill didn’t win a war eating brown rice risotto with pumpkin!’ he goes. ‘It was steak! Every night! Swimming in blood!’

Helen goes, ‘Charlie, you’ve changed since you put that wig on your head.’

But then he suddenly rips into her. He’s like, ‘Shut up, woman! Just shut the hell up!’

Sorcha opens the door. She looks well. An airtex has always suited her, in terms of showing off her Mister Bigs. She’s obviously still pissed off with me because she’s got her Out of Office face on.

I go, ‘Hey,’ playing it über cool.

She’s just like, ‘The children are ready. They’re in the –’ and then I watch her little nose twitch. ‘Are you wearing Spicebomb by Viktor & Rolf?’

I’m there, ‘I don’t know. To be honest, I just grabbed the nearest bottle to me. Interesting you noticed it was Spicebomb, though.’

‘Ross, our marriage is finished. You need to come to terms with that fact.’

‘Hey, I’ve every intention of coming to terms with it. You might not want me. I’m sure there’s plenty of women out there who wouldn’t mind a slice.’

‘Let’s not do that, Ross. Let’s not hurt each other.’

‘You were the one who decided to serve me divorce papers in a public place.’

‘I was furious with you for stopping my grandmother from voting. I’m still furious. Look, I don’t know what you’ve got against gay people –’

‘I love gay people. On the record.’

‘It could be a rugby thing. I don’t know.’

‘I told you, your granny was the one who was going to vote No.’

‘But a major port of being a liberal – which is something I would definitely, definitely consider myself? – is accepting that other people are entitled to their views, however egregious they might be. I was saying that to Fionn last night.’

‘Fionn?’

‘Yes, we went for dinner. I’ve wanted to go to Mulberry Gorden for ages.’

‘I promised I’d take you.’

‘You promised me a lot of things, Ross. The food is – oh my God – every bit as good as they say.’

‘So he’s back sniffing around you again, is he?’

‘Fionn is a friend, Ross. A good friend.’

‘Well, he used to be in love with you. I’m just pointing that out so you know what you’re doing.’

‘Anyway, you can deal with your jealousy on your own time. I don’t have to listen to you anymore. I’m just saying I think it’s important that you and I don’t fall out. For the sake of the children. This divorce is going to be hord enough on them without their parents hating each other.’

‘I could never hate you, Sorcha. You look really well, by the way. An airtex has always suited you.’

‘We didn’t have the perfect marriage, Ross. But who’s to say we can’t have the perfect divorce? I’m thinking in terms of Chris and Gwyneth and how they handled things.’

‘Are these actual people or people on TV?’

‘I’m talking about Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Mortin. I’m talking about the way they consciously uncoupled. I’d love if we could handle things in a similarly civilized way.’

‘Consciously uncoupling? Yeah, no, I’d be cool with that.’

‘You and I might be finished, but let’s not forget that we brought four beautiful children into the world.’

She turns sideways to let me in. The boys already have their coats on. ‘Look at this focking prick!’ Leo shouts at me from the other end of the hallway. He’s putting complete sentences together now. Where do the years go?

Now seems like as good a time as any to say what I have to say. So I go, ‘Yeah, no, I was thinking that maybe I’d just take Honor with me this morning.’

Sorcha’s there, ‘Excuse me?’

‘She wants to take up rugby. I don’t know if she mentioned it to you.’

‘Rugby? She always said rugby was for –’

‘I know what she said, Sorcha. But she’s obviously changed her mind. Old Belvedere are having trials this morning for their Minis team and she wants to have a crack at it. Even though I don’t fully agree with the idea of women playing the game. My attitude is, what’s wrong with hockey?’

Sorcha shakes her head and sort of, like, laughs bitterly. She’s like, ‘You know why she’s doing this, don’t you?’

I’m there, ‘I’d like to think it stems back to her reading my Rugby Tactics Book.’

‘She’s doing it to get at me. You know she’s barely spoken to me since she found out about the divorce.’

‘She’s always been a daddy’s girl. I’ll give her that.’

‘Unbelievable! You had sex with that slut – I’m sorry, Ross – and she ends up taking your side?’

‘That’s a lovely thing for me to hear – although I’m still putting it down to the Tactics Book capturing her imagination. There’s some pretty amazing ideas in it. I’ll tell you one thing, if Matt O’Connor had got his hands on it, he’d probably still be in a job. Anyway, look, whatever her reasons, I promised her I’d take her to this trial this morning. Which is why I was going to ask you if I could leave the boys here?’

‘You are not leaving them here. Saturday is your access day.’

‘I realize that. The point is I’m only going to need access to one of them today. You can hang on to the other three.’

‘No way. You are not playing favourites with our children.’

‘It’s not a case of playing favourites, Sorcha. Honor’s really keen. I’ve already seen one or two flashes – she showed Leo how to throw the perfect pass.’

‘Fock off!’ Brian shouts. ‘You focking cockwomble!’

I’m there, ‘I’ve tried playing with the boys. I’m just going to come out and say it, Sorcha – they’re shit.’

She’s like, ‘I beg your pordon?’

‘I’m talking about in terms of rugby. Yeah, no, they might get better as they get older, when they learn how to throw and catch a ball properly. But right now, I’m sticking with the word shit. And, to be honest with you, the swearing is becoming a bit of an embarrassment. So what I was going to suggest was that I’d take Honor to rugby training, then maybe come back in the afternoon – no promises – to collect the boys and bring them all to Dundrum. Everyone’s a winner.’

‘You’re taking all four of them, Ross, or none at all.’

‘Fine,’ I go, ‘I’ll take the four of them. But I’ll probably just leave the boys on the back seat of the cor – obviously with the window open a crack.’

She’s like, ‘I hope that was a joke.’

‘Of course it was a joke!’

It actually wasn’t a joke? Maybe it’s just for dogs that it’s okay to do that?

Anyway, we don’t get the chance to debate the subject any further because that’s when my old man all of a sudden shows up. Again, it’s totally random, but I see his black Merc crawling up the driveway with the famous K … K … K … Kennet behind the wheel.

I’m like, ‘What the fock does this dude want?’

Sorcha looks as confused as I presumably do. She’s there, ‘I’ve no idea.’

Kennet pulls up, hops out, then opens the door for the old man, who steps out onto the gravel, combing his hair – even though it isn’t actually hair? – with his hand. ‘Sorcha!’ he goes. ‘How lovely to see you!’

Sorcha’s like, ‘Chorles? Oh my God, this is a surprise!’ and she keeps looking at me, like she thinks I might know something.

Which I don’t.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, by the way? It’s like I’m not even there. At least Kennet has the social skills to go, ‘Howiya, Rosser?’

And I’m like, ‘Yeah, whatever – you focking scumbag.’

Instead of his usual driver’s hat, I notice, he’s wearing a red baseball cap with ‘CO’CK for Taoiseach’ on the front.

Sorcha goes, ‘To what do I owe the –’, but she doesn’t get time to even finish the question.

‘I’m going to cut straight to the proverbial chase!’ the old man goes. ‘I expect you’ve heard all about New Republic by now? A sixth force in Irish politics – or seventh if you count Renua, which no one really does.’

‘Oh my God, it said in the paper you’re already ahead of Labour in the polls.’

‘That’s only the beginning! Sorcha, we are about to bear witness to a seismic shift in Irish politics! This country has not been at such a critical juncture since the year nineteen hundred and twenty-two! I’m sure Ross here will attest to that – with his keen knowledge of history!’

