Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: The old man wants to build Trump’s Mexican wall

So the old man rang me earlier this week and he said, like, the weirdest thing? He went: "I had a taco for the first time tonight, Ross, and I didn't enjoy it one little bit."

I was like: “What? Are you leathered or something?”

“No, I’m merely stating that Helen made tacos for dinner – and I found them frankly unsatisfying and a touch on the stodgy side. And – if you have the time - just too downright finicky by half. The ingredients are thrown on to the table and you end up having to prepare the bloody thing yourself!”

"Yeah, I'm kind of busy here?"

I was lying on the sofa, playing with my phone, changing my settings to get Siri to address me by different names, including Stud, Winner and Golden Balls. Her little robot voice just does it for me.

The old man didn’t take the hint, though. He went: “I find Mexican food grossly overrated – like much of what comes from that country.”

I was like: “What are you talking about?”

"I'm simply observing that I don't really enjoy anything that comes from Mexico. Tequila is a dreadful, dreadful drink. Their music is offensive to my ears. And as for avocados – they taste of nothing and they make you fat!"

"You love a good Mexican Wave. I'm remembering you at Neil Diamond in Croke Pork in '92. You were up and down so often, you had to go and sit in a St John's ambulance for half an hour. They gave you a lollipop to suck."

Mexican Wave

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ross. I’ve never done the Mexican Wave in my life. Anyway, I’ve really enjoyed this conversation.”

Then he hung up.

Two nights later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling a few notes in the back of my Rugby Tactics Book. I was actually writing a fantasy best man speech for Rob Kearney in the event of him one day asking me to do the honours. That's when my phone rang. It was the old man again.

"Isn't that Meryl Streep a hopeless actress?" he went.

I was like: “What?”

“Meryl Streep. She’s terribly overrated. Well, it’s that type of acting that insists upon itself, isn’t it? Everything’s overcooked. Just dial it down a notch, Meryl! Just dial it the hell down!”

"You loved her in Mamma Mia!"

"I've never seen Mamma Mia! in my life!"

“You own it on DVD. You insist on putting it on every Christmas.”

“Like I said, Ross, overrated in the extreme! And I don’t find her in the least bit attractive. I know some men do. Wouldn’t be my kind of thing. I’d say she’s bloody hard work as well. Forget her birthday and I expect she’d kick up bloody hell. And even doing that she wouldn’t be convincing. Anyway, Kicker, I really enjoy these chats – must go!”

Then he hung up.

A day or two later, I happened to be in town when I ran into the famous Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, his solicitor and best friend. He was standing outside the Shelbourne, smoking a Cohiba the size of rolling pin, and loudly making the point that women shouldn’t be allowed to drive motor cors. This was while watching a woman trying to parallel pork.

I morched up to him and I was like: “What’s going on with my old man?”

He was there: “Charlie? What are you talking about?”

"He rings me up the other night and he storts banging on Meryl Streep's movies to me – critiquing her acting. The night before that, he was on about how he'd just had a taco and he found it – I want to say – unsatisfying? Have they upped his meds or something?"

Simple reason

Hennessy just laughed. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he went. “There’s a very simple reason for it.”

I was like, “Okay, I’m listening.”

"Well, as you know, he and I are tendering to build a portion of this famous wall that Donald Trump wants to build. We're hoping to build the bit from Ciudad Juarez to Heroica Nogales. "

"So why is he pretending he's never seen Mamma Mia!? Jesus, he used to walk around the house singing the songs. Helen thought he was about to come out of the closet. She told me that herself."

“All companies tendering for the job are subjected to a vetting process.”

“Okay.”

"And your father is convinced the National Security Agency is monitoring his phone calls."

“Who?”

“American intelligence.”

"Random. And are they?"

“Who knows? But we’re going over there next week. And I told him, to be on the safe side, if he’s using the phone, not to say anything impolitic.”

“Is that a definite word?”

“Yes, it’s a definite word. It sounds to me like your father is probably overcompensating.”

“Well, it’s focking annoying. I’ve a busy lifestyle. That’s what he fails to see.”

Then I walked off.

That night, I was sitting at home, writing a list in my head of all the girls I’ve slept with who were named after months of the year. January. April. May. June. Could I count Julie for July?

Stairs

That’s why my phone suddenly rang and it was him again. He went: “What do you think of stairs, Ross?”

I was like: “What?”

“Stairs. You know – steps. Why do we bloody need them? The older I get, the more I think, what is our obsession with these infernal things? If it was up to me, I’d get rid of them.”

So I went: “I hear you and Hennessy are off to the States next week?”

He was like, "Yes, we're heading to Washington on Friday for, let's just say, business reasons!"

“Can I give you a few things to bring over?”

“Things? What type of things?”

“It’s just a few bags of Tayto for one of a few mates of mine who are stuck over there – overstayed their visas.”

“Er, Ross, I rather think . . .”

“Are you going to be seeing Fazil and Aabidullah while you’re over there?”

“Who?”

“Your mates, Fazil and Aabidullah? Actually, is Aabidullah even out of prison?”

“Who is this? I’m sorry, Ross, I rather think we have a crossed line here.”

“By the way, that was great joke you told about Donald Trump over dinner last night.”

And the line went thankfully dead.