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The only thing Christian can talk about these days is this, like, camper van that he's been doing up. It's been, like, his lockdown project? Yeah, no, he taught himself plumbing, woodworking and metalworking skills – I'm saying all of this literally – and now the subject is storting to dominate my twice-weekly rugby analysis nights with the goys on Zoom.
As in, I'll be halfway through giving my opinion about, say, the 10 players I would have loved to have played with, or the 10 players I'd love to deck, when Christian will suddenly try to hijack the conversation by telling us something about his – again, literally? – camper van.
He’ll go, “Yeah, no, I connected the chemical toilet this afternoon!” or he’ll be like, “I’ve installed solar panels on the roof to make sure the batteries are topped up at all times.”
I’ve had to pull him up on it several times. I’ve gone, “The goys come on here to listen to my thoughts on the beautiful game, Christian, not to hear you talk about your adventures in – let’s be honest here – manual labour. The lockdown has been hord on all of us, but it sounds like you’re having some kind of nervous breakdown.”
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JP goes, “Ross, every conversation doesn’t have to centre around you. So, Christian, where are you thinking of taking it?”
Logan Roy's kids are better than yours, Ross
Christian's there, "We were thinking in terms of Inishowen – obviously when the country opens up again. Then, next year, we might drive around France for a month."
I’m like, “What – and actually sleep in it?”
“Yeah,” he goes, “it’s a camper van, Ross. The kids are already excited about it.”
I'm there, "Honor wouldn't sleep anywhere that had fewer than four stors. I remember one time we were checking into the Holiday Inn in Paris and she sat on the floor of the lobby and screamed until we took her to the George V. "
Oisinn’s there, “What’s your point, Ross?”
“I’m saying Christian’s kids are obviously better than mine.”
“Logan Roy’s kids are better than yours, Ross.”
“Anyway,” Christian goes, “why don’t you all come around tomorrow to see it? We’re allowed to meet up now, aren’t we?”
I'm there, "I've got an even better idea. Why don't we go to Herbert Pork and throw the old Gilbert around?"
JP's there, "I, for one, would prefer to go to Booterstown to see Christian's camper van," basically shaming me into saying that I'll go along as well.
When I come off the call, Sorcha goes, “How are the goys, Ross?”
I’m there, “I’ll put it to you this way – rugby barely came up. All Christian wants to talk about these days is this quite literally HiAce that he’s converted into a camper van.”
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “Lauren told me he’s done an amazing, amazing job on it. She said he even bought a combi drill and a jigsaw.”
“Does that not sound like depression to you?”
"It's hordly depression, Ross. He's just used the last few months to do something actually productive."
“Yeah, whatever plucks your lute.”
“Oh my God, are you jealous?”
Honor suddenly pipes up then.
She’s like, “Of course he’s jealous. His best friend has discovered that he has all these, like, skills that he didn’t know he had, while Dad is still useless at absolutely everything.”
I’m there, “That’s a bit horsh, Honor, but – yeah, no – that pretty much sums up my feelings. I had a list of rugby-related points that I wanted to make tonight and I never got to say any of them. Now, instead of throwing a ball around in Herbert Pork tomorrow, he wants us all to go to his gaff to admire the job he did, I don’t know, plumbing the chemical toilet.”
“He wants to rub your nose in it,” she goes. “He wants to make you feel small.”
Sorcha’s there, “Honor, stop winding your father up.”
"Hey, I'm on his side," she goes. "It just sounds like Christian is being a bit 'look at me' just to make Dad feel even more inadequate than he already is."
I’m like, “Thank you, Honor. It’s nice to know someone has my back.”
"See, I'm the same as you," she goes. "It pisses me off when other people are good at stuff that I'm not good at?"
I'm there, "It's just I had it in my head that I was going to talk about which World Cup-winning team I genuinely believe I could have brought something to – but the conversation ended up going in a whole other direction. South Africa in 1995 is the answer, by the way."
“Yeah,” Honor goes, “I’m not interested in your boring rugby conversations either. I’m just wondering what you’re going to do to get back at Christian?”
I’m like, “Get him back? As in?”
“Er, he’s bigging himself up while making you feel like a waste of space. Even your own wife is talking about how great he is. I know what I’d do if I was in your situation.”
Me and Sorcha exchange a look.
I’m there, “You’re not going to say burn it out, are you?”
Honor shoots me a look of pure disgust.
“Do you think I’m capable of doing something like that?” she goes.
I’m there, “Of course I don’t.”
Even though I do. Let’s be honest, she’s capable of anything.
"What I would do," she goes, "is rent the biggest and most luxurious RV I could find and then drive to his house in it tomorrow – just to make his achievement seem like nothing."
I laugh. Sometimes, I think we’re too hord on ourselves as parents.
I’m there, “I genuinely love the way you’re thinking, Honor.”
She whips out her phone and I watch her thumbs go to work.
"Here," she goes. "There's a place on the Long Mile Road. Oh my God, look at this one. It's like our suite in the George V that time. It has, like, an electric fireplace in it. A 110-inch TV. Two bedrooms. Oh my God, it's, like, 60ft long, Dad!"
“Can I just remind you,” Sorcha goes, “that Christian is your best friend, Ross. Can you imagine how it’s going to make him feel when you pull up into his driveway in that enormous thing?”
And that line ends up being the clincher.
I’m like, “Good point, Sorcha. Okay, Honor, let’s find out where this famous Long Mile Road is.”