I got an NG in History. I’m just setting the record straight.

He goes, ‘There’s a huge groundswell of people out there who’ve had enough of the old parties who’ve governed this country since Independence! They’re angry! And when people are angry, they’re liable to vote for just about anyone! I want New Republic to be that just about anyone!’

‘I’d love to say you have my vote, Chorles –’

‘I’m not looking for your vote, Sorcha! I’m looking for you to join us!’

‘Are you asking me to stand in the next election?’

Where’s his focking loyalty? This is the woman who’s supposedly divorcing me.

‘Why not?’ he goes. ‘I’m familiar with the work you did on that gay marriage business! I’ve heard your name mentioned in dispatches as someone who changed the minds of many elderly, conservative voters!’

I say fock-all on the matter. It’d serve no useful purpose.

He’s there, ‘You convinced hundreds of people – many of them even older than me – to vote for the idea of a man marrying a man!’

‘Or a woman marrying a woman,’ she goes.

‘The very idea of it! We need people of your calibre!’

‘I’d love to say yes, Chorles. You know how much I’ve always loved you – and Fionnuala. The problem is that I disagree with your position on water chorges. I’m actually in favour of chorging people for water? It’s a priceless natural resource, Chorles. And I genuinely believe that if we chorge people for the amount they use, they will learn to treat it more responsibly?’

‘See? You’ve just persuaded me!’

‘Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?’

‘I’m saying you’ve convinced me that I should give the subject a fuller consideration!’

‘Do you have an environmental policy?’

That’s hilarious. It’s like asking Kennet there if he has a TV licence.

The old man’s like, ‘A –?’

‘An environmental policy,’ she goes. ‘Because if I do say yes, I’d love to be involved in drawing one up, as well as a White Paper on the future funding of Ireland’s domestic water service.’

That’d be typical of Sorcha. She’s in the club ten seconds and she’s already trying to run things. I’m tempted to say that’s Mount Anville for you.

The old man’s there, ‘How does Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly – New Republic spokesperson on the Environment – sound to you?’

She goes, ‘Could I be Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly – New Republic spokesperson on the Environment, Community and Sustainability?’

‘If that’s the price of persuading you to go head to head with Lucinda Creighton, then I’m more than happy to pay it! Omnia cum pretio!’

‘Lucinda Creighton? Oh my God, she’s a role model to me in terms of women’s engagement with the political process.’

‘Well, that’s a pity, because I was rather hoping you would take her seat!’

“You want me to run in Dublin Bay South?’

‘Yes. And when I’m Taoiseach, I want you to be my Minister for the Environment!’

‘And Community and Sustainability?’

‘If you think you can fit those things in as well, by all means! So what do you say?’

‘I don’t know, Chorles. I’m very busy. I’m a single mother of four children, including three infants.’

‘You’ve got so much talent, Sorcha! So much ability! And loath as I am to make light of your present domestic circumstances, this might be the right time for an – inverted commas – life change?’

What a complete and utter penis.

Sorcha goes, ‘I suppose I do have Magnus. And my mom and dad can help out now that they’ve moved in.’

‘You’ve been talking about going into politics for years, Sorcha! Well, this is your chance! What do you say? Will you help me make Ireland tremendous again?’

She thinks about it for four or five seconds, then goes, ‘Okay, Chorles, I’m going to say yes. I would love to be the New Republic candidate for Dublin Bay South – as well as the porty’s spokesperson on the Environment, Community and Sustainability! And I’m determined to change your mind on water chorges.’

He goes, ‘I look forward to many hours of robust debate!’

At that moment, Honor arrives down the stairs with – incredibly – my old Canterbury kitbag slung over her shoulder. ‘What’s going on?’ she goes.

I say fock-all on the matter. But I know that swimming with a shork like my old man is something that Sorcha is going to one day regret. And even though our marriage is over, I possibly owe it to her as a friend to keep a close eye on her.

Honor steps out of the dressing room and walks onto the pitch. She’s wearing the little Leinster jersey I bought her for Christmas and I’m suddenly on the point of tears, because I’m remembering her unwrapping it on Christmas morning, then curling her top lip and saying she’d probably end up using it as a focking tanning mitt.

Her exact words.

I’m happy to say that she didn’t in the end because it very much suits her.

I’m looking around me. There are plenty of other parents here who are probably every bit as proud as I am. The first thing I notice is that, even though the session is supposedly open, Honor is the only actual girl playing?

Leo, Johnny and Brian are sitting in their stroller. Johnny is singing Everything is Awesome from the Lego movie, while Leo is shouting, ‘They’re all focking focks! They’re all a pack of focking fockers!’

A few of the other parents seem pretty upset by the language – judging from the way they’re staring over and muttering to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

‘You pack of pricks!’ Brian shouts at them. ‘It’s all you are – a pack of focking pricks!’

I try to blank it out and just focus on what’s happening on the pitch. The dude taking the training session introduces himself as Rob. He picks Honor out of all the other kids and he uses her to demonstrate how to throw a rugby ball. He explains it to her in theory. What he doesn’t realize, of course, is that Honor already knows? She’s grown up steeped in this stuff – plus she’s read my playbook from cover to cover. He hands her the ball, takes ten steps backwards and he goes, ‘Okay, throw it to me,’ which is exactly what Honor ends up doing. It’s a perfect pass. As Rob catches it, I can see the look of surprise on his face.

He goes, ‘Okay, who taught you to throw like that?’

Honor just shrugs and goes, ‘Er, my dad?’

And he’s like, ‘Do you mind me asking, who’s your –?’ and he follows her line of vision until he sees the Rossmeister General – in other words, me – standing there.

He actually laughs. And I laugh as well. Because I suddenly recognize him just as sure as he suddenly recognizes me. It’s Rob Felle. He played inside centre for Belvedere College back in the day and we had some pretty memorable battles, it has to be said. There was one time when I stood on his head in a ruck after he tried to gouge out my eye with his thumb. When we were asked by the IRFU afterwards to make a statement, we both pretended we couldn’t remember a thing about the incident.

One word. Rugby.

He goes, ‘Ross, how the hell are you? I’ve been hearing stories about you.’

I’m like, ‘Oh, yeah? What have you been hearing? As in, what specifically?’

I’m not fishing for compliments. I just think it might be nice for Honor to hear it in front of the other kids.

‘A certain team called Seapoint,’ he goes. ‘I heard you came out of retirement and saved them from relegation.’

I’m there, ‘I didn’t do it all on my own,’ which would be pretty typical of me, always sharing the credit, even when I deserve all of it. ‘Others definitely helped.’

He goes, ‘A lot of people who remembered you and wondered whatever happened to you were very, very impressed.’

I’m there, ‘I answered the critics. That was my whole reason for coming back in the first place.’

Rob points me out to the sixteen or so kids there and goes, ‘See that man over there? He could have been one of the all-time greats.’

I shrug modestly and go, ‘Hey, not all heroes wear capes!’ and it’s a lovely moment for Honor. Beneath the filthy look she’s giving me, I’m pretty sure she’s bursting with pride.

What happens then is that Rob arranges all the boys and one girl into two teams of eight. They’re going to play each other – we’re talking ten minutes per half. The idea is to get them used to handling the ball and moving forwards by passing backwards.

