4. To the Bleaten Dogs
Erika has kind of hijacked my Saturday afternoon with the kids. Even though I don’t mind. It’s actually nice, all of us walking around together. We’re in Dundrum. Specifically, we’re in Office – the shoe place – in Dundrum Town Centre. She offered to buy Honor a present and Honor says she wants this pair of Vans, which look like Kleenex tissue boxes – we’re talking big, chunky, slip-on things in black-and-white check, like focking skateboarders wear.
Erika goes, ‘Would you not prefer a nice pair of Jimmy Choos?’, happy to spend a grand on her.
But Honor’s like, ‘No, these are the ones I definitely want.’
I’m only half paying attention to what’s being said. I’m still thinking about what I witnessed last night. I mean, Oisinn? Gay? I have to admit I’m struggling with it. Not that I have a problem with it? I’m just wondering how I didn’t notice? How could I not have seen it in, like, twenty-something years of friendship? I always thought he was as straight as me. This is a goy, bear in mind, who rode my mother.
But now I’m suddenly wondering were there signs? He was one of the first rugby players in Ireland to bring hair conditioner into the shower. He was never embarrassed about going into clothes shops like normal Irish men. I walked in on him once when he was tweezing his eyebrows. And then, of course, he slept with a hell of a lot of women who looked like men.
I repeat – he rode my mother!
Erika goes, ‘Are you still with us, Ross?’ and I suddenly snap out of it.
Ronan’s like, ‘He’s in anutter wurdled, so he is.’
I forgot to say that Ronan is with us as well. ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I was just doing some of my famous deep thinking.’
They all seem to find this for some reason hilarious?
Honor goes, ‘You said, “He tweezes his eyebrows.” ’
‘I don’t know. You just muttered it to yourself.’
Erika takes Honor up to the counter to pay for the Vans, leaving me with Ronan, little Amelie and the three boys. ‘Costa!’ Brian shouts. ‘Me want focking Costa!’
I’m there, ‘We’re going to go and grab something to eat now, Brian. Although it’ll probably end up having to be Storbucks.’
‘Me want Costa!’
‘I don’t think there’s one here, Brian. The nearest one, as far as I know, is Dún Laoghaire.’
Ronan goes, ‘Ine gonna head off, Rosser. I’ve woork this arthurnoon.’
I’m like, ‘Work? Jesus.’
No parent wants that for their child – certainly not on this side of the city.
He’s there, ‘Ine gibbon the tree o’clock tewer. We’ve got Detective Geerda Ciardon Madden making a guest appeardance on the bus this week. It’s prooben veddy popular.’
‘It’s great watching you make a success of that business. But it breaks my hort watching you having to earn a living at your age.’
‘Ine godda have to get used to it.’
‘Ro, you haven’t got your results yet. You never know.’
‘I doatunt need to get them, Rosser. I know I fayult. Enda stordee.’
Erika and Honor arrive back over. Honor has decided to wear her Vans now. She’s thrown her Uggs in the bag.
Ronan goes, ‘Ine heading off, Edika. It’s great habbon you back, so it is.’
She’s like, ‘You’re not coming for lunch with us?’, all disappointed. They get on like you wouldn’t believe.
He’s there, ‘No, I was just tedding Rosser there – I’ve woork this arthurnoon.’
Erika looks genuinely worried about him as he walks off.
Anyway, we end up hitting Storbucks? Erika finds a table and sits down with Honor, Amelie and the boys while I go up to the counter to get the drinks. I’m standing in the queue and some random woman turns around to me and goes, ‘Is that your family?’
I follow her line of vision over to where they’re sitting. I’m like, ‘Yeah.’
She’s there, ‘Your wife is absolutely beautiful.’
And I, for some reason, go, ‘Yeah, no, I’m very lucky. She’s a ride,’ even though it’s probably an odd thing to say?
I order the drinks and carry them over to the table in two of those little cordboard trays. Honor is asking Erika how many times she’s been engaged. The answer, by the way, is six.
‘Did you keep all the rings?’ Honor wants to know.
Erika just smiles. She’s like, ‘Yes, I kept all the rings.’
‘Which was the most expensive?’
‘The one Jeremy bought me was two hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Sterling?’
‘Yes, sterling.’
‘Oh! My God!’
‘Me want Sterling!’ Leo shouts. ‘Me want Sterling, you focking fock!’
Erika sort of, like, smiles to herself. She goes, ‘When I told him I didn’t want to marry him, he wrote to me every day for a year, begging me to change my mind.’
‘Men are so lame!’ Honor goes.
I end up going into another trance, thinking about Oisinn again. Like, how did I not see it? He owned five pairs of shoes – maybe that was a sign. I remember, one time, someone bought him a set of bath bombs for his birthday and he got unnaturally excited about it. Then, another time, when he was in New York, he did the Sex and the City tour. I only found out about it because the ticket dropped out of his pocket one night when we were grabbing a kebab from Ismael’s on Baggot Street.
Or am I reading too much into shit? Maybe there were no signs. It’s possible he didn’t realize he was gay until the right man came along. Or did he always know? And did I ever crack a gay joke in front of him – which I’m sure I focking did – and was he forced to just, I don’t know, laugh along with everyone else just to keep his secret safe?
‘I’m sorry,’ a voice suddenly goes, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
I look up. It’s some sort of, I don’t know, lady manager person.
I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’
‘Your children,’ she goes. ‘The swearing. We’ve had complaints.’
‘Fock them!’ Brian shouts. ‘They’re only a pack of pricks!’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, we’ve decided not to correct them in case it creates taboos around certain words, which then encourages them to use them even more. It’s something my wife read in a magazine.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she goes, ‘I have to think of the other customers.’
I notice the woman from the queue earlier looking over with a guilty look on her face. I’m there, ‘Was it you who complained?’
She goes, ‘I don’t want my children exposed to that.’
She’s got two with her – a little boy and a little girl.
‘Fock you and fock your children!’ Brian goes.
‘Disgusting language,’ the woman goes.
Honor speaks up then – she’s very protective of her brothers. She goes, ‘You shouldn’t be listening in to other people’s conversations anyway. The only reason you have to is because your own kids are so focking boring. And, by the way, the 1980s rang – they want their shoulder pads back … Mic drop!’
Mic drop?
Like I said, she can be very funny, as long as you’re not the torget.
Erika stands up and she’s like, ‘Okay, maybe we’ll take these drinks to go.’
The woman from the queue is disgusted. She goes, ‘And I was just telling your husband how beautiful I thought your children were!’
Erika goes, ‘He’s not my husband. He’s my brother,’ and you can see the look of confusion on the woman’s face, given that I described her as a ride.
As I’m strapping the boys into their stroller, Erika’s phone rings. ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, looking at the screen, ‘it’s Oisinn!’
I suddenly freeze. I don’t know why I’m being like this? Maybe I just need time to process it?
She answers. She’s like, ‘Hey, Oisinn – how are you?’
I mouth the words, ‘I’m not here!’ to her.
She goes, ‘A business proposition? That sounds interesting. When?’
Again, I go, ‘Not here!’ running my finger across my throat.
She’s like, ‘Okay, I’ll see you then. By the way, I’m in Dundrum with Ross, if you want to talk to him.’
She’s such a bitch. She’ll never change. She looks at me and goes, ‘He wants to know why you’re not answering your phone. Or why you haven’t responded to any of his texts.’
