So – yeah, no – I’m mowing the back gorden with my top off again, portly to showcase the work I’ve been doing in the gym since the stort of January, and portly to see how long it takes for it to become an item of discussion on the Dalkey Open Forum.
The answer is not long.
I’m emptying the grass box for the second time when the back door is suddenly thrown open and Sorcha shouts, “Oh my God, Ross, put a shirt on! You know you’re being talked about on the Dalkey Open Forum?”
Seriously, their response times are getting shorter and shorter.
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’
I turn around to face her and she lets out the kind of piercing scream I haven’t heard from her since she and Anne Cassin showed up at Bloom one year wearing the same outfit and I admitted – under intense questioning – that Anne looked slightly better in it.
I’m there, “What’s wrong, Sorcha?” because she’s staring straight at my – again – naked torso?
She goes, “What the fock is that?” and that’s when I remember that it’s her first time seeing the five stors I had tattooed above my left nipple, representing the four European Cups that Leinster have won, plus the one I was sure pretty they were going to win against Toulouse.
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I definitely jumped the gun with the last one. I stand by my statement that Toulouse are a one-man team. It’s just that when that one man is Antoine Dupont ...”
I let my voice trail off. I’m still feeling emotional about the entire business.
She walks closer to me and goes, “Oh my God, please tell me this isn’t real,” the exact same thing I said when Matthis Lebel scored his try in extra time.
I’m there, “Er, yeah, no, it’s real, Sorcha.”
She goes, “Get rid of it.”
“Look, I admit it, I possibly jinxed us. But I still believe in this group of players. And who’s to say they won’t win it next year?”
I’m just saying that you get, like, Botox all the time. I don’t remember you ever coming to me for permission
“I can’t believe you would do something so stupid.”
“Sorcha, it’s not like they’re never going to win a fifth European Cup. That’s like saying Ireland are never going to get beyond the quarter-finals of the World Cup. It’ll happen one day. The important thing is that I’ll be fully ready when it does.”
She goes, “We didn’t discuss you getting a tattoo,” and that’s when I realise that her issue isn’t the number of stors on my chest as much as the fact that there are any at all.
I did wonder because the girl knows fock-all about rugby.
I’m there, “Why would we need to discuss it?”
She’s like, “Excuse me?” narrowing her eyes in a way I find genuinely terrifying.
“I’m just saying that you get, like, Botox all the time. I don’t remember you ever coming to me for permission.”
“That’s not the same thing, Ross.”
“And you got those invisible braces on your teeth, remember? Was I consulted?”
“Again, it’s different. You know how much I hate tattoos?”
The next thing I know – oh, for fock’s sake – her old man has stepped out into the gorden, going, “What’s all the shouting about?”
I automatically tighten my muscles to make sure the old abs and pecs look their best.
He goes, “Why has he got five stors on his chest?” because he knows even less about rugby than his daughter and he’s not even ashamed of the fact.
I’m there, “They’re to mork the four European Cups that Leinster have one – plus the one they’re going to hopefully win next year.”
He just, like, glowers at me. Then he goes, “Did you sign off on this, Dorling?”
Sorcha goes, “It wasn’t even discussed. He just went ahead and got it done.”
I’m there, “What, like you check in with me every time you decide to change, I don’t know, your hairstyle?”
She’s like, “Again – different.”
He goes, “I hate to say, ‘I told you so,’ Sorcha, but the fact is I did. Even as I was walking you up the aisle.”
Ten seconds later – seriously? – Sorcha’s old dear steps out into the gorden, going, “What’s going on? You know they’re talking about Ross on the Dalkey Open–?”
The sight of me stripped to the waist pulls her up short. I’ve been absolutely caning it in the gym, in fairness to me.
She can’t help herself. She goes, “Oh my!” and she’s all – I want to say – aflutter?
Sorcha’s like, “Ross got a tattoo, Mom – without even telling me?”
I’m there, “It’s not a major deal, Sorcha. Do you know what other men my age are doing?”
Sorcha goes, “I don’t care about other men.”
I tell her anyway.
I’m there, “Musky Grennan, for instance – who did the SportsManDip course with me in UCD – his wife gave him a Free Pass for his 40th.”
Sorcha’s old dear goes, “What’s a Free Pass?”
She’s a minister for the Eucharist, bear in mind.
That’s where you’re wrong, Sorcha. I’m keeping the tattoo – we’re talking all five stors. You’re just going to have to get used to looking at it
I’m there, “A Free Pass means he has her full permission to sleep with someone else – we’re talking One Night Only – with no questions asked.”
Sorcha’s old man goes, “You’ve enjoyed that privilege for the entire duration of your marriage,” because he’s incapable of letting bygones be bygones.
Her old dear goes, “What do those stors even mean?”
An entire family of people who know fock-all about rugby. They’re more to be pitied than anything.
Sorcha goes, “I want it gone, Ross. I want you to get it lasered off.”
I’m there, “When you say it – can I just double-check? – are we talking about the fifth stor or are we talking about–?”
She goes, “I’m talking about the whole thing, Ross!” and she pretty much roars the words at me.
Her old man goes, “That utterly ridiculous game. It’s nothing more than an excuse for a lifetime of adolescence.”
And that ends up being the line that gasses my canary.
“No,” I suddenly hear myself go.
Sorcha’s like, “Excuse me?”
I’m there, “As in, no, I’m not getting it removed Sorcha. Because I happen to think it looks fantastic on me.”
Sorcha goes, “Ross, you are getting it removed.”
And I’m there, “That’s where you’re wrong, Sorcha. I’m keeping the tattoo – we’re talking all five stors. You’re just going to have to get used to looking at it,” then I sort of, like, flex my pecs, just to give her old dear a thrill, and I re-stort the lawnmower.