The funny thing is that you can see that the boys on Honor’s team – the blue team – aren’t happy that they’re the ones who’ve ended up with a girl on their side? As Rob hands out the bibs, I hear one kid with sticky-out ears and an underbite go, ‘It’s basically eight against seven – that’s, like, so not fair!’

I go, ‘Don’t listen to the critics, Honor! Focus only on what you can affect!’ a lesson I learned from my own mentor, the late, great Father Fehily.

Well, the message obviously gets through. The first time Honor gets her hands on the ball, she carries it a good, like, thirty yords. The other team try to tackle her, except she skips away from them with a flick of her hips, or she just ploughs through them – boys who are much bigger than her, bear in mind – and runs on towards the line.

I’m, like, stunned – pleasantly stunned, though. I don’t need to tell you who she reminds me of! I’m going, ‘Go on, Honor!’ literally roaring at her. ‘Try in the corner! Try in the corner!’

Unfortunately, she gets dragged into touch five yords from the line.

I’m like, ‘Hord luck, Honor!’ clapping my two hands together as she climbs to her feet. ‘Reset and go again!’

There’s a definite change in the atmos around Anglesea Road. Suddenly, no one is complaining about having Honor on their team, since it’s straightaway obvious she’s in a different league from all the other kids, although I’m not sure that the other parents on the sideline appreciate me pointing out that basic fact.

I’m going, ‘She’s the best player on display! A focking girl, bear in mind! She’s better than all your kids! By a mile!’

Brian goes, ‘Yeah, you pack of focking shitheads!’ and I don’t think the other parents love that either.

The game restorts and it’s not long before Honor puts in an unbelievable tackle on this fat kid – she totally knocks the wind out of his lungs – then she picks the ball up and tucks it under her orm. With a sudden acceleration of pace, she burns off two other players and heads for the posts this time. She dummies another tackler with a move I invented – I can actually see the page in the book – but as she’s heading for the line, this focking ginger kid, who looks like a real dick, puts out his orm and, like, totally clotheslines her.

She goes down.

I’m like, ‘Referee!’ letting Rob know, in no uncertain terms, that he has a duty – like all referees – to protect the flair players. Rob blows his whistle. He’s like, ‘That was a bit high, Milseáin.’

He’s called Milseáin! I actually laugh out loud. When I was growing up, Milseáin was always a girl’s name.

Honor climbs to her feet, rubbing the back of her neck. At the same time, she doesn’t make a big issue out of it. You’d have to love her attitude.

‘Penalty to the blue team,’ Rob goes.

Honor stops rubbing her neck and storts looking around for the ball. But – this is un-focking-believable – the kid on her team with sticky-out ears and an underbite is already in the process of spotting it. I end up suddenly losing it. I push the stroller onto the field, going, ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – what the fock do you think you’re doing?’

The kid goes, ‘The coach said I could take the first penalty?’

‘But you didn’t win it,’ I go. ‘Why the fock should you get to take it?’

Rob’s like, ‘I was thinking maybe they could take it in turns – then they’ll all get to have a kick at goal!’

I’m just there, ‘Turns?’ and I stare him out of it, thinking, yeah, no, that’s the give-every-child-a-medal attitude that’s destroying modern rugby. That’s the you-must-leave-the-field-because-you-got-a-bang-on-the-head-and-your-eyes-are-turned-inwards approach that’s turning it into a game for wusses. Rob’s old school lost to Cistercian in the Leinster Schools Senior Cup final this year. I’m tempted to mention that to him, but I somehow manage to stop myself.

‘Turns my focking hole,’ I go. ‘My daughter is taking the penalty. No arguments.’

Focking Cistercian. It sounds like a disease that makes cows lame.

I pick up the ball and I toss it to Honor. She’s keen for it, by the way? She takes it, spots it, then – and this just makes me so proud – she takes four steps backwards and three to the side.

‘Okay,’ I go, walking back to the sideline with the stroller and having to ignore the seriously filthy looks I’m getting from the other parents, ‘make sure there’s a forty-five-degree angle between you, the ball and the posts.’

Honor’s there, ‘Yeah, I know what I’m doing, Dad.’

‘Okay, but don’t forget to make contact one-third of the way up the ball using your instep.’

‘Er, I said I’ve got this?’

And she obviously does, because she looks from the ball to the posts, then back to the ball, then back to the posts again – the exact way I described it on a page headlined ‘The Perfect Kick’. There’s none of Dan Biggar’s horseshit carry-on, even though I have massive, massive respect for him as a number ten. She puts her head down then, takes a run at the ball and sends it up into the air and sailing between the posts.

I’m like, ‘Yeeesss!!!’

People often talk about your daughter’s wedding day being The Big One in terms of, like, pride. But I doubt if I’ll ever feel the same way about Honor as I do at that moment.

All the other parents end up having to clap, of course? And I can see all the other kids just staring at Honor – and what I see in their eyes is respect.

I don’t know why I didn’t see it that day in Herbert Pork, when she showed her brother how to throw the ball. Because now it’s so blindingly obvious. My daughter is going to be my rugby player. Not Leo, not Brian, not Johnny. Honor is the true heir to the O’Carroll-Kelly rugby name.

The session eventually ends. Honor goes into the dressing room and I head for the cor. I strap the boys into their baby seats, then I wait for her to finish getting changed. Five minutes later, the front passenger door opens and in she climbs.

‘Honor,’ I go, ‘I am so proud of you.’

She’s like, ‘Whatever,’ full of modesty.

We’ll soon knock that out of her.

I’m there, ‘You’re a natural, Honor,’ hoping that it also acts as a subtle motivation to the other three to get their act together. ‘Unlike others I could mention.’

I lean forward and I open the glove box. ‘I want you to have this,’ I go.

I put it in her hands. To say she’s surprised would be a definite understatement.

She goes, ‘Your Rugby Tactics Book?’

That’s what she calls it. Not my Sad Dad’s Book or my Loser’s Guide to Rugby or my Catalogue of Failure. She calls it my Rugby Tactics Book.

And I go, ‘It’s not my Rugby Tactics Book anymore, Honor. It’s yours.’

I ring Ronan – again, this goes back to the whole me being an amazing father thing – to wish him good luck in the Leaving Cert, which storts either tomorrow or it storted yesterday. Or maybe it storted last week.

He’s there, ‘Alreet, Rosser?’

I go, ‘How the hell are you, Ro? How are the exams going – or have they even storted?’

‘Steert tomoddow,’ he goes. ‘English is foorst.’

Ronan has actual potential. His teachers reckon he’ll walk into any college he wants.

I’m there, ‘English wasn’t one of my best. Mind you, who am I kidding – like I had a best subject!’

And that’s when I notice that he’s unusually quiet. I’m there, ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’

He goes, ‘It’s not neerbs, Rosser. Ine boddixed, so I am,’ and I can suddenly hear that he’s on the point of tears.

I’m there, ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – what do mean you’re boddixed?’

‘I should hab listoddened to you when you said to me to foyunt somewhere else to stoody. I caddent concenthrate in that house.’

‘Kennet and that focking skank!’

‘Him and Dordeen’s been cawding arowunt evoddy night, Rosser, wit caddens.’

‘Cans? Can they not drink them in their own gaff?’

‘Thee said thee wanthed to keep Shadden company while Ine off doing whatebber it is Ine doing – filling me head with shite, Dordeen said.’

‘Is that an exact quote?’

‘It’s what she said.’

‘What a focking –’

‘So they’re thrinking the caddens, then thee put on music – fuddle blast, Rosser.’