‘Because I had to take Honor to rugby,’ I go, ‘and then we came here.’
Erika’s like, ‘Did you hear that, Oisinn? Will I put you on to him now?’
And I’m like, ‘No!’ and I end up actually screaming the word at her. ‘Yeah, no, tell him I’ll ring him tonight. Or during the week. Or something.’
The lady manager person, who’s still standing there, goes, ‘I’m sorry, I am going to have to ask you to leave.’
And I’m like, ‘Yeah, can you not see that we’re trying to get our focking shit together here?’
‘Costa!’ Brian shouts as I wheel the boys out of the shop. ‘Me want focking Costa!’
And I think, yeah, no, it’ll definitely be focking Costa in future.
I swing out to Honalee. Sorcha’s old man is not a happy rabbit when I walk into the living room. ‘It’s not even Saturday,’ he goes. ‘Why is he here?’
Sorcha is still pissed off with me for, well, riding Claire, but she’s decent enough not to bring it up. She goes, ‘I gave him permission to take Honor and the boys to see their grandmother in prison.’
He sort of, like, harrumphs to himself. ‘A fine place to be bringing children,’ he goes and he looks at Fionn, her so-called campaign manager. ‘A fine place indeed.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Whatever problems Ross and I have, Fionnuala is still their grandmother and she’s entitled to see them. And can I just remind you that she hasn’t been found guilty of anything yet? I know deep down in my hort that she wouldn’t be capable of actually killing someone – unless she was really drunk or something.’
Fionn’s not happy with me being here either – although he’s just worried that I’m here to rip the piss. The famous K … K … K … Kennet and the old man are about to arrive to give Sorcha her first lesson in how to talk like a skanger.
He tries to go, ‘You really need to leave, Ross,’ in my own house, by the way. ‘We’re actually working this morning.’
And Sorcha’s old man is like, ‘Excellent point, Fionn!’, suddenly treating him like the son-in-law he never had. ‘The only reason he’s here is to laugh and jeer.’
Sorcha’s old dear steps into the living room then. She’s got a face on her as well. She goes, ‘I really don’t see that this is necessary, Sorcha. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the way you speak.’
‘My thoughts precisely,’ her old man goes. ‘I certainly don’t think you need some Henry Higgins character teaching you how to talk like you went to – oh, what’s that awful one in Blackrock? – is it called Sion Hill or something?’
‘I’ve explained it to you,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Chorles says Lucinda Creighton has Dublin 4 pretty much sewn up. He says I need to stort appealing to the voters of Dublin 6W – places like the Kimmage Road.’
‘I did not raise a daughter to appeal to people on the Kimmage Road!’
Fionn is such a focking crawler. He goes, ‘I agree with your mum and dad, Sorcha. You’ve already compromised so much – your views on water charges and Europe. Now you’re being asked to change your accent.’
‘I’m not changing my accent,’ she goes. ‘I’m just removing some of the polish from it to try to get my message across to a wider audience.’
‘I still say you should ask yourself whether New Republic is the right fit for you politically. I think you’re good enough to stand on your own two feet.’
Her old man’s like, ‘That’s your campaign manager talking.’
Dick.
There’s a ring on the doorbell and Sorcha’s old dear goes out to answer it.
Honor goes, ‘Can we stay for this? It’s going be hill-air!’
I realize that, which is why I’m taking my time putting the coats on the boys.
Five seconds later, in strolls my old man, followed by the famous Kennet, with Sorcha’s old dear behind them, still shaking her head like the whole thing is ridiculous.
‘Hello there!’ the old man goes. ‘Well, this is quite the audience, isn’t it?’
Sorcha’s like, ‘Hi, Chorles. Hi, Kennet. Thank you for giving up your time to do this.’
‘Norra botter,’ Kennet goes. ‘It’s norra botter arall, Surrogate.’
The old man is full of himself today and we soon find out why. ‘Anyone see the poll in this morning’s Irish Times?’ he goes. ‘We’re up to third – just two points behind Fianna Fáil! And twelve percent of people would like to see Charles O’Carroll-Kelly become the next Taoiseach! It seems most of our politicians have totally underestimated the depth of the country’s disillusionment with Europe!’
‘Well,’ Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘I happen to agree with my daughter that EU membership has been good for Ireland. Also, Charles, I’d like to place it on the record that I consider what you’re doing here totally unnecessary. Unlearning all that hard work her teachers did to ensure that she speaks the way she does. What was the point of sending her to Mount Anville if she’s going to go out into the world talking like – and this is no offence to you, Kennet – the dregs of our society?’
Sorcha is up for it, though? She goes, ‘I was actually remembering, Chorles, when I was in transition year, I played Mary Boyle in Juno and the Paycock. I could maybe try to channel some of that.’
God, I remember that production. A lot of parents walked out. They refused to believe that poverty like that ever existed in Dublin and, if it did, they didn’t see why they should have to pay ten grand a year in school fees to be reminded of it.
‘Juno and the Paycock,’ the old man goes, ‘is exactly what we’re aiming for!’
Kennet goes, ‘Reet, will we gerron wit the j … j … j … j … job?’ Then he and Sorcha sit down in ormchairs opposite each other.
‘So Cheerdles wants me to teach you a few ph … ph … phrayzuz you moyt neeyut when encountherdin people from airdeyuz such as – like the man said – Haddled’s Cross, Ringsent and Tedenewer,’ he goes. ‘N … N … N … Now, the foorst phrayuz is one you moyt neeyut to use if you’re s … s … s … sympatoyzun wit someone who’s goan troo a heert toyum cos of the ecodomy. The cunter doddy is arthur goan to the bleaten dogs, so it has.’
Honor laughs. It is funny, in fairness.
Sorcha’s there, ‘The country …’ with a big serious face on her.
‘No, no, no,’ Kennet goes. ‘The cunter doddy …’
‘The cunt …’
‘The cunter doddy …’
‘The cunter doddy …’
‘That’s reet.’
‘… is author …’
‘… is arthur …’
‘The cunter doddy is arthur … goan to the bleeding …’
‘… to the bleaten …’
‘… to the bleaten … dogs.’
‘… so it has …’
‘Do I have to say so it has at the end? It just feels like the sentence is already complete.’
‘If you want to f … f … f … firrin with the locaddle people, you’d be bettor off adding it on to the end. So you would. Say it altogetter now.’
‘The cunter doddy is arthur goan to the bleaten dogs, so it has.’
‘V … V … V … Veddy good. Now, anutter one. Things is teddible bad with the austedity and that.’
She’s there, ‘Things … should it not be things “are” rather than things “is”?’
‘Thrust me, Surrogate. Ine talken this way all me l … l … l … life, so I am. Things is …’
‘Things is … teddible bad …’
‘Keep goan.’
‘… with the austerity …’
‘Austedity. There’s a D in there, Surrogate – d … d … doatunt be afraid to use it.’
‘Austedity.’
‘… and that.’
‘S … S … S … Say it all togetter now.’
‘Things is teddible bad with the austedity and that.’
‘You’re a natur doddle.’
That’s when the living-room door suddenly opens and in walks Magnus. Sorcha said he could carry on living here, by the way, until he found himself a new gaff. I haven’t set eyes on the dude since I saw him with his head in Oisinn’s mouth a week ago. And of course I end up totally overcompensating by going, ‘Ah, there’s Magnus! How the hell are you, Magnus? Magnus is here, everyone! The famous Magnus!’
