SIXTY-SOMETHING YEARS on this Earth and the old man still hasn't learned to tell an actual joke. Doesn't stop him trying, of course. At the top of his voice as well, in front of, like, 50 or 60
people?
“Here’s one for you, Kicker,” he goes. “Heard it the other day. The K Club, of all places . . . ” He’s wearing that focking hat as well – the one he picked up at the Irish Open years ago, when the whole Grey Norman thing was going on. The old dear used to call him her Great White Shark, flirting her orse off with him, usually when she wanted another piece of Lladró. It’s an actual miracle that I turned out as well as I did.
He's like, "Okay, I'm trying to remember the dramatis personaeinvolved in the thing. There was Seán Quinn – yes, that's it. Oh, and Seanie Fitz, of course – yourfriend and mine! And they were on this boat, Ross, which – yes, that's right – suddenly sank! I mean, have you ever heard the like of it?"
“Yeah,” I go, “is there any chance you can keep your big foghorn voice down?”
"So, there they are, the two chaps, in the sea – and I hope they won't mind me telling this joke; they're bothfriends of mine – and they suddenly realise that there's only one bloody lifejacket. So Seanie Fitz turns around to his near namesake and he says, 'Do you think you're capable of floating?' And Seán Quinn says, 'The shit we're in – and you stillwant to talk about business?' " Two or three people laugh. Actually, everyonedoes? Except it's a real sympathy laugh.
"What are you even doing here?" I go – here meaning some random field in the middle of Carrickmines, where they're filming the big tearjerker scene for the movie, Mom, They Said They'd Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” he goes. “I’m here to see my granddaughter take her first tentative steps towards becoming a star of the silver screen. Oh, your mother’s mentioned her in – inverted commas – dispatches. Says she’s the talk of the set. The finest child actor that anyone has seen since, well, someone or other. Of course, she didn’t lick that up off the maple hardwood.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you were an entertainer yourself, Ross, back in the day.”
I feel my attitude towards him suddenly, I don't know, soften? I'm a sucker for a compliment, especially when it comes to rugby. I even end up confiding in him then, though not before looking over both shoulders first.
"Look, just between ourselves," I go, "I'm actually a bit worriedabout Honor."
“Worried? What do you mean, worried?”
"Worried that with all this attention she's suddenly getting, she's storting to turn into an – okay, I'm going to say the word – orsehole?"
“An orsehole? Good lord! I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for a six-year-old girl to be such a thing.”
"You've obviously never watched the Late Late Toy Showthen. She's, like, worse than one of those brat kids you see on that. Everything to her is like, 'toats lame'. Everyone is, 'oh my God sucha sap'. And the way she speaks to me and her old dear – I mean, tell me I wasn't like that when I was younger."
He doesn't answer – but only because he doesn't get the chanceto? Because, roysh, all of a sudden, this stunning-looking woman is walking over towards us – think Izabel Goulart and you're practically looking at her.
“Hi, I’m Cathy,” she goes, her hand outstretched. She’s, like, American by the sounds of it. She air-kisses the two of us – both cheeks as well, then she’s like, “I’m playing the equestrian school owner who has to tell little Zara Mesbur that her pony is going to be repossessed.”
You should see her bod, by the way. I mean, Sorcha’s pretty well-furnished in that deportment herself, but this girl makes her look like – I’m not being sexist here – but two Disprins on an ironing board.
“I’m Honor’s old man,” I go, laying it on like chocolate spread. “It’s lovely to meet you.” I never lost it, see.
"And I'm Ross's old dad," the old man has to go then. And I suddenly realise that he's actually trying to flirt? I'm going to hurl. I'm going to literally hurl.
It’s a good job she steps away when she does. She goes, “I’m so looking forward to acting opposite her. They’re saying she’s already as good as Saoirse Ronan. Anyway, I’d better go. I’ll see you later, I hope.”
Oh, you will. That's as sure as Johnny Sexton from right in front of the posts. I watch her depart – closely, as well. Then I turn and catch the old man doing the same thing. "Er, do you have noembarrassment gene?" I go. "The tongue hanging out of your head like a focked roller blind." He's not the only one either. Practically the entire cast is staring at her. Like I said, she's some sight.
That’s when I happen to cop Honor, standing at the door of her trailer. She’s not a happy buck-toothed, burrowing mammal either, from the look on her face.
“Hello there, Honor!” the old man goes.
I say it at the exact same time. I’m like, “Hey, Honor.” Except she just goes, “Er – whatevs!” flicking her head like Tyra Banks or any of that crew, then disappears back inside her trailer.
I turn around to the old man. "See? She's actually alreadyan orsehole. Jesus, think what she'll be like if she wins a focking Ifta."
The old man just shakes his head, smiling – I suppose – fondly? "Ross, you've got absolutely nothing to worry about. And you're wondering, of course, how I can be so sure of that . . . "
“I’m actually wondering why no one has ever punched you in the face for wearing that hat.”
"The reasonI can be so sure is that, well, look who her father is!"
“Okay, continue.”
“Well, you’ve already trodden the road down which young Honor is about to sally forth. You’ve experienced it, Ross. The fame! The adulation! The brickbats and the whatnots! The being in the – what’s this they call it? – the public eye? Who better to help her steer her course than the great Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?”
“See, this is all good shit that you’re saying to me now. You can actually be alright when you’re not trying so hord.”
“Well, I’m just saying, Ross – from the father of one child star to the father of another, you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about.”
All of a sudden, roysh, the director is stood in front of us. I barely recognise the dude. I swear to fock, he’s visibly aged in the two weeks since they storted shooting this thing.
“You have to speak to your daughter,” he goes, looking at me. “She says she’s not coming out of her trailer until Cathy is sacked.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie. twitter.com/rossock