‘What kind of music are we talking? Not that it’s even relevant.’

‘Lot of Oasis.’

‘I was going to predict Oasis. Jesus, I was going to predict it.’

‘Ine habben to listen to, “Sooo, Saddy can wait …” oaber and oaber and oaber again. And the peerd of them siggin along. And of course then Rihatta-Barrogan wakes up and she’s croyun her oyuz out. I habbent slept alt week, Rosser. Beerdly slept. I’ve English in the morden and I caddent remember a ting. Me moyunt’s a blank.’

‘Okay, just calm down, Ronan. Do you want me to have a word with them?’

‘Doatunt botter your boddicks, Rosser. It’s too late now. Ine gonna bleaten fayul.’

I’m sitting in Cinnamon in Ranelagh, which is a bit off the beaten track for me, but I happened to see on Facebook that Sorcha was in the vicinity. It’s not stalking, even though it sounds like stalking?

Yeah, no, she mentioned that, as the newly announced New Republic candidate for Dublin Bay South, she was going to be spending the morning outside the Luas Station, meeting local people and hearing their concerns – ‘We wish we lived in Rathgor!’ comes up quite a lot, I’d imagine – and afterwards she was looking forward to having her lunch in this place.

Just after half-twelve, she arrives in. Of course she’s pretty taken aback to see me sitting there, drinking a latte and pretending to read a newspaper. The hilarious thing is it’s actually upside-down! I’m like, ‘Hey, Sorcha! What the hell are you doing here?’ making out that it’s, like, a massive coincidence.

She goes, ‘I was doing a meet-and-greet outside the Luas station … The thing is, Ross, I’m actually meeting someone here.’

I’m there, ‘It’s not Fionn again, is it?’ but then, over her shoulder, I suddenly spot who she’s talking about. It’s Claire from Bray of all places and that long drink of piss she’s married to – focking Garret. They must be back for a holiday. Honestly, I’ve seen more of that pair since they emigrated to Canada than I did when they actually lived here!

Claire’s like, ‘Oh, em, hi!’ with a look of confusion on her face – she’s obviously been filled in on our marital situation and she’s wondering what the fock I’m doing here.

Sorcha’s there, ‘I turned up and he was just here,’ and it pisses me off that she feels the need to apologize for me.

And Garret’s like, ‘We could go somewhere else. I’m told Tribeca does a genuinely good pulled-pork sandwich.’

And I’m like, ‘Sit the fock down, will you? I’m going to finish my coffee, then I’ll be gone.’

So they all sit down at the table with me.

Garret, by the way, has a Peaky Blinders haircut and – this is genuinely hilarious – a focking moustache! And I don’t mean he has a moustache like my son has a moustache, or even – I’m going to just say it – like my old dear has a moustache. This is one of those ones with the curly ends that hipsters decide to grow when they feel that their passion for independent coffee shops, cross-body bags and bands no one else has ever focking heard of aren’t getting them enough attention.

‘What the fock is that on your face?’ I make a big point of going.

He’s like, ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it – it’s called style.’

‘Maybe in Toronto it is. In Ranelagh, you look like just another tool who’s trying too hord to be noticed.’

He’s also wearing shoes with no socks. Jesus Christ, I want to punch him in the face.

Claire goes, ‘Okay, you two, don’t start! God, I haven’t even said hello to Sorcha yet!’ but then she does. She stretches across the table and it ends up being air-kisses and all the rest of it.

Sorcha goes, ‘How long are you home for?’

And Claire’s like, ‘Two weeks! Oh my God, it’s so good to get a holiday! We have been up to our eyes with the business!’

She’s talking about Wheat Bray Love, the ridiculous organic bakery they opened in Toronto. She takes out her iPad and storts showing Sorcha photographs and Sorcha does her best to sound impressed, while I make a big point of showing no interest whatsoever.

‘The big news,’ Garret goes, ‘is that we’ve storted opening in the evenings now – doing street food.’

I’m there, ‘Street food? Of course, you’d be used to that, Claire, coming from Bray – you were focking reared out of bins.’

‘Ignore him,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Oh my God, I love the subway tiles on the wall. And the way you’ve spelt apple pie on the menu board – with an E, L, and a Y, E!’

Garret goes, ‘That’s one of the things that Claire and I genuinely love about Canada. Irish people are so literal, aren’t they? Whereas over there, you can have fun, experiment, whether that’s with how you spell things, what you cook. The street food – Claire will tell you – we’re doing root veg curry chips, goat offal patties in steamed brioche buns, then banh chuoi chien, which are deep-fried banana cakes. We were the first in Toronto to do those. They’re pretty much a delicacy in places like Bangkok. A lot of our menu was inspired by when we did the whole round-the-world thing.’

‘It sounds disgusting,’ I go. ‘The kind of food that would have you shitting Ready Brek.’

He just blanks me, even though it kills him.

‘And,’ Claire goes, ‘we’ve got this amazing chef, who you’re about to meet!’

‘Yeah, Broderek just had to find an ATM,’ he goes.

Then, just as he says it, some dude walks in. It’s obviously him because Claire gives him a big wave and over he comes. The best way to describe him is to say that he’s a bit Chinesey looking – and I don’t mean that in a racist way – except he’s not actually Chinese because his accent is American slash Canadian. He’s like, ‘Hiiiiiiii!’

Claire goes, ‘Broderek, this is my friend Sorcha, who I’ve told you – oh my God – so much about!’

He’s there, ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you! Finally!’

He’s like Gok Wan except with a porkpie hat.

She goes, ‘And this is, em, Ross – her ex-husband.’

And I’m there, ‘I’m still her focking husband.’

And he’s like, ‘Oh, er, okay!’ and that’s when he says the weirdest thing. ‘So I’m Broderek and I favour they/them pronouns – are you guys cool with that?’

Now, I – honestly? – haven’t heard the word pronoun since I sat the Junior Cert. And if I didn’t have a clue what it meant then, I’m hordly going to know now.

Sorcha is clearly delighted to hear it, though, whatever the fock it means, because she goes, ‘Oh my God, that’s amazing! I mean, yes, of course we’re cool with it! Good for you, Broderek – I was involved in the recent marriage equality referendum campaign!’

The waitress comes over to take everyone’s drink orders. I decide to stick around with the intention of ripping the piss out of Garret and maybe dropping in one or two reminders that I’ve ridden Claire many, many times over the years. I was the one who stamped her V card, which has always killed him.

I swear to fock, he goes, ‘Do you do a turmeric latte?’

The waitress is just like, ‘A what?’ and she’s well within her focking rights.

He’s there, ‘A turmeric latte. Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting! Ireland!’ like even just saying the word is a put-down. ‘Okay, I’ll just have a Deconstructed Flat White then.’

The poor girl hasn’t a clue what he’s even talking about. I’m there, ‘Why don’t you tell her what the fock it is and stop being a dick?’

He goes, ‘Can you bring me a beaker of milk, a beaker of boiling water and a beaker with two shots of espresso in it? On a wooden board. With a spoon.’

Claire goes, ‘I’ll take one of those as well.’

And Sorcha’s there, ‘I’ll try one, too!’ because she’s easily swayed. ‘They sound amazing!’

‘By the way,’ Garret goes, ‘that’s another thing we’re doing at the moment. Barista classes.’

Jesus, you need to do a focking course now just to make someone a cup of coffee. What’s happening to the world?