He’s like, ‘Er, hello, Rosh … sho, I jusht wanted to give theesh to the boysh. It’sh jusht shome more of thoshe picture cardsh they like.’
He hands a packet of cords each to Leo, Johnny and Brian. Leo opens his, then shouts, ‘Lallana!’ who I presume is, I don’t know, one of the Teletubbies.
Sorcha goes, ‘Oh my God, you got your hair cut! Did you go to Brown Sugar like I told you? Magnus has a hot date tonight, everyone!’
I go, ‘Date? What date? Is it definitely a date? As such. Blah, blah, blah,’ just babbling really.
‘Sorry,’ Sorcha goes, ‘I shouldn’t embarrass you, Magnus. I wish you’d tell us who this mystery man of yours is! I’m dying to meet him!’
‘Shadly,’ he goes, ‘it’sh kind of complicated at the moment becaush he hash not told hish family and friendsh that he ish gay. He thinksh hish friendsh especshially might not take it sho good.’
He seems to be staring at me, although I’m possibly imagining that? Or has Oisinn told him that I’m the one who’ll possibly have a problem with it?
‘That’s terrible!’ Sorcha goes.
I’m there, ‘I, er, might head off actually. We don’t want to miss visiting time.’
‘B … b … b … b … back to woork,’ Kennet goes. ‘Repeat arthur me, Surrogate. The Gubber Mint? Go on ourra dat – doatunt be thalken to me!’
The old dear has had all of her hair cut off. And I mean that literally – as in she’s, like, totally bald.
‘Seriously, what the fock?’ I go – because her head looks like a focking snooker ball.
She’s there, ‘I decided to shave it all off, Ross. It’s impossible to have good hair in a reformatory like this.’
‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘it’s actually a prison? You look a bit like –’
‘Who?’
‘No one. A woman from Dalkey. It doesn’t matter. It’s too weird.’
She’s delighted to see her grandchildren. She’s got Brian on her knee and he’s pointing at her going, ‘Who’s this focker?’
I’m like, ‘That’s your grandmother.’
She goes, ‘Oh, they’re absolutely beautiful – a credit to you, Ross. And do they all have names?’
Jesus Christ. You’d swear they were focking hamsters.
‘Of course they all have names,’ I go. ‘I told you their names. That’s Brian, this is Leo and that’s Johnny.’
Honor’s looking around the visiting room, going, ‘Oh my God, it’s, like, total skanksville in here!’
I’m there, ‘Maybe keep your voice down, Honor. Here, tell your grandmother about your rugby.’
Honor goes, ‘Oh my God, I’m playing rugby now – for, like, Old Belvedere?’
Honor is a big fan of my old dear’s. Or as she put it herself during the drive here: ‘I find her face really scary but I love that she’s a bitch.’
‘Rugby?’ the old dear goes. ‘Your father played rugby!’
I’m like, ‘Understatement of the century, but keep going.’
‘He was very good at it.’
‘Better critics than you said it. Said more. Anyway, I definitely think that Honor is going to be the next O’Carroll-Kelly who everyone talks about in terms of having a big, big future ahead of her – and that’s despite everything I’ve said in the past about women’s rugby.’
‘I’m the only girl on my team,’ Honor goes, ‘and I’m better than all the boys.’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, they’re focking terrified of her. Which is nice to see. Honor, tell your grandmother about the match.’
‘We’re going to be playing a match.’
‘An actual sevens match. Against Bective.’
‘It’s only a friendly.’
‘There’s no such thing, Honor. In rugby, friendlies are Tests. Just don’t go into it with the attitude that it doesn’t matter who wins. It always matters. It matters a lot. And don’t let Rob Felle try to persuade you that it doesn’t.’
The old dear looks suddenly sad. I suppose she’s seeing what she’s missing out on, being banged up in here. Or it could be alcohol withdrawal. She goes, ‘Maybe I’ll come and watch you play one day … when I get out of –’
Her voice cracks. She puts her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying.
‘Stupid focking bitch!’ Leo goes.
I’m there, ‘Honor, why don’t you take your brothers over to the vending machine and get them some more Skittles?’
‘Me want Costa!’ Brian goes.
I’m like, ‘You won’t get a Costa in here, Brian.’
‘Me want Kolo Touré!’
‘And get them each a Cola-whatever he-said as well, will you?’
I hand her twenty snots, then off they go to the vending machine. I look at the old dear and I go, ‘You need to get your shit together.’
She’s like, ‘I’m sorry. It just struck me that I’m probably going to miss them growing up.’
‘I thought you were innocent.’
‘I am innocent.’
‘Then you’ve got to believe there’s a chance that you’ll get off.’
‘They’ve set a date. For my trial.’
‘And?’
‘April of next year!’
‘There you are then! If you’re not guilty, it’ll hopefully come out then.’
‘That’s what Sorcha keeps saying.’
‘She’s talking sense.’
‘But it’s nine months away! I won’t survive nine months in here, Ross!’
‘Look, you’re going through a hord time. Could you maybe get your hands on some of the prison brew? Is it called hooch? It’s always called hooch on TV.’
‘They won’t share it with me, Ross. They hate me in here.’
‘Who hates you?’
‘The other guests.’
‘Yeah, I think you mean inmates?’
‘They think I’m stuck-up.’
‘Well, you are stuck-up. It’s one of the few things I actually like about you.’
‘Snobby bitch. That’s what they say about me. I hear them whispering. And when I walk into the dining room –’
‘Prison canteen. Continue.’
‘– everyone stops talking. I’m so lonely, Ross.’
‘Have you tried, I don’t know, making friends?’
‘These people aren’t my friends. My friends are people like Delma.’
‘But Delma’s not in here.’
‘That’s what Sorcha said, too.’
‘Would you not think of maybe reaching out?’
‘To these people? They’re skangers, Ross!’
‘Skangers or not, they’re all you have now.’
Honor arrives back with the boys just as the bell rings. I managed to stay for the entire hour this time. I must be going soft in my old age because I feel suddenly sad to be leaving her here. ‘We’ll, em, come again,’ I go. ‘Maybe in a week or two.’
She goes, ‘Please do.’ We end up hugging each other. It’s nice. Move on. ‘And how lovely to meet these little boys. I must learn off their names. And goodbye, Honor.’
Honor’s like, ‘Bye, Fionnuala.’
As she’s being led back to her cell, I look back at her – big focking cueball head on her – and I suddenly realize that I’m now fifty-fifty about whether she did it or not. I wouldn’t put it past her. But there’s suddenly also a port of me that thinks, yeah, no, she possibly didn’t do it?
So I’m in my bedroom – my new bedroom, which is freezing, by the way – and I’m fluting around on the laptop, writing, of all things, a fantasy best man speech for Rob Kearney, just in case I’m ever asked to do the honours. There’s a knock and the old man goes, ‘You home, Kicker?’ at the same time sticking his head around the door.
I’m like, ‘Yeah,’ quickly closing the laptop.
He goes, ‘Oh, I hope I didn’t, um, disturb anything!’
Jesus, he thinks I was, well, you know what – choking the bald commuter.
‘I’m just off to the prison!’ he goes. ‘To visit your poor mother!’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was in there the other day if that was a hint.’
