‘Suddenly, Honor appears in the doorway, like one of the twins from ‘The Shining’, except even scarier’
The Lambo has been acting up recently. When it goes above a certain speed – specifically, 150 Ks an hour – the engine makes this, I don’t know, repetitive wailing noise, which I thought at first was part of a David Guetta track, except it was still there half an hour later when I was listening to Nicki Minaj.
Chad offers to take a look. The thing about Lamborghinis, I tell him, is that they’ve got, like, bits that you can’t actually get at – they’re, like, encased in plastic? – which is why you usually have to take them to a specialist who knows what the fock he’s doing.
But before I’ve finished saying what I’m saying, the dude has gone up to the guest room and come back downstairs with a pouch full of what look very much to me – someone who’s never done proper men’s work in his life, remember – like screwdrivers.
He opens her up and gets to work straight away, popping this and loosening that, then asking me at various points to stort her up and rev the engine in a big-time way. After, like, 15 or 20 minutes of this, he suddenly declares the problem fixed. “Take her out on the freeway,” he goes. “The noise will be gone.”
I ask him what the problem was, mainly for the sake of seeming grateful. He says my something-something was over-somethinged, which meant my something was putting pressure on my something-focking-else. Cors are like women to me – I’m happy to use them, but I have no desire to know what goes on under the hood.
I offer to make a pot of coffee while Chad goes and cleans himself up. I’m in the kitchen, listening to the shower running upstairs, trying to choose the exact moment to plunge, so I can then be pouring it the second he comes back down.
Suddenly, Honor appears in the doorway, like one of the twins from The Shining, except even scarier. “I found the fantasy best man speech you wrote for Johnny Sexton,” she goes – and she says it in, like, a really nasty way?
I’m there, “I told you not to touch my rugby tactics book.”
Then she storts, like, reading out lines from it, while imitating my voice, going, “I can’t tell you how much pleasure it’s given me watching Johnny do everything right in his career. But he might not have done everything right if he hadn’t watched me do everything wrong first. What I’m saying is that I’m a major part of his success and I think he’d admit that himself.”
I make a grab for the book, except she pulls it away. She goes, “Oh my God, you are so sad.”
I’m like, “Okay, how am I sad exactly?”
And she has literally no answer to that, except to go, “Because you’re supposed to be an adult! An actual grown man! Hashtag. Pathetic! Hashtag. Hill! Air!”