Broderek’s like, ‘I’ll just have a regular latte.’

And that’s the moment when I just happen to go, ‘He’s the only normal one out of all of you!’

There’s suddenly what would have to be described as a collective intake of breath – you could call it a gasp? – around the table.

I’m like, ‘What’s wrong? I’m saying he’s normal because he’s having a latte.’

Claire goes, ‘They’re having a latte, Ross.’

I’m there, ‘What?’

‘They’re having a latte.’

‘Who? Broderek’s the only one who ordered a latte.’

Sorcha – I swear to fock – apologizes for me? She goes, ‘I’m so embarrassed, Broderek.’

Garret goes, ‘See, this is what comes from playing rugby. All those blows to the head he took.’

I’m there, ‘Sorry, what’s the big deal here? I was just pointing out that he ordered a latte.’

Sorcha goes, ‘You were pointing out that they ordered a latte.’

‘No, I wasn’t. I was talking specifically about him.’

‘About them,’ Claire goes.

‘Sorry, am I having a focking stroke here or something?’

Broderek stands up – in a genuine huff, by the way – and goes, ‘Okay, I need to use the restroom,’ and off he suddenly focks.

Jesus, the drama.

I’m like, ‘What the fock is his problem?’

‘Their problem,’ Claire goes. ‘What the fock is their problem?’

‘Okay, I don’t get why everyone’s calling him “they”. It’s like that time Honor had that imaginary friend.’

‘When Broderek said they preferred non-binary pronouns,’ Garret goes, ‘they were asking you to respect their gender identity. And you can’t even change your grammatical prejudices to make them feel safe and accepted.’

I’m there, ‘I didn’t mean any offence to him.’

‘You didn’t mean any offence to them!’ Sorcha goes.

‘Okay, my head is storting to hurt now.’

Garret’s there, ‘Well, either way, I think you owe them an apology when they get back from the bathroom.’

They all just shake their heads – like there’s something genuinely wrong with me? Their deconstructed coffees arrive and our table suddenly looks like a focking laboratory.

There ends up being a bit of chat then.

Claire tells Sorcha it’s great that she’s finally going into politics because she always thought it was something she’d be totally amazing at. Sorcha says that, at the moment, she’s meeting and greeting people in the likes of Ballsbridge, Sandymount, Donnybrook and Rathgor and finding out what they want.

Terenure levelled and Ringsend sacrificed to the sea would be my guess.

Broderek arrives back from the jacks and he still has a face on him.

‘Broderek,’ Sorcha goes, ‘Ross has something he wants to say to you,’ putting me on the spot.

I’m like, ‘Do I?’

‘Yes, Ross, you owe them an apology.’

Jesus Christ.

I end up having to go, ‘Look, Dude, I’ve no idea what the problem is here. I mean, there’s stuff that’s offensive today that wasn’t offensive a year ago, or even a month ago. If you miss the updates, you’re suddenly the biggest dick in the world.’

Sorcha goes, ‘As a citizen, Ross, it’s your responsibility to stay informed. Now, you need to apologize.’

I’m there, ‘I’m apologizing to him!’

‘You’re apologizing to them,’ Garret goes.

I stand up. I literally can’t take any more of this.

‘Okay,’ I go, ‘I’m out of here.’

Sorcha’s there, ‘Broderek, all I can do is apologize to you on my husband’s behalf. Let’s just say he has issues when it comes to people with alternate sexual and gender identities.’

I’m like, ‘I’m not the one with issues – believe me.’

Then I walk out of there and leave the four of them to it. Or the five of them – if you count Broderek twice.

Ronan is throwing the pints into him – to the point where I’m actually struggling to keep up. We’re in The Broken Orms in Finglas, having a few quiet ones to supposedly celebrate him finishing his exams, except he’s really going for it. And when I say ‘it’, I’m talking about oblivion.

‘Come on,’ I go, ‘you don’t know that you definitely failed yet.’

He’s there, ‘Ine arthur fooking it up, Rosser. Enda bleaten stordee.’

‘You might end up being surprised.’

‘Moost have been mad to think I could go to coddidge. Eer koyunt of people doatunt go to coddidge.’

‘Are you talking about people from Finglas?’

‘Ine soddy to say that Dordeen was reet. Should be out woorking. Ine no use to Shadden if Ine gonna spend the next howebber many years of me life with me nose stuck in a buke, in addyhow. It was a thream, is alls it was – and the thream is oaber.’

‘Well, I don’t think it is over? Have you thought of possibly repeating in the Institute? I know goys who were thicker than me who got four hundred points in that place.’

‘Ine going back woorking on the Lub/Hate Tewer of Dublin, Rosser.’

‘I don’t want you to do that, Ro.’

‘Dudn’t mattor what you want. I neeyut a weekly wayuch. I’ve a famidy to feeyut.’

There’s, like, silence between us then.

My phone beeps. It ends up being a text message from Sorcha, saying her old man still hasn’t had any acknowledgement of his letter, formalizing our separation. I text back, saying I’m still hoping she’ll change her mind.

One of the lounge girls tips over. She’s a big girl, but at the same time she’s quite pretty? Around Ronan’s age, I’d say. Massive thrups. That’s just an observation. She picks up his glass, smiles at him and goes, ‘Howiya, Ro?’

He’s like, ‘Howiya, Jacinta?’

Jacinta. I laugh. I don’t know why. It’s funny.

She goes, ‘Robbie Burden has a free-or on Sahurdee nigh – he’s habben a peerty, if you’re inthordested.’

He’s there, ‘I caddent. Ine not free. Soddy, Jacinta.’

She’s like, ‘It’s alreet. I just thought if you were arowunt … Anutter thrink?’

She’s mad about him. That much is obvious. He goes, ‘Yeah, anutter one. Pint of Caddles Birdog.’

And I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, Heineken for me.’

She’s like, ‘We habn’t addy Heineken.’

‘You do have Heineken. It’s just not on draught? The manager gets cans in especially for me. They’re in the fridge’

She nods, then off she focks to get our drinks. Ronan stares at her humungous yet at the same time not unpleasant orse as she walks away. I possibly have a little look as well.

I’m there, ‘Someone’s keen. She’s obviously gagging for you.’

‘Jacinta?’ he goes. ‘Ah, she’s a niece of Buckets of Blood.’

‘Niece or not, she wants a piece of you.’

‘What?’

‘Hey, I’m just putting it out there. Storting a conversation – isn’t that the phrase everyone’s using these days?’

‘I’ve got a geerdle friend, Rosser. And a thaughter, remember?’

He stares sadly into space. We’ve all been there. No matter how much you love your kids, there are times when every parent thinks, oh, what I wouldn’t do for a focking condom and a time machine.

I’m there, ‘I’m just saying it’s possible to have a girlfriend and still be doing little bits and pieces on the side.’

He goes, ‘And end up like you, wha?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Divowerced?’

‘We’re not divorced yet.’

I check my phone. Sorcha has texted back to say that she’s not going to change her mind. It’s over between us, and I really need to find a solicitor to handle my side of things.

Ronan goes, ‘Toorty-foyuv years of age and back libben in your oul fedda’s speer roowum? Oatenly seeing your kids on the weekend? Recommend it, would you, Rosser?’

‘Yeah, no, fair enough, Ro. Don’t rub it in.’

I watch his attention wander back to Jacinta, who’s walking back towards us with drinks, her big bad wolves bouncing up and down underneath her tight black shirt, and there’s a look of sad longing in his eyes.