‘It wasn’t a hint, Ross! Wasn’t a hint at all! Poor Fionnuala, all the same. You see, this is what happens, Kicker, when you challenge certain vested interests.’
‘Do you genuinely think that’s the only reason she’s there?’
‘Of course! Not that the media cares! You’re not a political prisoner unless you’re in a foreign country and your name is Aung San Suu Kyi!’
He’s holding a Cohiba the size of a focking rolling pin. I’m there, ‘When did you stort smoking?’
He goes, ‘I’ve been smoking cigars since I was little older than Honor!’
‘I mean, when did you go back to smoking? What about your hort?’
‘I’ve got the heart of a bloody rhinoceros!’
‘You’ve got the focking neck of one as well. Did you want something, by the way?’
‘Oh, yes, quick question for you – what do you know about greyhound racing?’
‘Greyhound racing? It’s like horse racing, isn’t it – except for poor people?’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought!’
‘Why are you asking me about greyhound racing?’
‘Well, after Sorcha’s, shall we say, master class in how to speak like a commoner, I thought it might be a useful exercise to throw her in at the proverbial deep end!’
‘Are you saying you’re going to bring her to a dog track?’
‘There are two in the Dublin Bay South constituency, if you can believe that! Talk about hidden poverty! There’s Shelbourne Park and Harold’s Cross! I think Kennet and I are going to take her to the latter – see how she gets on in the field, quote-unquote!’
‘Okay, let me know when this is happening. I definitely want to see it.’
‘I shall do that! Oh, maybe say nothing to Helen about the, em …’
He holds up his cigor. Then off he focks.
I hop out of bed. I grab a quick Jack Bauer, then I head into town to buy Honor a copy of the famous Leinster versus Northampton Saints match on DVD. I never thought I’d be saying that. I even mention it to the dude who ends up serving me in HMV. ‘It’s actually for my daughter,’ I go. ‘Can you believe she’s never actually seen the famous Miracle Match?’
The dude looks at the cover like it’s a new one on him as well. Then he sticks it in the bag while I put my cord in the little machine and key in my pin. It’s 2, 0, 1, 1. I’m storting to become a big, big believer in fate.
I’m there, ‘I already own it, but I think every child in the country should be given a copy – just so they know what it’s possible to achieve if you believe in yourself,’ and I suddenly stort to feel a bit emotional. ‘Yeah, no, she’s playing the game herself these days. She’s got a big sevens match coming up. Against Bective. I’d see this as very much port of her preparation.’
He hands me back my cord. ‘Yeah,’ he goes, ‘I’ve never actually seen it myself. Rugby is a game that’s never really done it for me.’
And I’m like, ‘Then I pity you,’ and I snatch the bag out of his hand. ‘And I mean that. I genuinely focking pity you.’
Thirty seconds later, I’m walking up Grafton Street, thinking, how is it even possible that there are people walking around out there who don’t know what Johnny Sexton did for us that day? I’m thinking, imagine if Johnny happened to be in HMV and he overheard that? He’d be on the next plane back to Paris, and I wouldn’t focking blame him.
Anyway, just as I’m thinking this, I hear a voice go, ‘What are you doing in town?’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I was just buying Honor a copy of the Miracle Match.’
She goes, ‘The Miracle Match? Is that a movie?’
‘Not you as well, Erika. Please, not you as well.’
She changes the subject. She goes, ‘Do you want to see my gallery space?’
I’m like, ‘Whoa, is it finished?’
She goes, ‘Almost. Come on, I’ll show you.’
So we wander around to Duke Street. She’s looking incredible, by the way. I know I’ve got to stop thinking about her in that way – or maybe just stop telling her all the time – but it’s still a fact. She’s definitely doing yoga because I saw her mat when I was having a poke around her room yesterday and you can see that her body looks, I don’t know, tighter. Her traffic stoppers have never looked better either, even though she’s dropped an actual bra size. I’ll leave it at that before I say too much.
She’s taken the lease on a unit a few doors down from the Nespresso Boutique. I tell her fair focks because it’s the perfect spot for a gallery, although there’s no actual pictures in it because they’re still fitting the place out. She’s got, like, workers in, plastering and painting and sawing and whatever else.
‘Come up to the office,’ she goes. ‘It’s a bit tidier up there,’ and I follow her up the stairs, staring at her orse in her tight black trousers, like two tunnelling creatures preparing to surface.
I’m like, ‘So, what, the whole building is yours?’
And just as we reach the top of the stairs, she goes, ‘No, I’m sharing this floor with Oisinn,’ and suddenly I’m staring across an open-plan office at my friend who I’ve been avoiding for the past, I don’t know, however many weeks?
His opening line is, ‘Dude, what the fock?’
And I’m like, ‘Oisinn? Er, what do you mean?’
‘Have you been avoiding me?’
‘Yeah, no, I’ve been busy.’
‘Well, sit down. I want to share something with you.’
‘You don’t have to, Dude. Keep it to yourself if you want.’
He laughs. He goes, ‘I want you to be the first to know. Because I wouldn’t have got through the last few years – losing all my money and all the rest of it – without you. So I want to tell you before I tell anyone else –’
‘You genuinely don’t have to.’
‘– that Gaycation Ireland is open for business as and from next week!’
‘Oh … er, okay … fair focks.’
‘I’ll show you some of the packages we’re going to be doing.’
He produces a brochure from his desk drawer. On the cover are three or four dudes with their tops off, wearing Stetsons and drinking shots. It’s like, ‘Gaycation Ireland – Leading Specialists in LGBTQ Stag and Hen Parties’, and then underneath it’s like, ‘Enjoy One Last Fabulous Weekend of Freedom – in the Most Tolerant Country in the World!’
He storts flicking through the pages – again, full of men in various states of undress – going, ‘Look at these packages!’
I’m like, ‘Packages?’
I’m a nervous focking wreck.
He goes, ‘Travel packages, Ross. These are some of the things we’re doing. Look! There’s a Brokeback Mountain-themed cattle drive from Sneem to Kenmare. An Ugly Dress Competition styled on the Rose of Tralee. That was another one of Magnus’s ideas. There’s naked skydiving! We’re doing that over Roscommon and South Leitrim. Serve the fockers right for voting No in the marriage equality referendum! There’s obviously lots of karaoke. Ross, are you okay? Your breathing sounds funny.’
‘Yeah, no, it’s just very, I don’t know, different, isn’t it?’
‘Different is good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, no, definitely. Definitely, definitely, definitely.’
‘Here, I’ll give you a laugh. We’re also selling all the paraphernalia.’
He stands up and goes to this, like, stationery cupboard in the corner. Suddenly, he storts throwing things at me, going, ‘Drama Queen tiaras! Groom-To-Be sashes! NYPD hats in neon pink. Read what it says on the badge, Ross …’
It says, ‘You Have the Right to Remain Sexy!’
He goes, ‘Gay biker moustaches!’ and he puts one on. ‘And the pièce de resistance …’
Erika’s like, ‘Oisinn, don’t you dare take that out again!’
But he does anyway. He goes, ‘An inflatable hermaphrodite!’ and he produces this giant blow-up doll with huge vinyl tits and a big vinyl mickey. He basically attacks me with it, shoving its face in my face and trying to get me to kiss its puckered mouth.
