Life & Style

Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: I’m no Aoibhinn Ní Shúilleabháin but I feel like I have a superpower

The Leaving Cert results are up online, and my hands are literally shaking

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly's face
Ross O'Carroll-Kelly
Sat Sep 4 2021 - 06:00

So it's here: the day – as in, like, the day. The Leaving Cert results are about to go online and I am – okay, I'm trying to think of an Irish Times way of putting this – shitting carrot puree.

It feels nothing at all like the first time I sat the thing, back in 1998, when my old dear collected my results from the school and informed me through a drunken haze (hers) that I’d managed to pull off the exact reverse of maximum points.

Or in 1999, when I repeated the feat, and my old man began his seven-year legal campaign to try to prove to a succession of judges – and juries – that I was some sort of misunderstood genius instead of the low-watt rugby moron that the rest of the world saw.

Like I said, I actually care this time? Not that the Leaving Cert is any use to me now. It's just that my daughter has put in hundreds of hours tutoring me – all fully paid, I should add, at higher rates than the Institute chorge – and I don't want to let her down.

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She's got a bottle of Veuve in the fridge and enough smashed avocado to keep the peace in Ranelagh for an entire bank holiday weekend

“What time is it?” Sorcha goes.

I'm there, "It's, like, sixty seconds after the last time you asked me?"

Yeah, no, we're sitting around the kitchen island. I've got the old laptop-a-rooney open in front of me and Sorcha is making us a celebration breakfast. She's got a bottle of Veuve in the fridge and enough smashed avocado to keep the peace in Ranelagh for an entire bank holiday weekend.

“Hit refresh again,” Honor goes.

I do and it's, like, still nothing?

There’s suddenly a ring at the door.

“I’ll get that,” Honor goes, then ten seconds later the house is filled with the smell of Estée Lauder and Triple Sec and a noise like someone is trying to rip up the wood flooring in the hallway using a Kango hammer. Which can only mean that my old pair have popped in.

"Where's The Scholar?" he goes, borging his way into the kitchen.

Yeah, no, The Scholar was what he storted calling me when I was, like, eight years old and he saw me reading a book. Well, he always says it was a book, even though it was actually the Dulux colour chort – upside-focking-down as well – and he burned it out of fear that my interest in "reading" might derail my development as a 10.

He’s like, “Big day, eh, Kicker?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the old dear goes, “don’t build him up, Chorles. We don’t want to see him disappointed again – like after all those court cases.”

Sorcha's there, "Well, I'm hopefully confident this time, especially given that he's not looking for points. He just wants to scrape a pass – isn't that right, Ross?"

“Well, just to let you know,” the old man goes, before I can even answer, “I have Hennessy on standby just as soon as we have news. I’ve asked him to clear the week.”

I’m like, “Seriously, it’s a wonder I have any confidence hanging around with you lot.”

“Dad!” Honor goes. “Look at the clock!”

Which I do – and I see that it's time. My fingers are actually shaking as I type my exam number into the laptop. They're all, like, standing around the island opposite me, big expectant faces on them. Three times, I type in the wrong code.

I stare at them for, like, ages – this mass of, like, numbers and letters – trying to figure out what they mean, while the rest of them watch my face turn slowly pale

Leo sniggers. “Can’t even remember his focking number,” he goes – six years old, bear in mind – then him and his two brothers stort laughing at me like cortoon hyenas.

Honor’s there, “Remember the breathing technique I showed you, Dad. Inhale for six seconds, hold it for three, then exhale like you’re blowing out a candle.”

I do what she says and the number immediately pops into my head. I bang it into the computer, then my results suddenly appear on the screen. I stare at them for, like, ages – this mass of, like, numbers and letters – trying to figure out what they mean, while the rest of them watch my face turn slowly pale.

"Ross, it just a bit of fun," Sorcha goes, "something to do while we were locked down – like my watercolour class?"

The old dear goes, "Did you say there was going to be champagne, Sorcha? We may as well drink it – there are sober people in the world!"

I can actually feel tears in my eyes.

“Look at him focking crying,” Brian goes.

"Destitutus ventis," the old man shouts, "remos adhibe, as Hennessy and I were wont to say back in our days bribing Dublin county councillors. If the wind fails you, use the bloody well oars! I shall phone the great man this instant!"

I slam the laptop shut and I stand up. I point at Honor. “That girl,” I go, “is the only person in this house who thinks I’m worth anything!”

I storm across the kitchen and I kick the Brabantia, sending the rubbish – we're talking recyclables and non-recyclables? – spilling across the kitchen floor.

“Focking dickhead,” I hear Leo go.

And over my shoulder, I go, “Take a look in the mirror, pal. Take a look in the focking mirror,” as I tear open the back door.

We took her to a consultant because Sorcha thought she had underactive tear ducts – it turned out, much to our relief, that she just didn't give a shit about anything

A few seconds later, Honor joins me on the swing outside.

“If people had believed that I was capable of doing something other than playing rugby,” I go, “imagine what I could have achieved in life. Not that it matters. Jesus, look where we’re living. But my point stands.”

Honor suddenly bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she goes, “you focking passed, didn’t you?”

And I just nod, the tears – seriously – blinding me?

I look at her. Even she's in tears and Honor never cries. We took her to a consultant when she was nine because Sorcha thought she had underactive tear ducts – it turned out, much to our relief, that she just didn't give a shit about anything.

“Oh my God,” she goes, throwing her orms around me, “I’m so focking proud of you, Dad.”

“I smashed it,” I go. “Five passes at Ordinary Level.”

And even as I say it, it feels surreal, like I’ve just discovered that I possess a superpower but don’t yet what I’m supposed to do with it. And – yeah, no – I realise that finally passing the Leaving at forty-one doesn’t make me Aoibhinn Ní Shúilleabháin, but I know in that moment that life will never be the same again.

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