My phone rings. I check the screen and it ends up being Honor. So I answer.

Her opening line is, ‘Oh my God! Hill! Air!’

With Honor, of course, that could mean anything. It could be a photo of Katy Perry with sweat patches under her orms or a plane crash in which three hundred people died.

I’m there, ‘What’s so funny?’

She goes, ‘I sent you a link.’

‘Yeah, no, I’m having a few pints with Ro.’

‘Oh my God, Claire and Garret’s friend – that focking sap who looks like Gok Wan …’

‘Broderek? What about him? Slash them? Slash whatever?’

‘He’s called you out – on his vlog?’

‘Called me out? In what way?’

‘Oh my God, Garret just put it on his Facebook page. You’ve been publicly vlogged! Hill! Air!’

She hangs up. I open Honor’s e-mail on my phone, then I click on the link.

Ronan’s like, ‘What is it, Rosser?’ looking over my shoulder.

‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘it’s this friend of Claire from Bray of all places who I had a run-in with.’

Suddenly, up comes – like Honor said – the famous Broderek, in his glasses and his ridiculous hat, looking seriously focked off.

He goes, ‘So … I’m in Dublin, Ireland, and I met this person. Okay, I’m going to say he was your typical Ivy League jock type – obviously into sports. So, like, his name was Ross? I won’t say his second name. But I met him in this, like, cool café in a really diversity-embracing area called Ranna Lag. And when I was introduced to him, I mentioned that I favoured non-binary pronouns and I said I hoped he was good with that. His wife, Sorcha, who was also there – and who was, can I just say, utterly charming, which is probably why she’s in the process of, like, divorcing him? – she said that was cool and there was no issue. But this Ross person proceeded to refer to me as “he” and “him”, even though I expressly asked him not to and he could see how uncomfortable it was making everyone at the table, but especially me.’

His voice cracks with the emotion of it. Oh, for fock’s sake.

Ronan laughs. He goes, ‘This is cheerden me up, so it is. You bethor hope it dudn’t go voyer dill, Rosser.’

After five or six seconds, Broderek gets it together again. He’s like, ‘I cannot overstate how triggering and also deeply upsetting I found his attitude towards me as a genderqueer person who made it plain from the outset that I – personally? – find binaries in everyday speech deeply offensive. I actually felt, like, physically threatened by his refusal to respect my request to use they/them pronouns? But being your typical Biological Essentialist asshole, he let it be known, in no uncertain terms, that he was not going to recalibrate his language to accommodate people who don’t identify as one gender or another and to make them feel safe. That is a hate crime. And we have to let homophobic assholes like this Ross person know that hate crimes are not cool. Because if we don’t continuously call them out on this kind of thing, then we normalize this behaviour.’

Ronan’s just, like, shaking his head, going, ‘The bleaten wurdled’s gone mad, Rosser.’

Yeah, no, I’m still highly pissed off about it the following day, so I end up driving out to Brayruit with the intention of giving Broderek something to definitely vlog about.

I pull up outside Claire and Garret’s gaff in Ordmore Pork. There’s a woman – I swear to fock – sunbathing on a towel in the front gorden. In a bikini. In the middle of an actual housing estate. I’ve never said anything about Bray that wasn’t one hundred percent warranted.

I ring the doorbell. Once. Twice. Three times. Eventually, she comes to the door – as in, Claire?

‘Okay,’ I go, ‘where is he?’

She’s like, ‘Who?’

‘Focking Broderek? I want a word with him.’

‘You want a word with them.’

‘Yeah, I want a word with them. Then I want to drag them out onto the road there and break their focking noses.’

‘Well, they’re not in at the moment.’

‘So where is they?’

‘They went into town with Garret,’ she goes. ‘They’re checking out a place in Smithfield that’s supposed to do a really nice slow-cooked cabrito wrap. It’s got amazing reviews.’

And I think, that’s it – I know how I’ll fix Broderek. I turn to go and that’s when I notice that Claire’s eyes are red and her mascara is all over the shop. I’m like, ‘Have you been crying?’

And that’s when the floodgates suddenly open.

‘Oh, Ross,’ she goes, ‘Garret’s been sending Facebook messages … to this girl … he claims she’s just a friend … but I think … I think he has feelings for her … I don’t know if … if I’m imagining it …’

‘You’re probably not imagining it,’ I go – any excuse to slag him off. ‘It sounds to me like he’s cheating on you.’

I notice the woman next-door having a good listen in, her neck extended like a focking periscope. Claire cops it as well, because she goes, ‘Come in, Ross. I don’t want the whole neighbourhood knowing.’

So in I go.

The house is in bits, by the way. I remember Sorcha mentioned they were renting it out to a bunch of nurses and they made shit of the place.

‘I shouldn’t have been reading … his e-mails,’ she goes. ‘But this girl … her name is Ji Eun … she comes into the shop … all the time … and I know … I know she has a thing for him …’

Her laptop is open on the kitchen table.

She goes, ‘Would you … would you mind just reading … this message … and tell me if there’s anything in it … or am I being paranoid?’

I sit down at the table. The message is open and I end up just reading it with a sense of already boredom. It’s like, ‘Hey Ji Eun, it was great to see you the other day! And great to hear all about the trip you’re planning to South East Asia!!! I’m SO excited for you, especially having done the trip myself ☺☺☺. You’re going to have some amazing experiences and see things that will definitely shape your worldview. What I would say is that Laos, Burma and West Malaysia are ALL worth seeing, as is Brunei and Christmas Island. But what I would also stress is DON’T BE AFRAID TO GO OFF THE BEATEN TRACK!!! Seriously, some of the most rewarding experiences we had were when we threw away the guidebook and just allowed ourselves to ‘be’ in the moment ☺☺☺.’

I had no idea that Claire was the jealous type. It’s actually funny.

‘Yeah, no, he’s definitely going to ride her,’ I go. ‘That’s if he hasn’t ridden her already.’

Claire’s like, ‘Seriously? Do you think?’

‘Take it from someone who prides himself on being a player. All those smiley faces – and what are those things called?’

‘Exclamation marks.’

‘Exclamation morks. I don’t think you’re being paranoid at all.’

‘There’s another message that he sent to her,’ Claire goes. ‘Tell me what you think of this one.’

Again, there’s fock-all in it. It’s just like, ‘The good news (because I know how much you love your street food ☺☺☺) is that we’re planning to add some new dishes to the menu before the end of the summer, including (state secret!!!) rose veal steak burgers, banh mi sandwiches and spicy marlin crêpes ☺☺☺. Also (again, PLEASE keep this to yourself!!!) I’ve entered Broderek’s brisket kebab into the Best Snack Food category of the Toronto Street Food Awards. But please don’t tell them!!!! ☺☺☺☺☺’

‘He’s all over her,’ I go. ‘And he’s being totally blatant about it.’

She’s there, ‘That stuff about the new menu items, Ross – no one was supposed to know that!’

‘He’s boning her – no question. What a horrible way for you to find out.’

She sits down at the table beside me and the tears come again. She goes, ‘This girl –’

I’m like, ‘Jai Ho?’

‘Ji Eun. She is such a bitch, Ross – oh my God, you’ve no idea. She comes in for her coffee in the morning – double-shot macchiato – and she won’t let me serve her. She says she only likes the way Garret makes it.’

‘Jesus.’