I stort freaking, going, ‘Get away! Get the fock away from me!’ and I manage to slip out from underneath it, while Oisinn and Erika both crack their holes laughing.
I’m there, ‘That was out of order!’ and I end up shouting it. ‘We’re talking bang out of order?’
Erika goes, ‘Ross, you’re so uptight.’
Oisinn’s there, ‘I was only breaking your balls, Ross. Anyway, look, we’re having a porty to officially launch the business – it’s here, a week on Saturday, if you’re around.’
‘A week on Saturday?’ I go. ‘Yeah, no, unfortunately, that’s my day with the kids. Honor’s playing a sevens match against Bective.’
‘Come along afterwards. I’d really love you to be there. Magnus would love to see you there as well.’
And all I can go is, ‘Er, yeah, no, maybe – we’ll see.’
Prison visiting rooms. Greyhound stadiums. I’ll tell you something – I’ve been getting a definite insight lately into how the other half live.
Sorcha looks at me and goes, ‘Oh my God, what the fock are you doing here?’
I don’t think she’s going to forgive me easily for riding Claire and basically breaking up their marriage.
I’m there, ‘I’m kind of asking myself the exact same question!’, trying to brazen it out. ‘I never agree with people who say the dogs is a great night out. I’ve always looked on it as a kind of holiday in other people’s misery.’
Fionn is even more annoyed? ‘What Sorcha means,’ he tries to go, ‘is that we’re not here to have fun, Ross. We’re here to do important constituency work.’
Which is a joke, of course.
I’m there, ‘Hey, I’m here to support my – unfortunately for you – still wife?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I don’t focking want you here, Ross.’
But there isn’t any more time to debate the matter because my old man suddenly shows up with K … K … K … Kennet in tow. People are literally mesmerized by the sight of him. An actual space opens up around him as he walks towards us. People are shouting, ‘CO’CK for Taoiseach!’ or they’re shouting, ‘Make Areluent Thremendous Again!’
Kennet is grinning like a man eating shit at gunpoint. This is very much his kind of crowd, of course. He’s like, ‘S … S … S … Stordee, Surrogate? Are you m … m … m … mingling or what?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I might just need a moment to get my bearings, Kennet,’ and she keeps fidgeting with her New Republic rosette. She’s clearly kacking it.
I suddenly spot a familiar face coming towards us. I don’t actually believe it. It’s focking Muirgheal. I’m like, ‘Okay, what the fock is she doing here?’
Sorcha goes, ‘She has more right to be here than you, Ross. She’s offered to help me with my campaign.’
I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t trust her, Sorcha. I genuinely wouldn’t trust her.’
‘Really, Ross? After what you did with Claire, I’m supposed to take advice from you on who I can and can’t trust?’
Fionn says fock-all, although something about his body language tells me that he agrees with my analysis. Sorcha hugs the girl like they haven’t seen each other in years. Muirgheal goes, ‘I’m so excited about watching you in action!’
Then the old man goes, ‘Okay, Sorcha, let’s meet your people, shall we?’ and he collars these three dudes who happen to be walking by – all of them wearing hoodies – and goes, ‘Would you chaps like to meet the New Republic candidate for Dublin Bay South? Let me introduce you to Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly! She’s going to tell you what we’re planning to do to take Ireland back from the Brussels élite who helped bankrupt this country!’
Sorcha doesn’t say shit. She’s got obvious stage-fright. She’s like – what’s that phrase? – a rabbit in the headlice?
One of the dudes looks her up and down and goes, ‘She’s a lubbly looken boord, idn’t she?’
And Fionn pipes up then and goes, ‘Never mind what she looks like. Why don’t you listen to what she has to say?’
The same dude’s like, ‘She’s not saying veddy mooch.’
Fionn just nods at her and goes, ‘Go on, Sorcha!’
And this look of, I don’t know, resolve suddenly comes over her face? She goes, ‘Things is arthur goan down the chewibs, so thee hab. The Gubber Mint doataunt want to know – Enter Keddy and the rest of them habn’t boddered their bleaten boddix doing athin abourrit eeben though there’s real people is sufferden out theer.’
Jesus Christ, she has the accent to a tee.
Sorcha goes, ‘And doatunt talk to me about that shower over in Europe. They’re arthur robbing us bloyunt, so thee are – we’d be bethor awp ourrof it altogetter.’
I watch Muirgheal try to keep a smirk from her face.
One of the dudes she’s talking to storts actually clapping? ‘At last,’ he goes, ‘a poditishidden who wontherstands the concerdens of ordineddy people!’
One of his mates is like, ‘I thought you were gonna be one of them stook-up bitches, like what’s-her-nayum? You joost look it, but!’
And the third dude goes, ‘You’ve moy vote. You’re arthur saying there what Ine arthur been saying for yee-ors, except nobody’s been listoden to me, so thee habn’t.’
They head for the tote to put their bets on for the first race. I hear one of them go, ‘I’d royid the bleaten eerse off her as well!’
The old man goes, ‘Excellent, Sorcha! Excellent!’
She goes, ‘But I didn’t actually say anything, Chorles.’
‘On the contrary,’ he goes. ‘You sympathized with them in a general way about the state of the country and validated their belief that the political élite, both here and abroad, are doing nothing to serve them, the people!’
‘I just feel like I’m pandering to people’s ignorance. I still think Europe has been a positive thing for us as a nation. I keep coming back to my point about Erasmus.’
‘You’ve just got yourself three votes there, Sorcha! Mind you, I doubt if they’ve ever been on the electoral register! Still, it’s a very encouraging start!’
A voice comes over through the speaker then. It’s like, ‘Ladies and gentleman, you’re all very welcome to Harold’s Cross Greyhound Stadium this evening. The first race is the 6.30, the Vote New Republic Chase.’
I look at the old man. ‘You’re actually sponsoring it?’ I go.
He’s there, ‘All part of the campaign to win over votes, Kicker! Kennet, I think I’d like a wager on this one! Can you show me how it works? Is it like Leopardstown?’
‘V … V … Veddy simidar,’ Kennet goes. ‘Mon, I’ll show you,’ and off they fock to place their bets. Fionn heads off as well for a slash, leaving me with just Sorcha and Muirgheal.
‘In Trap One,’ the dude goes, ‘in red, it’s Mannish Jack. In Trap Two, in blue, it’s All the Creases …’
I lean over the rail – I’m like a focking natural! – while Muirgheal turns around to Sorcha and goes, ‘I have to say, I really admire you for what you’re doing, Sorcha.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just, you know, setting aside so many of the things you believe in to try to get elected.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a compliment, Muirgheal.’
I’m there, ‘That’s because it’s not a compliment. She’s being a bitch.’
Muirgheal goes, ‘I’m not being a bitch. I’m saying it’s a very, very brave thing to do.’
Sorcha’s like, ‘We all have to compromise, Muirgheal.’
‘That’s the point I’m making. I’m sure even people like Sirikan Charoensiri and Narges Mohammadi have made compromises in their lives that we don’t know about. The important thing is to get elected – then you can go back to believing in things like Europe and protecting the environment. If it suits you, of course.’
Sorcha just stares into space. She tries to change the subject by going, ‘So how do they make the dogs actually race each other?’
I’m like, ‘They don’t race each other as such. They chase the hare.’
‘Hare? What are you talking about?’
