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“Okay,” Sorcha goes, “do we all know the plan?”
I’m like, “Plan?”
"Er, for the family Zoom call?"
"Okay, refresh my memory again?"
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"When your dad storts spouting his conspiracy theories in relation to Covid, we're not going to get into, like, a major, major row with him. I read an orticle that said this is the best way to deal with people who've been, like, radicalised online. We're going to let him do most of the talking, but we'll challenge him in a constructive way and hopefully get him to see the glaring holes in his own worldview."
'They are a cabal of multi-billionaires, Sorcha, who hatched a plan in Davos in 2014 to wrest control of the world from sovereign governments!'
“Or,” I go, “we could just never speak to him again. He pays all of our bills by direct debit anyway.”
Sorcha goes, “He’s your father, Ross.”
“He’s a nutter.”
"He's not a nutter – he's just discovered the internet very late in life. He's trying to process, in the space of a few weeks, thousands of conspiracy theories that the rest of us have had two decades to consider and reject. Honor, are you ready?"
Honor’s like, “Whatever.”
Sorcha hits the button, then up he pops on the screen. I instantly laugh. It's, like, an automatic thing, because the dude is wearing – I shit you not – a silver thermal blanket around his shoulders, similar to the one Sorcha's granny had to wear after her and her mates from the Foxrock and Cornelscourt Active Retirement Association walked a kilometre of the Women's Mini Marathon course in aid of osteoarthritis.
I’m actually lost for words. But Leo ends up asking the question that’s on all of our lips.
“The fock are you wearing?” he goes.
And Brian’s like, “He’s a nutter!” because – seriously – kids are like sponges at their age.
“What, you mean this?” the old man goes. “Oh, this is just my barrier against biological agents. Have you seen the chemtrails over Foxrock this morning?”
Again, I laugh.
"No," Sorcha goes, digging her nails into my thigh. "Tell us about them. What do you believe they are, Chorles?"
“Well,” the old man goes, “according to a chap named Green Baron Underscore Twenty-Seven, who operates one of these famous blogs and seems to be very much in the know, they’re attempting to administer the vaccine from the air!”
Sorcha goes, "And who are they, Chorles?" with the head tilt and the patronising smile that will be familiar to anyone who's met my wife at a Mount Anville Alumna Women in Business Luncheon. "I'd be very interested to know."
He's like, "They are a cabal of multi-billionaires, Sorcha, who hatched a plan in Davos in 2014 to wrest control of the world from sovereign governments! This involved creating a virus that would induce panic and place the entire planet in a hypometabolic state while they carried out their plan! This is what you won't read in your Irish Times – especially since they've refused to publish my last three letters!"
Honor goes, “But why would they administer the vaccine from the air if they’re already giving it to people by injection?”
Sorcha’s there, “A very good question, Honor. I think all theories are worth interrogating – wouldn’t you agree, Chorles?”
“The vaccine that people are sitting around waiting for is nothing more than saline!” the dude goes. “That’s according to this Green Baron chap, whose sister is a phormacist! No, it’s classic misdirection! They’re giving us the real stuff from the air – this is the one that will allow these people to read your thoughts, your emotions and your desires!”
Sorcha goes, "Okay, let's just unpack that for a second, Chorles. Why would these people want to read our thoughts, emotions and desires? And I'm not asking that in, like, a confrontational way. I'd be genuinely interested in knowing."
He’s there, “Why do you think, Sorcha? In order to sell us things!”
“I think there’s definitely validity in asking questions. But there are already computer algorithms that do that work, Chorles.”
“An algorithm won’t tell this cabal when people in a certain port of the world are getting angry! This will allow them to anticipate revolutions, Sorcha, and put them down before they even happen!”
Honor stands up – obviously bored – and off she focks.
I go, “So where are these goys, like, based? Are they local?”
Sorcha screams, 'YOU'RE A FOCKING NUTTER! A COMPLETE AND UTTER NUTTER!' and she slams the laptop shut.
"And again," Sorcha goes, "he's not asking in a way that's meant to, like, challenge you."
The old man’s there, “They’re based all over the world! I have to be careful what I say because they monitor all Zoom calls!”
“So who does the actual monitoring?” Sorcha goes. “Again, not challenging.”
“Oh, it’s all done from a facility in the Mojave Desert-”
The most random thing happens then. Honor arrives back in the room with the Shannon Turkey Foil and she storts wrapping her brothers in it, going, "Here are you go, boys, let's get this on you!"
“Make sure you cover their necks,” the old man goes. “These biological agents enter the body through the lymph nodes – that’s according to my good friend, Ace Avenger Five!”
Sorcha’s like, “Honor, stop it!” because she knows the girl is only doing it to rip the P, I, double duckies.
I'm there, "When she says stop it, Honor, she obviously doesn't mean it in, like, a challenging way."
Honor finishes wrapping her brothers, then storts wrapping the foil around herself.
Sorcha’s going, “Honor, I said stop it!” but the girl just carries on.
All of a sudden, the old dear appears on the screen next to my old man. She’s wearing – again, I shit you not – a sort of, like, tunic, fashioned from a bin liner.
“Oh, Honor,” she goes, “tin foil doesn’t offer protection to women. Chorles, didn’t you tell her about linear low-density polyethylene?”
He’s there, “I was just about to do it, Dorling!”
And that’s when Sorcha suddenly explodes. She goes, “NOOO!!!!!!”
The old man’s there, “Are you okay, Sorcha?”
“I AM – BUT YOU’RE NOT! YOU’VE LOST YOUR FOCKING MINDS! BOTH OF YOU!”
“It certainly sounds like someone’s lost their mind! Ross, you might think about checking the sky above the house there! Make sure to put some of that foil around your neck before you step outside!”
Sorcha screams, “YOU’RE A FOCKING NUTTER! A COMPLETE AND UTTER NUTTER!” and she slams the laptop shut.
There’s, like, silence then for a good 10 seconds.
“So,” I go, “how do we think that went?”