SOMETHING I’VE POSSIBLY never told you before. When Johnny Sexton was, like, 17 years of age, I sat down with him one day in McDonald’s in Stillorgan and gave him some advice on how to handle the pressure of being potentially the greatest outhalf this country has ever produced.
I’m happy to say that he ignored every single word I said and this weekend, at still only, like, 26, he could win a third European Cup to go with the Leinster Schools Senior Cup he won with – I hate to say it – but Mary’s.
This is me being philosophical in the deportures lounge of Dublin Airport. It’s, like, Friday night and we’re sitting at the gate, waiting to board – we’re talking me, the STBX and our six-year-old daughter, having decided to make a pretty much weekend of it? Tonight, we’re hitting some supposedly amazing sushi place in Covent Gorden, then tomorrow Sorcha is going to take Honor around London to see all the famous sights – Harrods, Alexander McQueen, the big Stella McCortney store in Mayfair – while I head for Twickenham with the goys, who are all flying over tomorrow morning.
I’m sitting there, roysh, just watching old You Tube clips on my iPhone – Roy Kearney’s two tries against Cordiff, Cian Healy’s against Clermont Auvergne – and everything feels suddenly right with the world. I even go, “Can I just say something here? This team has brought me more happiness than . . . I don’t know what.” Honor looks up from her own iPhone and goes, “And you’re telling us this why exactly?” I’m there, “I’m just making the point, Honor, that I could be bitter. Had the cords fallen differently, I might have been actually playing tomorrow? It didn’t work out for me. But I still love this team like a basic family.” Honor just, like, rolls her eyes and goes, “Er, hashtag – lame much?” I don’t say anything. She’s just going through one of those really bitchy phases that girls on our side of the city call . . . well, life.
Sorcha just, like, sad-smiles me. She looks well, it has to be said. She’s had her roots done and I know she’s been on the Weight Watchers for the last three weeks. She’s still got it, is what I’m saying.
So they make the pre-boarding announcement – anyone with infants or anyone requiring special assistance and all the usual blahdy blah.
Honor jumps up and storts heading for the air hostess who’s, like, checking the boarding passes, with me and Sorcha trailing after her, carrying her three pieces of cabin baggage like we’re her – I don’t know - valets or some shit? By the time we make it over, the woman is telling Honor that she’ll have to wait until her seat row is called, which Honor isn’t happy about, given the way she’s, like, glowering at her? I’m like, “Okay, what seems to be the issue here?” ever the diplomat.
The woman goes, “Parents with infants are entitled to pre-board. This girl isn’t an infant.” I’m prepared to accept that, roysh, but Honor obviously isn’t. Under her breath, she goes, “Fock you.” I do what a lot of these parenting experts tell you and decide not to make an issue of it – as does the air hostess, in fairness – but then I catch Sorcha staring at me and I realise that she wants me to say something, I suppose as the girl’s father. So I go, “Er, possibly don’t talk to people like that, Honor. Blah, blah, blah.” Except the kid comes straight back with, “Yeah, it’s actually a song? Er, Cee Lo Green?” I turn around to Sorcha and I’m like, “She has us there, Babe.” You can imagine how that goes down. Sorcha’s there, “What?” because she’s always argued that I indulge the kid too much.
“I’m just saying, it’s a definite song. I see you driving round town with the girl I love . . . I think it’s the album version. It’s hord to know what we can do – that’s the point I’m trying to make.”
“What you can do,” Sorcha goes, out of the side of her mouth, “is discipline your daughter.” I just keep staring straight ahead, though. There’s, like, a lot of other passengers listening and I’m thinking, okay, let’s all just chillax here. We’re about to have a cracking weekend away.
That’s when it all storts to go wrong. The air hostess suddenly isn’t happy with where we’re standing. “I have to keep this area clear,” she goes. “You’re blocking people who are trying to board the aircraft.” Honor just looks at her and goes, “Oh, no! Insert sad emoticon here!” and then, under her breath, she’s like, “Such a bitch.” The air hostess looks at her and goes, “I beg your pardon?” and I’m suddenly thinking, oh, no, please.
And that’s when Honor says it. “Er, do you do your own make-up – or does someone shoot it onto your face with a focking paintball gun?” There are literally gasps from the other passengers. It’s actually a line she stole from me, in fairness, but I end up just rolling my eyes in a sort of kids-say-the-darnedest-things way. It’s a good 10 seconds before the air hostess gets it togeher to say something. And then she goes, “Okay, you’re not getting on this plane.” Sorcha’s like, “Excuse me?” “This girl is not getting onto this plane. She’s being rude and abusive.”
“But . . .”
“Please move away from the gate before I have to call security.”
Which is what we end up having to do – Sorcha with, like, literally tears in her eyes. I feel like shedding a few myself. I’m the one who’s going to miss the focking Heineken Cup final.
We’re walking back through Duty Free when Sorcha all of a sudden stops, turns around to Honor and goes, “Who told you it was okay to speak to another human being like that?” Except Honor just goes, “Whatever!” and keeps on walking.
I’m there, “Sorcha, I actually think it was the air hostess who was bang out of order. I thought she didn’t exactly help the situation. I’m going to go back and have a go at her.” Sorcha’s like, “Ross, don’t.” But I turn away anyway.
I’m like, “Hey, I’m going to tear her a new one, Babes – as in, a new orsehole? ” Two minutes later, I’m back at the gate. I’m just, like, staring at the woman, who’s all smiles again, not a care in the actual world. I’m thinking, ‘How focking dare you try to keep me from supporting the team that I’ve followed through thick and sometimes thin.’ I morch straight over to where she’s standing. Then I put my head down and hand her my boarding cord. Luckily, she doesn’t recognise me. “Have a nice flight,” she goes.
Sixty seconds later, I’m buckling myself into my seat. Maybe, in time, Sorcha will understand why I did what I did. Maybe she won’t. But this I have to say in my defence. I love Leinster. And unlike my kids, they’ve never, ever let me down.