‘Yeah, no, I saw it once on EastEnders. There’s a hare in that box over there. It goes flying around the track and then they all peg it after it. I think it was actually Alfie Moon had a dog in the race.’
‘Okay, will you shut the fock up about Alfie Moon? Are you saying the dogs chase an actual animal?’
And of course the answer is no. It’s, like, an electric hare? But I don’t get the chance to say that because Muirgheal decides to stick her hooter in and goes, ‘Don’t make a fuss about it until after you’re elected, Sorcha! You don’t want to go upsetting these people!’
Fionn arrives back from the jacks, while the old man and Kennet arrive back from the tote, just as the first race is about to stort.
‘Fionn,’ Sorcha goes, on the point of pretty much tears? ‘They chase a hare!’
And Fionn’s there, ‘Yeah, but it’s not a real –’
But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because the gun all of a sudden sounds, the traps snap open and suddenly eight snorling dogs are bearing down on the little ball of white fur circling the track on a rail.
‘Oh my God, no!’ Sorcha screams, proving that one or two elocution lessons can’t undo three decades of good breeding. ‘Don’t let them hurt it! Oh my God, don’t let them hurt that poor defenceless creature!’
Everyone – and I mean everyone – in the crowd turns around and is suddenly staring at her, their mouths open in literally shock. Then, one by one, they all stort breaking their holes laughing – none more so than Muirgheal. Sorcha bursts into tears.
What can my old man say except, ‘She’s, um, still a work in progress!’
But Sorcha just shakes her head and goes, ‘That’s it, Chorles! I quit!’
He goes, ‘You can’t bloody well quit, Sorcha! Not when we’ve come this far!’
But she’s not going to be talked out of it. She unpins her New Republic rosette and she hands it to him. She goes, ‘I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now, Chorles. Your position on Europe. Your position on water chorges! The stupid voice you’re making me do! Bringing me here – Jesus, Chorles – to a dog track?’
He goes, ‘You’re turning your back on a promising political career, Sorcha!’
She’s like, ‘I have my beliefs, Chorles. And they mean more to me than getting elected,’ and off she walks in a huff.
Under his breath, Fionn goes, ‘Good for you, Sorcha!’ and he follows her.
The second they’ve gone, Muirgheal walks up to my old man with her hand out. ‘Muirgheal Massey,’ she goes. ‘I’m a huge admirer.’
Ronan isn’t returning my calls and I’m pretty sure I know why? The Leaving Cert results were out today. And of course I’m now presuming the worst.
I check the time. It’s after six o’clock. I try him one last time before I call it a night. Again, it goes to his voicemail.
I go, ‘Hey, Ro, it’s Ross … Rosser … I just, em, you know, wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about you. And if you failed, you failed. There’s no shame in it. What I’d keep emphasizing, Ro, is that I never passed a single exam in my life and it wasn’t the end of the world. Anyway, if you want to talk, my phone will be on all night. Don’t worry about the time. I don’t care if you wake me. Alright, I’ll hopefully talk to you.’
I hang up. My phone instantly rings. It’s not Ronan, though. It ends up actually being Honor. Her opening line is, like, properly priceless.
She goes, ‘Okay, I need to know, what’s a spear tackle?’
I laugh. I’m there, ‘A spear tackle? Do you remember a good few years ago – actually, you might not have even been born – Brian O’Driscoll got done by Tana Umaga when he was playing for the Lions and Daddy got very depressed?’
‘Was that the time you wet the bed for a month?’
‘No, that was when Johnny Sexton moved to Racing Métro. And, in my defence, I was drinking a hell of a lot and I felt it was definitely the wrong move for him in terms of his development as a ten. No, when Drico got done – your old dear will tell you about it – I didn’t sleep properly until I knew he’d definitely play again. Anyway, there’s a whole section about spear tackles in the Tactics Book.’
‘I know,’ she goes, ‘I’m looking at it here. The Legal Spear Tackle.’
‘Yeah, that’s a way I came up with to spear tackle someone without getting into shit with the referee. A spear tackle is basically where you pick up another player, turn him upside-down and drop him on his focking head. But the thing is, Honor, you’re perfectly entitled to lift an opposing player off his feet – the rule just says it’s your responsibility to return him safely to the ground. Well, what I’ve outlined on that page is a way to make it look like you’re returning him to the ground, even though you’re technically still smashing him into the ground.’
‘Oh my God, that is so clever.’
‘Hey, thanks, Honor. I know you don’t give out compliments for no reason.’
All of a sudden, I hear Sorcha in the background, going, ‘Come on, Honor, get off the phone – you’ve got piano tonight.’
Honor’s there, ‘I don’t want to play the stupid piano. I want to watch Leinster and Northampton again.’
Sorcha goes, ‘You’re going to your piano lesson, Honor. It’s been booked. It’s a healthy thing to have a mix of different hobbies and interests.’
I’m in her ear going, ‘Don’t listen to the woman. She’s upset about her political career being over.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘It can’t be just rugby, twenty-four hours a day.’
I’m going, ‘It can, Honor. It genuinely can.’
‘And change out of those ugly shoes, would you?’ Sorcha goes. ‘How many pairs of ballet pumps do you own?’
She’s there, ‘I don’t like them. They’re too girlie.’
‘I thought you were girlie. You used to be girlie.’
All of a sudden, there’s a knock on my bedroom door. Helen sticks her head around it. She mouths the words, ‘Ronan’s downstairs!’ and – I swear to fock – I’m up off that bed like Susan Boyle has just climbed into it beside me. I’m like, ‘Honor, I have to go. I’ll ring you before you go to bed,’ and I hang up on her.
I peg it down the stairs, two at a time. Ronan is standing in the hallway. He looks sad. I’m there, ‘Is it bad news?’
He goes, ‘Habn’t a clue. I habn’t opened them, Rosser.’
‘Ine arthur been walking arowunt alt day, throying to pluck up the cuddidge.’
I notice that he’s got the envelope in his hands. I also notice that his hands are shaking.
I’m like, ‘Ro, you can do it again. I’ll pay for grinds for you. If I have to get a job to pay for them, that’s what I’ll do. And I’ll do it focking gladly.’
He’s white in the face.
I’m there, ‘Ro, however bad it is, you have to know, okay?’
He just nods, then he offers me the envelope. He goes, ‘You open it, Rosser.’
I’m like, ‘Me?’
‘Please, Rosser.’
So I take the envelope from him and suddenly it’s, like, my hands that are trembling? I tear it open, then I pull out the A4 piece of paper inside and I unfold it very slowly. Ronan has his eyes closed. I stare at the page for like, twenty seconds, my eyes trying to focus on the letters in front of me.
Shit.
I can suddenly feel tears in my eyes.
‘You stupid focker!’ I go. ‘You really are the stupidest focker I’ve ever met.’
I fold the page up again. Ronan opens his eyes and he’s like, ‘I toalt you I fayult, ditn’t I?”
‘You got seven A’s!’ I go. ‘Ro, you got seven focking A’s!’
The old man rings me in practically tears. ‘Straight A’s!’ he goes. ‘Across the board! Well, he didn’t lick it up off the ground, did he?’
I’m there, ‘He must have done because he certainly didn’t get it from me.’
‘You were intelligent in a different way, Ross! No, you had what’s known as a rugby brain!’
