“Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo,” Sorcha goes – and not for the first time since we left Dublin. “Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo.”
And I’m there, “Don’t worry – I’ll, em, let you know when that gets annoying.”
She goes, “I’m doing my vocal exercises, Ross. This is a huge night for us.”
Yeah, no, I’m driving her to Wexford for a Christmas carol competition at the Opera House, where the Mount Anville Alumni Choral Society, singing Once in Royal David’s City, are among the favourites to win.
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She’s there still going, “Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo ... Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo.”
I’m there, “Is it absolutely necessary, is what I’m wondering?”
She goes, “Yes, Ross, it’s necessary.”
We’re on the M11, approaching Enniscorthy, when Sorcha suddenly spots a G-Class Merc broken down in the hord shoulder up ahead and tells me to pull over.
I’m there, “Er, why?”
She goes, “Because it’s the season of goodwill to all, remember?”
I’m like, “Fock them. I thought you were worried about being late?”
She’s there, “I am worried about being late – but they might need our help,” and then she goes, “Look, Ross, it’s three women.”
I have no idea how to change a tyre, but I think to myself, How difficult could it be?
And I end up hitting the brake so hord that my rear bumper almost passes through the front windscreen. There’s an actual smell of burning rubber as the two of us get out of the cor and approach them, with me going, “What seems to be the problem, ladies?” laying it on like cranberry.
They’re three total honeys, I can’t help but notice, all wearing short dresses and Santa hats.
“Thank you – oh my God! – for stopping,” one of them goes. “We’ve got a flat tyre.”
I look down and – yeah, no – the front tyre on the driver’s side is flatter than a nun’s chest.
One of the girls is like, “Do you know how to change a tyre?”
And I laugh.
I’m like, “Of course I know how to change a tyre!”
I have no idea how to change a tyre, but I think to myself, How difficult could it be?
I open the boot and lift the cover, looking for the spare, except there isn’t one?
I’m like, “Bad news, ladies.”
And Sorcha goes, “It’s rear-mounted, Ross.”
I’m there, “Er, right,” not a focking clue what she’s on about.
She’s like, “It’s hanging on the back door,” showing me up in front of the girls.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, I knew that.”
So I take off the spare, then grab the jack, and after five minutes of trying to figure out how the thing works, I manage to get the cor up off the ground on one side, all those hundreds of hours I spent in the gym this year really paying off.
I spot a nail sticking out of the tyre. I pull the thing out, then I show it to the girls and I’m like, “That’ll do it – every time!” in a genuinely flirty voice.
Sorcha goes, “Was it absolutely necessary to take your shirt off?” trying to take the gloss off the moment.
So I stort loosening the bolts then, while Sorcha goes, “So where are you headed, girls?”
And one of them is like, “We’re going to Wexford. We’re singing in a Christmas carol competition in, like, the Opera House?”
There’s absolute silence from Sorcha as I lift off the wheel.
Then she goes, “So, em, what alumnus are you?”
And one of the girls is there, “We’re from, like, Alexandra College?”
Again, there’s 10 seconds of silence before Sorcha goes, “Ross, can I have a word with you for a minute?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no problemo,” and I almost know what’s coming as we excuse ourselves and walk back to our cor.
“Ross,” she goes, “that’s our competition.”
I end up laughing.
She’s like, “It’s not funny. They’re the actual favourites to win.”
I’m there, “Well, I’d say you regret telling me to stop now.”
“Okay,” she goes, “I can’t believe that I’m saying this out loud–”
I’m there, “Go on, what?”
She’s like, “What if we just drove away?”
I’m there, “What happened to the season of goodwill to all?”
She’s like, “It’s Alexandra focking College, Ross!”
I’m there, “Okay, don’t ever lecture me about schools rivalry again.”
She goes, “Would it be so bad if we did, Ross?”
I’m there, “Hey, if it was someone from Blackrock or Gonzaga, I’d already be gone. Or Michael’s or Belvo. Or Mary’s. Or Clongowes. Or Cistercian.”
What if I end up regretting helping them?
— Sorcha
She goes, “They’re singing In the Bleak Midwinter and it’s supposed to be incredible.”
I’m there, “Then let’s just get in the cor. Fock them.”
Sorcha considers this for about 30 seconds, then, like all good Mount Anville girls, her conscience gets in her ear.
“No,” she goes, “it’d be the wrong thing to do.”
I’m there, “What if they end up beating you?” because – Christmas or no Christmas – I’m frankly disappointed by her lack of killer instinct.
She goes, “It’s only a competition, Ross.”
So – yeah, no – we go back and I end up putting the spare tyre on the cor. And as I’m tightening the nuts, the girls stort singing:
In the bleak midwinter,
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone.
Sorcha was right. They are incredible.
Snow had fallen,
Snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter,
Long ago.
I lower the jack and I throw the focked spare tyre in the boot.
I’m there, “There you go, girls – good as new,” and they’re all like, “Oh my God, thank you so much!” hugging me and all the rest of it.
Sorcha is quiet as we walk back to the cor and I put my shirt back on.
She goes, “You heard them sing, I presume?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, I did.”
She’s like, “What did you think?”
And I go, “Meh,” even though I hate lying to the girl.
We get into the cor and she goes, “What if I end up regretting helping them?”
And I’m there, “Sorcha, you can’t be a bad person. It’s just not in you – no matter how hord you try.”
I, on the other hand, am a dab hand at it. Which is why, while they were singing that stupid song, I used the jack to hammer the nail into the spare tyre.
