Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘I might be a d**khead – but I’m not an a**hole’

Sorcha ends up giving me the weirdest look. She's there, "You?"

And I’m like, “Yeah, me – what’s the big deal?”

She actually laughs.

She goes, “You can’t sing, Ross.”

After a broken marriage, I’m scared to let the perfect man love me

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Leaving dark and cold Ireland for the pure blue skies of Western Australia

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Two wines to try: a classic Chablis and a rich Bordeaux

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I’m there, “Yes, I can.”

"Ross, I've heard you sing."

“When?”

That's when she suddenly storts singing in this, like, really flat voice, going, "If I were the marrying kind / Which thank the Lord I'm not, Sir / The kind of man that I would wed / Would be a rugby fly-half . . ."

"Yeah," I go, "that's a rugby song, Sorcha. I'm usually singing that at half time in a big match, when I'm walking around the house, half-mashed. I'm talking about proper, actual singing?"

Yeah, no, every year, the Castlerock College Past Pupils Association and the Mount Anville Networking Alliance host a joint carolling event outside Brown Thomas on Grafton Street on the last late-night shopping Thursday before Christmas.

And this year, the Rossmeister General has decided to get into the spirit of the thing. And Sorcha is being her usual, encouraging self.

I stort giving it loads, while Sorcha sort of, like, grimaces, then – and I'm saying this quite literally – puts her fingers in her ears to block out the sound of my voice

She goes, “I’m just trying to tell you, as gently as I can, Ross, that you can’t hold a note. I don’t want you embarrassing yourself.”

I'm there, "You don't want me embarrassing you more like."

"Well, yes, that as well. This is the Mount Anville Networking Alliance, Ross! I've been sounded out about the possibility of standing for President in 2021. I don't want my chances ruined by you groaning your way through Silent Night like – again, not trying to hurt your feelings – a rhinoceros having its prostate checked."

Seriously, it’s a wonder that I have any confidence.

Not a euphemism

I throw on the old Helly Hansen, pull my Leinster beanie down on my head and I go, “Okay, let’s hit the road.”

Which – after a lot of tutting and sighing from Sorcha – we eventually do.

We pork the cor in Fitzwilliam Square and we head for Grafton Street. They've already storted when we arrive, blazing their way through Adeste Fideles while shaking their buckets – which isn't a euphemism for anything, by the way.

I hear the old man before I see him. He's standing at the back, belting out the words with the volume and subtlety of a Boeing 747 engine: "En grege relicto / Humiles ad cunas / Vocati pastores adproperant / Et nos ovanti / Gradu festinemus . . ."

Latin and brandy is a heady combination where my old man is concerned.

When the song ends, he spots us and goes, “Kicker! Sorcha! Over here!”

We tip over to him and he's like, "Vinum et musica laetificant cor – eh, Ross?"

I’m there, “Er, yeah, whatever.”

He goes, “It’s wonderful to see you here! I’ve always said you had a very strong voice, Ross! Strong and distinctive!”

Okay, he's the reason I have any confidence.

I might be a d**khead – but I'm not an a**hole

I'm there, "I'm going to take that as a compliment," and then we have to shut the fock up because we're moving onto the next song, which happens to be Away in a Manger.

I stort giving it loads, while Sorcha sort of, like, grimaces, then – and I’m saying this quite literally – puts her fingers in her ears to block out the sound of my voice and concentrate on her own.

I’m sort of, like, looking around to see who’s here. There’s quite a few faces from my past here and I can’t help but notice that I’m getting quite a few dirty looks. The Mount Anville Networking Alliance could easily change its name to the Ross O’Carroll-Kelly Unappreciation Society and their membership would be basically the same crew.

Anyway, we fly through all the usual hits – we're talking O Come All Ye Faithful, we're talking O Holy Night, we're talking O Little Town of Bethlehem.

And the public seem to be genuinely loving us, given how many people are slipping yoyos into our buckets – again, not a euphemism.

Sore from grinning

We're halfway through Hork the Herald Angels Sing when Evanne Ellis, an old school friend of Sorcha's – who's won awards for her singing – taps me on the shoulder and asks me if she can have a word.

I'm like, "Is this about the debs?" because – like I said – they wouldn't all have fond memories of me?

She goes, “No, it’s not about the debs,” and she sort of, like, flicks her head to tell me to step away from the rest of the choir, which is what I do.

I notice Sorcha looking over in our direction with a smug little smile on her face.

I’m there, “Is there a problem, Evanne?”

"Look," she goes, "I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings here. I admire enthusiasm – I really do. But there are people who can sing, and people who just can't sing. And, unfortunately . . ."

“You don’t have to say any more, okay? Point taken.”

“It’s not personal, Ross.”

“Yeah, no, I understand.”

And that's when she says the most random thing. She goes, "So are you going to tell her or will I?"

I’m there, “Sorry? Excuse me?”

“Sorcha,” she goes. “She’s putting everybody off with her singing. The girl is, like, tone-deaf.”

I laugh. I’m there, “Seriously?”

She goes, “She always was, Ross,” and I’m suddenly grinning so hord that my face actually hurts.

Evanne returns to the group and Sorcha walks over to me. She goes, “Are you okay?”

And I'm there, "Yeah, I'm totally fine," still grinning like a – I think it's a phrase? – cheddar cat.

She goes, “I can see you’re putting a brave face on it.”

I'm about to tell her that it's not me at all – there's nothing wrong with my voice – that it's her who's the crow.

But then I look at her face in the lights and I see how sad she is on my behalf and I know that it would absolutely crush her if I told her the truth. I might be a d**khead – but I’m not an a**hole.

So I do what I did last weekend when we had two of Sorcha’s vegetarian friends over for dinner and I accidentally cooked the roast potatoes in duck fat instead of vegetable oil. I say fock-all.

She kisses me on the cheek and goes, “Will we go to the Shelbourne and get a drink?”

And I’m there, “That sounds good to me.”