‘I know that’s another way of saying I’m stupid. I don’t care, though. My son is a focking genius.’
‘What are his plans regarding further education? Has he said yet?’
‘He was saying he was thinking of doing possibly Law in UCD!’
‘I’ll tell you one alumnus who’ll be thrilled to hear that news – Mr Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara!’
‘Yeah, no, he hasn’t made his mind up yet whether he wants to become a free legal aid lawyer, helping the most vulnerable people in his local community, or a bent solicitor, helping people like the Hutches and the Kinahans evade justice and hang onto the proceeds of their crimes.’
‘I’m sure he won’t have to decide that until his final year! Anyway, must go! Kennet is about to put young Muirgheal through her paces!’
‘Her what?’
‘He’s giving her elocution lessons!’
I laugh. I’m there, ‘What, so Muirgheal is the new Sorcha, is she?’
He goes, ‘She’s sharp as a tack, Ross! She’s going out with young Christian – did you know that?’
‘’Yeah, I did.’
‘Anyway, wish Honor all the best for me, will you?’
I hang up on him just as the kids stort walking out of the dressing room. It’s definitely a week for me to feel proud of the job I’ve done as a father. Honor is the last one out on the pitch – same as me back in the day. There’s a whole section in the Tactics Book about the psychological edge you get from making every other focker wait for you.
‘Let’s kick some orse, Honor!’ I go. ‘Let’s kick some serious orse!’
She just nods at me. She’s in the zone in a big-time way.
Brian’s like, ‘Me want Costa!’
Then Leo joins in. ‘Costa mine!’ he goes. ‘Costa mine!’
I decide to just blank it out. It makes a change from the swearing, I suppose.
The two teams of sevens line up. Old Belvedere on one side of the pitch and Bective on the other. I notice the Bective team is all boys. Honor is actually the only girl out there. She’s also the only one who knows how to properly warm up. ‘Well done, Honor!’ I shout. I know she’s only stretching, but again she’s learned it straight from me.
That’s when Rob Felle tips over to me and tells me he thinks he’s possibly tweaked a muscle in his groin. He asks me if I’d be interested in, like, refereeing the match for him. I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’d love to – if you’ll watch the kids for me.’
‘No problem,’ he goes. ‘Obviously, you don’t need me to tell you to be even-handed. It’s only a bit of fun after all.’
I just hope and pray that’s not what his old school is teaching kids. If Cian Healy was here right now, it’d take twenty men to drag him off him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I go. ‘I’ll try to let the game flow, while obviously making sure the players with genuine skill are protected.’
He’s like, ‘Er, okay,’ and he hands me the whistle. Then he goes over to the stroller.
‘Me want Eden Hazard!’ I hear Leo shout. ‘Me want Eden Hazard!’
I blow the whistle and the match gets underway.
Honor gets the ball in her hands and she storts making some hord yords, except she ends up running straight into this absolute brick wall of a kid, who no more looks nine than I do, by the way. I’m tempted to even say it to him.
Honor hits the deck and the game goes on. I go to help her up except she goes, ‘I’m focking capable of standing up by myself, okay?’
She’s an unbelievable competitor.
I hear, presumably, this other kid’s old man on the sideline going, ‘Great tackle, Adam!’ and then I decide, fock it, I will say it to him? So the next time there’s a break in play, I sidle up to the kid – all casual-like – and I go, ‘I’m tempted to ask you to go home and get your birth certificate. There’s no focking way you’re the same age as the rest of these kids.’
He goes, ‘I’m nine!’
I’m like, ‘A likely focking story. Fortunately for you, I’m going to have to believe it. Bring your birth cert the next day or you don’t focking play. Do you understand me?’
He’s suddenly shitting himself. He disappears from the game for the next five minutes or so – the little focking fraud – and Honor storts to have things more her own way. As a matter of fact, she manages to score a beautiful try not long afterwards, with Adam missing a vital tackle just before she grounds the ball.
I end up forgetting myself and offering her a high-five as she walks back for the restort. Adam’s old man must notice this because he storts getting on his son’s case all of a sudden. He goes, ‘Don’t be afaid to hit her hord just because she’s a girl and the referee is her father!’
And that seems to give the kid his confidence back because the next time Honor gets the ball in her hands he absolutely creams her. He sends her flying off the pitch. It’s a perfectly legal tackle. But being possibly biased, the next time the ball goes dead, I whisper in the kid’s ear, ‘I’m watching you. Another tackle like that and you’re off. You little focking thug.’
Honor walks up beside me and goes, ‘Yeah, I can fight my own battles?’
And I’m there, ‘I’m just making the point that if Nigel Owens was reffing this match, that kid would be heading for the showers right now with one of Nigel’s famous put-downs ringing in his ears.’
She just goes, ‘I’ll handle it myself, okay?’
Which she does – about a minute before half-time. Adam has the ball in his two hands and he sets off on a run with his eyes fixed on a try? Being about two stone heavier and twelve inches taller than everyone else, he’s basically ploughing everyone out of the way until finally Honor is the only one standing between him and the line.
I’m not going to lie to you. I’m secretly terrified of my daughter being permanently injured here. But then I notice this look of absolute determination on her face as she puts her head down and readies herself for the impact. Adam is already laughing and he puts his hand out, thinking he’s going to just push her over – she’s just a girl, bear in mind – but Honor hits him full in the stomach with her shoulder and the wind leaves him like a tyre blowing out. You can hear it.
It’s like, ‘Wwwooommmppphhh!!!’
Then Honor – this is unbelievable – grabs him around the waist, this fat kid who must weigh, like, ten stone. She loads him onto her shoulder, turns him upside-down, then she slams him into the ground like he’s a sledgehammer and she’s ringing the bell at the funfair. I’d recognize that move anywhere. The Legal Spear Tackle!
‘In your focking face!’ I shout, forgetting I’m supposed to be neutral here? ‘You just got owned!’
‘Referee,’ Adam’s old man shouts, running onto the pitch, ‘that was a spear tackle!’
I’m like, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ because it actually wasn’t? ‘She returned him safely to the ground. He moved his head at the last minute. He obviously hasn’t been taught how to fall properly.’
Adam’s old man clearly knows fock-all about the game. ‘My son is hurt!’ he goes. ‘Stop the match!’
All of the other parents have storted shouting now. I hear the word ‘disgrace’ mentioned once or twice. Shit, I think. The kid actually is hurt? He’s clutching his shoulder and howling in agony.
‘She’s broken his collarbone,’ his old man goes after giving him the once-over.
I’m like, ‘What are you, a doctor or something?’ meaning it sarcastically.
‘Yes,’ he goes, ‘I am. And my son has a broken collarbone.’
He shouts at Rob to phone an ambulance, which is what Rob then does. The game is suddenly forgotten as the sound of a siren fills the air and Adam – who I still think is laying it on a bit thick – is lifted onto a stretcher and put in the back of the ambulance. When it drives off, with Adam and his old man in the back, I turn around to Rob and I go, ‘How do I restort the game here?’ and he looks at me – I want to use the word – incredulously?
‘That’s one of the most dangerous things I’ve ever seen on a rugby field,’ he goes.
And I’m like, ‘If you give me a pen and a piece of paper, I can show you how it’s actually technically legal.’
Some of the parents stort calling their children off the pitch then. They’re going, ‘We don’t want our children hurt,’ and some of these kids are her actual team-mates.