‘And he sometimes gives her an extra chocolate with it.’

‘You deserve better, Claire. You definitely deserve better.’

As I’m saying it, I slip my hand onto her knee. I’m thinking, shit, am I going to do this? I think I am going to do it! I give it a little squeeze and she looks at me and smiles through her tears.

I’m like, ‘Look, I’m biased. I’ve never liked him. I could never trust someone who doesn’t love rugby.’

‘Well, he hates you too,’ she goes. ‘He especially hates that you were my first.’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, he doesn’t love when I bring it up either. I think he’s jealous of the connection we have.’

‘Connection? What connection?’

‘You don’t feel a connection?’

‘Ross, you throw your eyes up to heaven every time I open my mouth. And the things you say about Bray …’

‘Maybe that’s just me protecting myself.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It drives me mad that you’re with him, Claire. Especially when I’ve got all these feelings for you.’

‘Ross, don’t.’

‘What?’

‘The way you’re looking at me. The way you’ve got your hand on my knee. I think you’re getting ready to kiss me. And I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

‘Why not? Your husband seems to be riding all around him.’

‘I’m thinking of Sorcha. She’s been an amazing, amazing friend to me.’

‘Me and Sorcha are finished, Claire. I’ve accepted that. I’m actually about to get a solicitor on the case.’

‘She’d still be hurt if she ever found out.’

‘The only two people who’ll know are in this kitchen.’

I move in closer and I throw the lips on her. After a few seconds, she responds in kind. She puts her two hands around the back of my neck and storts kissing me greedily – like every mouthful is a little act of payback for Garret. Then, suddenly, we’re both on our feet and I’m tearing at her clothes. Off comes her little cardigan, then her blouse, then her bra.

I have a bit of fun with the showgirls and it drives her hog-wild. Then I hitch up her skirt and sit her up on the table. ‘No,’ she goes, ‘not here. Let’s go upstairs,’ and I don’t need an invitation confirmation. I grab her hand and I lead her upstairs to the main bedroom.

And there I’m going to draw a discreet blind on the story to protect both (a) Claire’s modesty and (b) my own reputation as someone who doesn’t kiss and tell.

All I will say is that we end up going at it like banana time in the monkey house. We do it, then we do it again, then we do it some more. This position. That position. Me on top. Her on top. Our bodies are just a tangle of orms and legs as I bury my head between her big gulps and I sire the girl stupid-faced.

I’d actually forgotten what a cracking little rattle she was and she definitely holds up her end of the deal, pulling off one or two little moves that Sorcha would never even attempt – and, if she did, she wouldn’t be able to face me over the brioche the following morning.

One thing I will say about Bray girls is they don’t mind being judged.

At a certain stage in the proceedings – and this is all I’m giving away – Claire is sort of, like, sitting astride me and working herself up from a steady canter to a happy gallop when she suddenly stops and goes, ‘What did you just say?’

And I’m there, ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You said brisket.’

‘No, I didn’t. Keep going, Claire, in case I go floppy again.’

‘Ross, you said brisket.’

‘Yeah, no, I sometimes spit out random words when I’m on the job. They never mean anything. Like I said – random.’

She grabs me by the face. ‘Ross,’ she goes, looking into my eyes, ‘I need to know that you’re turned on by me and not by the idea of having sex with Garret’s wife.’

If women knew half of what goes on in men’s heads, they’d be looking for a new planet to live on.

I’m there, ‘I’m turned on by you, Claire.’

She stares at me for about five seconds, then she obviously sees something in my face that persuades her I’m telling the truth and she goes back to work, until eventually the proceedings come to a sweaty end with her staring slanty-eyed at the ceiling and effing and blinding like Nicki Minaj.

Afterwards, we’re enjoying a moment of post-coital getting-our-breath-back before I fock off home. Claire smiles at me and goes, ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Just how much I hate your husband,’ I go, ‘for not properly appreciating you.’

Hennessy greets me like I’ve arrived to audit him. He goes, ‘Jesus Christ!’ like even the sight of me is a major imposition? ‘What the fuck do you want?’

His secretary is behind me, going, ‘I told him you were busy, but he walked straight past me.’

She’s not great, by the way. I’d say most men walk straight past her.

Hennessy tells her it’s fine and she focks off. There’s, like, a humungous plasma screen on the wall of his office. The lunchtime news is on. He picks up the remote and mutes the sound. I drop the letter from Sorcha’s old man on his desk. He gives it the old left to right. Then he laughs – I want to say – knowingly?

‘What’d I say to you,’ he goes, ‘before you married that girl?’

I’m there, ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’

‘I said don’t ever piss her off enough that she wants to divorce you – because her old man will fucking crucify you.’

‘Yeah, no, he’s always hated my guts.’

‘And not just in the usual father-in-law, son-in-law, you’re-fucking-my-daughter kind of way. Don’t make an enemy of Edmund Lalor, that’s what I said.’

‘That ship unfortunately sailed a long, long time ago. He thought she married beneath herself.’

‘She did marry beneath herself. Jesus, anyone could see that. She’s smart, she’s attractive, she’s loyal. What have you got?’

‘Rugby was a big port of the attraction.’

‘You’re a sexually incontinent layabout with nothing between your ears and, according to what I hear, even less between your fucking legs.’

‘Yeah, can I just remind you that you’re supposed to be on my side?’

Again, he laughs. ‘Is that why you’re here?’ he goes. ‘You want me to represent you?’

I go, ‘Er, yeah – you’re the family solicitor?’

‘I do drink-driving cases. A bit of conveyancing. Edmund Lalor knows family law like I know the gentlemen’s cabarets of Pigalle. That’s upside-fucking-down and inside-fucking-out. He’s the best in the business. And don’t forget, this case is especially dear to his heart. So what did you do to bring this on yourself? Or do I even need to ask?’

‘We’ve had problems in our marriage for a while.’

‘Well, whoever you screwed, I hope she was the best you ever had. Because you’re going to be paying for it for the rest of your life.’

My phone all of a sudden rings? I can see from the screen that it’s, like, Claire. My first thought is that she’s possibly had an attack of the guilts and told Sorcha what happened. In which case, it would be good to know. I go, ‘Hennessy, I have to quickly take this.’

He’s like, ‘Jesus Christ!’ obviously considering it rude.

I answer by going, ‘Claire, this isn’t a great time. What’s wrong?’

She’s like, ‘Nothing, it’s just, you know, we’re flying back to Canada tonight –’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘And, well, me and you haven’t actually talked to each other since we –’

‘Yeah, no, I’ve never been one for post-analysis chat, Claire. You of all people should have remembered that.’

‘No, it’s just that, well, I talked to Garret about Ji Eun, and I think I was probably being paranoid. And now I feel – oh my God – so guilty about what we –’

‘Do you have any female friends you can discuss this with?’

‘What?’

‘Look, no offence, but it sounds like the kind of shit you should be discussing with another girl. I’m kind of in the middle of a meeting here.’

‘Okay, can I just ask you one last thing?’

‘Quickly.’

‘When you were leaving the other day, you didn’t steal my knickers, did you?’

‘No,’ I go, ‘I didn’t steal your knickers. Jesus Christ, what kind of a question –?’ and then I hang up on her.

Hennessy just, like, glowers at me. He goes, ‘You ever take a call when you’re in my company again and I will dangle you out the window by your fucking ankles – do you hear me?’

