Christian is sitting at our usual table in 3fe on Sussex Terrace and I can tell instantly that something is up. When you’ve played ten to someone’s twelve, you can have no secrets from each other. Fact of rugby, fact of life.
I’m there, “How the hell are you?”
He goes, “All good, Ross,” and I decide to let him tell me what’s wrong in his own sweet time. “What about you?”
I’m there, “I’m in absolutely cracking form, in fairness to me.”
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I make no apologies for saying it, Honor. You are a danger to democracy’
And that’s when the conversation dips.
“My son told me to fock off,” he eventually goes.
I laugh and I end up pretty much spraying him with flat white.
I’m like, “Which son? I’m presuming Oliver?”
He goes, “No – Ross jnr.”
In other words, my godson.
I’m there, “Ross jnr? I didn’t think he had it in him.”
He goes, “It’s not funny.”
“When I walked in and saw your miserable face, I thought you were still upset about the defeat to Toulouse. Dude, it’s a landmork moment in any kid’s life to tell his mother – or father – to fock off.”
“Is it?”
“Big time. I got it out of the way early. I was, like, eight years old when I said it to my old man. He thought he’d spotted a glitch in my kicking technique. Jesus, I was five when I said it to my old dear.”
“Five?”
“You know she had me mixing her cocktails for her from the time I was, like, this high? Well, she claimed I put Smirnoff instead of Grey Goose in her Bloody Mary.”
“So you’re saying it’s nothing to be worried about?”
“Dude, it’s like a rite of passage.”
“Because I was worried I possibly overreacted?”
“Sounds to me like Ross jnr is finally manning up.”
“I told him I wasn’t going to take him to the Taylor Swift concert tomorrow.”
“What’s that now?”
“He’s a huge Swiftie. We’ve tickets. Do you think I still should bring him?”
“I mean, if he absolutely insists, then – yeah, no – whatever.”
Do you remember a few minutes ago when I told you that you should ignore Ross jnr telling you to fock off? What if I told you the exact opposite now?
— Ross
It’s at that exact moment that my phone ends up ringing? It’s, like, Honor. She’s picking up dog shit in Cabinteely Pork this morning as port of her community service.
I’m there, “Honor, what’s the story?”
She goes, “I’m ringing to make sure you haven’t forgotten – about tomorrow?”
I’m there, “Tomorrow? As in?” because I haven’t a focking breeze what she’s on about.
She goes, “Er, Taylor Swift?”
I’m there, “Oh, right, that.”
“You got the tickets, right?”
“Of course I did.”
I didn’t.
She’s like, “Because I told you I wanted to go. It was, like, port of my birthday present?”
I’m there, “So you, em, weren’t being sorcastic?”
“Did I sound like I was being sorcastic?”
“I can never tell any more. That’s the problem.”
“I was into Taylor Swift before, like, anyone?”
“Right.”
She goes, “So you have the tickets?”
And I’m there, “Of course I do! What do you take me for?”
She hangs up on me.
Christian goes, “How’s Honor?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, she’s on what they call bomb squad duty in Cabinteely Pork.”
“Shit.”
“Literally, dude. It’s, like, port of her – yeah, no – community service?”
I let that sit for maybe 30 seconds, then I go “Do you remember a few minutes ago when I told you that you should ignore Ross jnr telling you to fock off? What if I told you the exact opposite now?”
“But you said it wasn’t a major deal. You said it to your old dear at five.”
“And I turned out okay. I was one of the lucky ones. But, well, the same couldn’t be said for Honor, could it? I mean, she told me to fock off when she was, like, 18 months old.”
“Eighteen months?”
“They were pretty much the first words out of her mouth.”
“Sorcha said her first word was focaccia.”
“She always tries to put a positive spin on things.”
“So you think I should take a tougher line with Ross jnr?”
I’m there, “Like I said, Dude, Honor is spending her Friday on the Easter egg hunt from hell.”
He goes, “I don’t want my son to turn out like your daughter.”
The cheeky focker.
I’m like, “None taken, Dude. None taken. I’m just making the point that raising kids is tough.”
He goes, “You always said they pretty much raise themselves – beyond feeding them, there’s very little you can do.”
“Can we, like, stop focusing on things I’ve said previously? Maybe I was playing – what’s the phrase – devil’s advocaat?”
“So you don’t think telling your parents to fock off is a rite of passage?”
“Rite of passage or slippery slope – only time will tell.”
“I definitely don’t want him turning out like Honor – or any of your children for that matter.”
“Can you maybe stop running down my kids, Dude?”
“So you think I should stop him going to see Taylor Swift?”
“I’m saying you could be doing him a favour in the long run. My daughter has a criminal record. God only knows how that would impact on her life if we didn’t live in Killiney.”
“Thanks, Ross. I appreciate your honesty. I was really torn.”
“Hey, I’m your son’s godfather. I care about what happens to him. And a short, shorp shock might be just the thing to bring him to his senses.”
Look, I’ll give you three-quarters of what you paid for them. How does that sound?
— Ross
We sip our coffees. I wait a good 60 seconds before I go, “Do you know what – as a favour to you and because you’re my best mate – I’m going to take the tickets off your hands.”
He goes, “Errr,” because he’s not a complete sucker? “I mean, you’ll pay cover price for them, will you?”
I’m there, “I’m not paying cover price for second-hand tickets – fock that.”
“But they’re changing hands online for, like, five Ks.”
“Oh, you’re looking to profit from the fact that your son has turned bad now, are you?”
“I suppose you have a point.”
I’m there, “Look, I’ll give you three-quarters of what you paid for them. How does that sound?”
He goes, “Yeah, whatever. And – yeah, no – thanks for the chat, Ross.”
And I’m like, “Dude, that’s what friends are for.”