And that’s when Rob turns around to me and goes, ‘Get the fock out of here, Ross. And take that daughter of yours with you.’
I’m still furious as I’m strapping the boys into their baby seats. Honor is pretty pissed off too.
‘I did it exactly like you said in the book,’ she goes – not unreasonably either.
And I’m there, ‘Stop blaming yourself, Honor. Blame people who don’t understand the basic laws of rugby. And to think, Belvedere used to turn out Tony O’Reillys and Ollie Campbells like there was no tomorrow. Ridiculous.’
I’m just about to stort the cor when my phone all of a sudden rings. It’s from, like, a number I don’t recognize, but I end up answering it – thinking, like a focking fool, that it’s possibly Rob ringing to apologize to me?
It ends up being the old dear – obviously ringing from prison. I’m like, ‘This is not a good time. Honor’s been given a straight red and they’ve told her to possibly find another club.’
She totally ignores this.
She goes, ‘Who was that ghastly woman, Ross? We saw her in the visiting room one of the times you were here.’
I’m there, ‘Are you talking about Dordeen?’
‘Yes, that’s her. I spoke to her, Ross. After what you said about reaching out. She mentioned that she could help me.’
‘You don’t want her kind of help. She’s a focking scumbag.’
‘Well, whatever she said or did, everything has suddenly changed! Everybody is all sweetness and light, Ross.’
‘What’s that going to cost you?’
‘Nothing. She said we were family. Is that true, Ross? Are we related to her in some way?’
‘I told you, she’s Ronan’s girlfriend’s old dear. Have you been drinking?’
‘They gave me a bottle of the prison brew. Oh, it’s ghastly.’
‘But you drank it anyway.’
‘There isn’t anything else. Anyway, I’ve made friends, Ross. Can you believe that? A woman called Something and another woman called Something Else.’
‘It sounds like you’re bezzies.’
‘Like you said, they’re nothing like Delma. But it’s company, isn’t it? Oh, I must go, Ross. I’m about to play table-tennis!’
I laugh, if you can believe that. I actually laugh in spite of everything and I stort to feel a little bit better about shit. I stort to think, yeah, no, this might turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to Honor in terms of her development as a player. Old Belvedere clearly aren’t interested in born winners. At least this gives us a chance of finding a different club – a better club – for her. Mary’s, for instance, are bound to have a Minis set-up.
I go, ‘When you lead Ireland to your first Grand Slam, Honor, I genuinely think we’ll look back on this day and laugh. But we’re also keeping a list of names.’
She’s like, ‘Whatever,’ still seriously focked off.
From the back of the cor, Brian goes, ‘Me want Costa! Me want Costa!’
And I end up suddenly losing it. I’m like, ‘Brian, will you shut the fock up about Costa? We’re not going to focking Costa!’
And that’s when Honor turns around to me and goes, ‘He’s not talking about Costa the coffee shop. He talking about Diego Costa.’
I’m there, ‘What the fock is a Diego Costa?’
And Honor – totally straight-faced – goes, ‘He’s a soccer player.’
I slam on the brakes. This is just as I’m pulling out onto Ailesbury Road.
I’m like, ‘Say that again?’
‘That’s what they’ve been shouting all the time,’ she goes. ‘Adam Lallana, Kolo Touré – they’re all the names of soccer players.’
‘How would they know that, though?’
And Honor – as casual as you like – goes, ‘Magnus buys them Match Attax cords.’
I immediately get out of the cor and open the back door. Brian is holding – exactly like Honor said – a picture cord with a soccer player on it. A soccer player called Sergio Agüero. I reach into the pocket of his little dungarees and I discover that he’s got a whole focking deck of the things. I’m suddenly looking through them. Eden Hazard. Vincent Kompany. Aaron Ramsey. Raheem Sterling.
I’ve literally never heard of any of them.
I look at Leo, sitting beside him, and he’s got a deck as well. I snap them out of his little hand. And so does little Johnny. I do the same. Leo calls me a focking prick-fock. But I can live with that.
I get back into the cor – as angry as I was ten minutes ago, possibly even angrier – and I go, ‘Okay, me and that former manny of yours are about to have serious focking words.’
I point the cor in the direction of Killiney, except Honor goes, ‘He’s not at home. Him and Oisinn are launching their new business today.’
And I remember she’s right. It’s happening in Erika’s new gallery on Duke Street. Sorcha’s there as well – the so-called mother of my children who allowed this to happen, who invited a man like that into our home.
I put my foot down and I make it into town in basically record time. I throw the cor onto the taxi rank at Stephen’s Green and I’m so pissed off that I end up leaving the kids in it. I end up having to go back for them. I take the stroller out of the boot, take the boys out of their baby chairs, then strap them, one by one, into the stroller. Thirty seconds later, I’m practically running down Dawson Street, then onto Duke Street, pushing the stroller in front of me, forcing people to jump out of the way.
The gallery is absolutely rammers. There’s, like, loads of randomers standing around with drinks in their hands and I spot Magnus straightaway. He cops me standing there with the boys and he’s suddenly got this big smile on his face. He gives them a little wave.
Brian shouts, ‘Me want Romelu Lukaku!’ and I end up just glowering at Magnus and going, ‘I want a focking word with you!’
There’s, like, instant silence in the room, and I’m suddenly aware of the fact that a lot of people are staring at me. I stort to pick out faces I recognize. Sorcha. Erika. Fionn. Christian. JP. Chloe. Sophie. Amie with an ie. Oisinn’s old pair.
It’s Erika who ends up going, ‘Yeah, Ross, Oisinn is in the middle of saying something,’ and I realize that I’ve walked in halfway through his big speech.
‘What I was saying,’ he goes, ‘before I was interrupted, was that up until recently my life has felt incomplete. Things that should have made me happy only made me a little bit happy. Something was missing from my life. And I didn’t know what it was until very recently, when I met a man who I fell in love with. Yes, a man. Because now I feel like I can finally say it. As a matter of fact, I want to shout it loud enough for everyone in the world to hear. I’m gay. I’m a gay man. I’m in love with Magnus Laakso-Sigurjónsson and I don’t care who knows it.’
‘Daniel Sturridge!’ Leo shouts.
I end up just seeing red. I totally lose it. I’m suddenly pointing at Magnus, going, ‘You’re focking sick, do you know that?’
Fionn’s like, ‘Whoa, Ross, you’re out of order.’
And I’m there, ‘I’m not out of order. I’m far from it. This is something that needs to be said and if no one else is going to say it, then I am. Dude, you’re a poisonous influence on people. If that’s the kind of warped shit you’re into, that’s your own business. But when you go corrupting other people – innocent people who aren’t wise to the ways of the world – that’s when I step in and say no way – not on my watch.’
Sorcha goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, I can’t believe you’re saying this.’
‘And I can’t believe you let this man into our home to look after our children. You’ve always been way too tolerant for your own good.’
It’s Oisinn’s old dear – at one time, a big, big, big, big fan of mine – who looks at me in shock and goes, ‘How can you even think something like that – in this day and age?’
And I’m suddenly thinking, oh shit, because it hits me that they might have thought I was referring to something else.
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was actually talking about –’
But Oisinn points at the door and goes, ‘Get out of here.’
I’m like, ‘Dude –’
But he’s just there, ‘I said get the fock out of here – right now.’