I’m like, ‘Er, fair enough,’ because he definitely means it. He stares at me for a good ten seconds without saying anything, until I end up having to look away, then he un-mutes the TV again.

‘Your father’s going to be on,’ he goes. ‘You should watch this – find out what greatness looks like, since it clearly skipped you.’

Una O’Hagan is reading the news. She goes, ‘Charles O’Carroll-Kelly, the leader of New Republic, says his party will fight the next General Election on a promise to take Ireland out of the European Union. In an interview with RTÉ News, Mr O’Carroll-Kelly said that Ireland had been betrayed by Europe and, in particular, the 2008 bailout deal. He said the people were entitled to decide whether they wished to continue paying the price of maintaining what he called the lie of European political union. Paschal Sheehy reports.’

The next thing that pops up on the screen is my old man, chatting to randomers on the main street in Dalkey.

‘New Republic are riding high in the opinion polls,’ Paschal Sheehy goes, ‘on the back of a strong launch last month, at which party leader Charles O’Carroll-Kelly promised to abolish a number of taxes while making improvements to public services. Today, he outlined how that would be achieved if he were to become Taoiseach – by tearing up the 2008 bailout deal and triggering Article 50 of the European Union.’

The next shot is of my old man standing outside The Queens – with his mad hair – going, ‘The EU is a failed project! Full point, new par! And it has failed Ireland more than it has failed any other country! The first thing we will do, once we are in Government, is inform the architects of the bailout that they are not getting one cent more from the Irish people! We will then begin negotiations to take the country out of the European Union! This will save us somewhere in the region of €42 billion a year, money which New Republic believes would be better spent funding our hospitals and our schools and making Ireland tremendous again!’

‘However,’ Paschal Sheehy goes, switching to a shot of Leo Varadkar standing in the RTÉ cor pork, ‘the Government was quick to pour scorn on Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s claims that a so-called Eirexit would result in a cash bonanza for Ireland.’

Leo Varadkar goes, ‘The figure of €42 billion – he’s just plucked that out of the air. Anyone who knows anything about economics would know that we have been net beneficiaries of European membership to the tune of hundreds of billions of euro. Like his promises to scrap water and property tax, this is just more old-fashioned populism. Thankfully, the electorate are smart enough not to take Charles O’Carroll-Kelly either literally or seriously.’

Hennessy laughs. He’s there, ‘Oh, Leo. You were the brightest and best. Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they appoint them Minister for Health.’

I go, ‘If we pull out of Europe, will we still be in the Six Nations?’ but he doesn’t bother even answering me.

‘Leave it with me,’ he goes, putting the letter in his top drawer. ‘I’ll do what I can to minimize the damage.’

And then I head off. I’ve a busy afternoon ahead of me on the Internet.

They’re standing at the Aer Lingus check-in desk – we’re talking Claire, Garret and Broderek. I watch them from a distance, handing over their passports, then lifting their luggage onto the belt. Garret is wearing, I swear to fock, knee-length shorts with red Toms, a white, short-sleeved shirt and – this is the best bit – a focking bow-tie!

Everything about this dude makes me angry.

Broderek is having to take shit out of one of his bags and put it into Garret’s case – presumably because he’s over the weight limit – and he’s obviously pissed off having to do it, because he stares at the bird behind the desk and goes, ‘Can I have your name, please?’

The poor girl is about to get the vlog treatment, I suspect.

Once they’ve checked in, they head for the deportures gate with me following at, like, a subtle distance? Garret stops so he can take his Beats out of his hand luggage and hang them around his neck – even though he’s not actually listening to anything – and that’s when I decide to make myself known.

‘Thought I’d see you off,’ I go. ‘Make sure you left the country.’

The three of them turn around. Their faces – yeah, no, definitely – drop when they see me standing there? Claire looks the most worried and that’s for obvious reasons.

I stare hord at Broderek and I go, ‘I saw your vlog. A focking hate crime? You know I could actually sue you for that?’

He goes, ‘Syntactic bigotry is a hate crime.’

‘I just used the wrong word, that’s all,’ I go.

‘Which made me feel threatened.’

‘Well, you’re about to find out how it feels to be dissed on the Internet. Have you looked at Trip Advisor recently?’

Garret goes, ‘What’s he talking about?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I’m just commenting – that street food of yours seems to have got a lot of negative reviews lately. Some people have gone on there and absolutely rinsed the place.’

Broderek whips out his phone.

Claire goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, what did you do?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, just told one or two home truths of my own.’

Broderek’s there, ‘Okay, our average rating is down to, like, one star!’ and he storts scrolling down through some of the comments I’ve posted, then reading them out. ‘I ordered the aki and saltfish stew, which everyone was banging on about. I ate about five or six mouthfuls before I found out … before I found out there was a condom in it.’

I’m there, ‘Everyone’s a critic, huh?’

Broderek goes, ‘Oh my God, he’s written, like, dozens of these things!’

Claire’s there, ‘Ross, that is our focking livelihood you’re playing games with?’ and she actually roars at me.

‘You know,’ Garret tries to go, ‘we can just report all of those comments as abuse. They’ll investigate them and they’ll take them down.’

And I’m there, ‘By then the damage will have already been done. Word travels fast.’

Claire goes, ‘He’s right, Garret. People move on. Remember Hasta Siempre that used to do those amazing Cuban sandwiches served in a cigor box? People used to queue outside for hours – now, it’s gone! That was, like, one pubic hair!’

I’m like, ‘I don’t think Broderek is going to be winning any awards for his brisket, by the way. Someone’s absolutely gone to town on it.’

Broderek goes, ‘I was told the brisket was pretty much good enough to win awards. I ended up getting the squits from it and shitting half a stone of my body weight in about twenty-four hours. Wheat Bray Love? Wheat Spray Love more like! I mentioned this to the chef the next time I was in and HE laughed in my face and then HE told me to fock off. And, oh my God, he’s written “he” instead of “they” – and capitalized the H and the E.’

‘Anyway,’ I go, ‘I don’t want to make you late for your flight.’

Garret just shakes his head – like he feels sorry for me? He goes, ‘You know, Sorcha’s had a lucky escape from you,’ and he’s obviously trying to come up with something to hurt me.

I’m there, ‘That’s weak.’

‘No, I mean it. I hope her old man wipes you out in the divorce.’

‘It’ll be no skin off my nose. It’ll be my own old man who ends up paying.’

‘I hope she meets someone else. I genuinely do.’

‘What, a single mother with four kids? That’s a hord sell – and that’s not me being a prick.’

‘Maybe someone like Fionn.’

‘Fionn? Why are you mentioning Fionn specifically?’

‘They seem to be spending a lot of time together these days.’

‘They had dinner in that place in Donnybrook where I’d been promising to bring her for years but never bothered. What’s your point?’

‘We actually met them for a drink last night.’

‘Together?’

‘Yeah, together. They just seem really comfortable in each other’s company.’

‘Well, from me to Fionn would be some comedown for the girl – I think even he’d have to admit that.’

‘And they’ve loads in common. Seriously, I’d love if she found happiness with him. Whereas you are going to end up being one sad and lonely old man.’

‘Oh, I’ll never be lonely, Garret – trust me. Good luck with the street food.’

I turn to leave. But then I suddenly turn back again and I go, ‘Hey, I nearly forgot …’

And I reach into my pocket and whip out Claire’s balled-up knickers.

‘I accidentally took these the other day,’ I go, ‘when I was in your gaff having sex with your wife.’