'Honor's in the livingroom, watching Mandarin for Children'

With Sorcha running his campaign, the old man could end up as the actual lord mayor, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

I MIGHT ALREADY have mentioned that since Sorcha Circa, the once-popular boutique in the Powerscourt Centre, went into liquidation last year, the soon-to-be former Mrs RO’CK has been spending her days working on a policy document for my old man, whose one remaining ambition is to become Dublin’s first directly elected lord mayor.

I wouldn’t see myself as, like, a political animal, but I honestly think people would vote for malaria sooner than they’d vote for him. But then I’ve said that before. He was elected to Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council, I shouldn’t forget, on a platform of Enough of This Old Bloody Tribunal Nonsense – We’re All All Right for Money, Aren’t We? Let’s Just Let the Past Be the Past and Whatnot. He ended up topping the actual poll.

See, that’s what I end up sometimes forgetting? People actually like my old man. And now that he’s got Sorcha, like, masterminding his campaign, anything could literally happen.

I know for a fact that she's watched the final series of The West Wingthree times since Easter and she also has most of what's-his-name Obama's major speeches on her YouTube favourites on her iPhone. That's how, like, seriously she's taking the whole thing? When I suggested, the other night, blacking up the old man's face and printing up posters with "DOPE" on them she actually put the phone down on me.

Anyway, roysh, where all this is going is that I called out to the gaff on Newtownpork Avenue on Thursday morning for one of my fun days of court-approved unsupervised access to our daughter, and noticed the old man’s Merc porked outside.

I found him in the kitchen, pacing the faux-natural stone floor, babbling away about nothing, while Sorcha was sat at the DuPont Corian breakfast bor, offering him tips on his, like, stance and projection skills. Those two years she spent with the Rathmines & Rathgor Musical Society were suddenly paying for themselves.

I laughed. That was my instant reaction.

“Who the fock are you supposed to be,” I went, “Barack O’Nama?” which was a cracking line, even I have to admit that. Except the old man didn’t rise to the bait. See, it’s nearly impossible to hurt him, no matter how hord you try.

“Here he comes,” he went, “one of the famous – inverted commas – young floating voters who are going to decide this election, when they eventually get around to having it. Young Sorcha here is just helping me polish my oratorical skills.”

Of course Sorcha wanted me out of there immediately. "Don't tell him anything, Charles. He's only here to sneer. Ross, Honor's in the livingroom, watching her Mandarin for ChildrenDVD. Have her back here by five o'clock. And do not take her to the zoo again. You know how I feel about animals being kept in captivity."

“No, no,” I went, pulling up a pew, “I’m a voter. Well, I could be if I bothered my orse getting registered. So hit me. What have you got to offer?”

The old man went, “Sorcha has come up with an idea she’s certain is going to capture the under-25s vote, especially on this side of this, well, divided city.” I was like, “Go on then – wow me.”

“Don’t say a word,” Sorcha went, giving him the serious death rays, knowing that, no matter what it was, I was going to rip the actual.

Of course he wasn’t going to be denied his moment. “A special lane,” he went, “on the Rock Road and the Stillorgan dual carriageway initially, but eventually all of our roads . . . for texters.”

I was obviously there, “Texters?”

“Yes,” he went, “people who wish to text while driving.” I laughed in his actual face, though it didn’t seem to put him off.

“Your – inverted commas – estranged wife here has been doing some research in the field, Kicker. Opinion tasting, it’s called. Anyway, it seems this is what young people want.”

I turned to Sorcha. “Research in the field? You mean you rang Chloe, Sophie and Amie with an ie?” She looked at me, mad as a focking meat axe.

“Not just Chloe, Sophie and Amie with an ie,” she went. “If you must know, I rang, like, 30 girls I know? This is what they want.” And she’d know what people want, that shop of hers having left her owing 300 Ks to the Hilary Swank.

“We have special lanes,” the old man went, “for these pushbikes you sometimes see. Why not lanes for people who want to drop down to maybe 30 or 40 kilometres per hour to send a vital SMS?”

I was like, “Er, because it’s, like, dangerous?”

“Er, this,” Sorcha went, “coming from a man with 10 penalty points?” Which was bang out of order, because the vast majority of those points were for non-display of the old Loser plates.

“Hey,” I went, just for the crack, “what about another lane for, like, Facebookers? As in, people who are in a hurry to update their status?”

He actually turned to Sorcha and went, “It is very popular, Sorcha. You said so yourself . . .You know, Ross, there’s even talk of your old dad setting up one of these social network pages – for campaign purposes, obviously.”

Sorcha went, “He’s being facetious, Charles. Facebookers will obviously be allowed to use the texting lane.”

I hopped down off the stool, shaking my head. “You two can make fools of yourselves if you want. Do you honestly think that’s what the people of south Dublin want?”

“Politics,” the old man just went, “is the art of something, something, something.

“Bismarck said that, you know.”