‘Mary Lou McDonald talked like you, Sorcha, until Sinn Féin got their hands on her. Now she could sell bloody fireworks on Mary St’

Sorcha goes, “Would you two not go out somewhere?” meaning me and Honor. “Ross, why don’t you take her to Dundrum and buy her something really expensive? My treat.”

“Yeah, nice try,” Honor goes. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

The famous K… K… K… Kennet is coming over this evening to give Sorcha the first of her anti-elocution lessons. My old man has hired him in a sort of, like, Henry Higgins role to help her unlearn nine years of Mount Anville speech and deportment training and teach her to speak in a way that will appeal to the voters of Dublin 6.

“Yeah, no,” I go – because there’s no way in the world I’m going to miss this, “I told you that if you went into politics, I’d be by your side, every step of the way. And I meant that literally.”

Honor goes, “Oh my God, it’s going to be so hillair!”

Sorcha’s rattled. It’s funny. “The thing is,” she goes, “we’re actually going out.”

I’m like, “Out? Out where?”

“Your father and Kennet are taking me to… They’re taking me to a greyhound stadium.”

I’m like, “Honor, get your coat.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She doesn’t need to be told once.

“Ross, you’re not coming,” Sorcha tries to go.

I'm there, "Sorcha, I promised you that if you wanted to be Hilary Clinton, I'd be more than happy to be your Bill – and I intend to keep that promise."

It’s at that exact moment that I hear the old man’s Jag pull up on the gravel outside. Me and Honor go outside, then hop into the back with my old man, while Sorcha sits up front with Kennet, who’s doing the driving.

"Where is this… dawg treck," Sorcha goes.

Kennet’s there, “Hattle’s Cross.”

Like you, I go, “Where?”, at the same time laughing?

“I think he’s trying to say Harold’s Cross,” Honor goes. “Oh my God, I feel like my whole life has been building up to this moment.”

"Harold's Cross," the old man goes, "is part of Dublin Bay South. We're going to make Harold's Cross and Terenure your heartland, Sorcha. Here," and he hands her a New Republic rosette, "better put that on your jacket. I know you feel you're being thrown in at the proverbial deep end, but all we're planning to do tonight is a simple meet and greet. Mingle amongst the – inverted commas – punters and listen to their concerns. Remember, don't say what New Republic is for or against. Just sympathise with people in a sort of general way – it's all gone too far, etcetera, etcetera. Like I said, my man Kennet here is going to teach you some useful phrases you might consider using to make yourself understood in this part of the world."

Kennet goes, “The cuntoddy’s arthur goan down the tubes, so it has.”

Honor laughs. I laugh. The dude might as well be speaking Swahilish.

Sorcha goes, “The country…”

“No, no,” Kennet goes, “the cuntoddy…”

“The cun…”

“The cuntoddy.”

“The cuntoddy is author…”

“The cutoddy is arthur.”

“The cuntoddy is arthur… going down the tubes…”

“So it has.”

“Do I have to add ‘so it has’ at the end? It just feels like the sentence is already complete.”

"Stick with it," the old man goes. "Mary Lou McDonald talked just like you, Sorcha, until Sinn Féin got their hands on her. Now she could sell bloody fireworks on Mary Street with that wonderful voice of hers. God, I love Mary Lou. Give her another one, Kennet."

Kennet goes, “Things is teddible bad with the austeddity.”

Sorcha stares at him with her mouth just open. It’s hord for her – no one’s denying that.

"It's like the first time I ever saw Fair City," Honor goes. "I watched it for, like, 10 minutes and I couldn't pick out a single word I recognised."

Sorcha gives it a go, though. Nec aspera terrent, as it says on the Mount Anville school crest.

She’s like, “Things is terrible…”

“No – teddible,” Kennet goes.

“… teddible bad… with the… with the austerity.”

“Austeddity.”

“Aus… Austeddity. Things is teddible bad with the austeddity.”

“Spoken like a bloody native!” the old man goes. “Sorcha – your public awaits.”

We’ve pulled up outside this famous greyhound stadium. Sorcha gets out of the Jag and her mouth is suddenly frozen in this, like, smile – it’s obviously just nerves – and her teeth put me in mind of the front grille on my first Beamer.

As we walk into the stadium, various people – punters, as my old man called them – stare at her, although no one says anything to her, and she just nods at them like the dog off the Churchill Insurance ad.

“Loosen up,” my old man goes to her. “You have to earn the trust of these people.”

Some random dude obviously cops the rosette and goes, “Hee-er, I hope your crew are gonna do bethor than the bleaten shower what’s in there!”

There’s a lot of nodding and general agreement that this dude has said something very important.

“Answer him,” the old man goes out of the corner of his mouth.

And Sorcha, drawing on her two years of acting experience with Rathmines and Rathgor Musical Society, goes, "The cuntoddy is arthur goan down the tubes, so it has."

The dude turns to his friends and goes, “At last! At bleaten last! Someone to speak for the people of this aer dia.”

And for the next 15 minutes, she has them eating out of the palm of her hand. She manages to pass herself off as being from Dublin 6 and even Honor ends up disappointed.

“Wait’ll they get a load of her in Terenure,” the old man goes.

But there's still a South Dublin princess in there straining to get out. You can't fight three decades of good breeding – I think that's, like, the moral of this story? Because 15 minutes after we arrive, we're standing at the rail, waiting for the first race to begin. The electric hare flies past us and the dogs burst out of the traps and Sorcha – probably without even hearing herself – goes, "Oh my God, don't hurt it! So don't hurt it!"

Everyone turns and stares at her. And what can my old man tell the crowd except, “She’s, um, still a work in progress.” ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE