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“Ross,” Christian goes, “how the hell are you?”
And I’m like, “Duuude!” somehow managing to resist the urge to chest-bump him.
I can’t even tell you how good it is to see my best friend again. It’s been, like, 15 months and I’ve seriously missed him. But the feeling only lasts as long as it takes me to notice that there’s something different about Christian.
I’m like, “Okay, what the fock is that?” pointing at his head with my burger flipper.
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Because Christian – I shit you not – has got himself a top knot.
“What’s what?” he has the nerve to go, like he’s hurting no one.
Little Ross Junior pipes up then. He's like, 'Thorcha,' because that's the way he talks, 'my mommy thaid that I can have a thop knot ath well!'
I’m like, “Your hair, dude. I know a lot of people aren’t looking their best after a year of this thing, but there’s no excuse for a top knot.”
He doesn't say a word in his own defence. He doesn't need to because Lauren is straight in there.
She’s like, “I think it actually suits him.”
I’m there, “Suits him? He looks like a dude from a Russian porn film.”
“Yeah,” Lauren goes, “this coming from the man who’s had the same hairstyle since he was 12 years old.”
I’m there, “Blade one at the sides and a quiff at the front – it works, Lauren.”
Sorcha steps out of the gaff then and it's pretty much the first thing she sees as well.
She’s there, “It’s so amazing to see you goys!” and then she’s like, “Oh my God, a top knot!”
Christian goes, “Yeah, no, thanks,” even though I don’t recall her commenting on it either way. “It storted out as just something to do with my hair. But it’s actually grown on me.”
“Literally,” Lauren goes, then they all laugh.
Christian’s there, “Even though the borbers are back open, I’ve decided I’m going to keep it.”
Little Ross Junior pipes up then. He's like, "Thorcha," because that's the way he talks, "my mommy thaid that I can have a thop knot ath well!"
I decide to stay out of it, even though – as the kid’s godfather – I’m fully entitled to say something. Instead, I throw the chicken on the borbecue while the others chat about when their parents got the vaccine and how much they’ve missed BTs.
It’s when I pop inside to the kitchen to put a toilet roll in the fridge that Lauren suddenly corners me. She’s like, “I want a word with you.”
At first I presume it's about my naked lady borbecue apron, which some people find – that word – inappropriate. It's either that or the fact that I gave Ross a grand for his birthday and she's about to give me another lecture about how he's going to grow up with no understanding of the value of money. But it turns out it's, like, neither of those things.
“I need a favour,” she goes. “I want you to cut off that ridiculous top knot.”
I’m like, “What? I thought you said you liked it?”
She’s there, “I actually hate it,” at the same time producing a scissors. “I just don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“I can’t just go out there and cut his hair, Lauren.”
“Yes, you can – just pass it off as rugby banter.”
“Rugby banter is taking a dump in someone’s shoes. Or maybe having a slash – again, in someone’s shoes. But this is beyond the bounds.”
“Ross, do you know how many of your dirty little secrets I know about?”
“You’re bluffing, Lauren.”
"Moag Kennedy. Jennifer Jantjies. Susan Batson. Keeva Culligan. "
“Okay,” I go, “give me the scissors,” which is what she then does.
A few seconds later, I tip back outside to check on the borbecue and I go, "Hey, Christian, you might be interested to hear that I picked my fantasy team for the first Lions Test against South Africa, " and over he comes, because he loves my analysis – especially the way I never shy away from making the big calls. "Spoiler alert – my storting 15 are all Irish. Thirteen of them are actually Leinster. "
Lauren sighs. She goes, 'I suppose that's what you call rugby banter, is it? I wonder will you ever grow up.'
I grab the scissors in the pocket of my apron.
“Here,” I go, “you wouldn’t pass me up one of those plates, would you?” and I point at the little shelf underneath the old Weber.
He’s there, “Is that chicken definitely done, Ross?”
“Well, we’ll all know tomorrow,” I laugh. “I threw a toilet roll in the fridge just in case.”
He gets down on his, like, hunkers to get the plate. I whip the scissors out and I grab the top knot in my left hand. But suddenly – weird for the seventh-highest points-scorer in the history of Leinster schools rugby – I end up losing my nerve at the last second.
He stands up again and hands me the plate. He's there, "Do I even need to ask who your 10 is going to be?"
“No, you don’t,” I go. “I even wrote down in my Tactics Book how I imagined the conversation going. I’d be like, ‘As far as I’m concerned, Johnny, you’re still the greatest outhalf in world rugby today,’ and he’d be all, ‘That means a lot, Ross – especially coming from someone with your knowledge of the game.’ I actually made myself cry writing it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Sorry?”
“You just flipped a sausage on to the ground there?”
“Did I? Yeah, no, it was an accident.”
“You just dropped another one. And a burger.”
He bends down to pick them up. I whip out the scissors again and I grab his hair again. But the same thing happens. I end up getting an attack of the big-match nerves and I literally freeze.
What happens next happens in a split-second. The scissors is snatched from my hand and Lauren shoulders me out of the way. In one fluid movement, she grabs the top knot, cuts it, then hands me both the scissors and the big clump of hair.
Christian stands up and turns around. He’s patting the crown of his head, going, “Dude, what the fock?” and then he sees the little horse’s tail of hair in my hand. “Why did you do that?”
Poor little Ross Junior looks at his old man, sees that the top knot is gone and bursts into tears.
Sorcha looks at me. She’s like, “Oh! My God, Ross!”
Lauren sighs. She goes, "I suppose that's what you call rugby banter, is it? I wonder will you ever grow up."