Sorcha says this is the worst thing I’ve ever done to her. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done to her. It’s not even in the top 10. But I don’t think it’s going to help my case if I stort running through some of my greatest hits.
Instead, I go, “I think you’re blowing this out of all proportion.”
She’s like, “You had our children baptised – as Protestants!”
“Yeah, no, I was there, Sorcha? I’m just making the point that it’s not a major deal.”
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’
“Er, maybe for you it isn’t?”
“They’ve been accepted into St Adomnán’s – isn’t that the important thing?”
All of a sudden, I hear the front door slam, then a few seconds later, the sound of Sorcha’s old pair in the hallway, going, “Dorling? Dorling? Where are you?”
Sorcha goes, “We’re in here, Dad!”
Then a second later, the kitchen door opens and in they come, the two of them with faces as long as an M50 tailback.
I decide to go straight on the offensive. I’m like, “I can’t believe you have an actual key to this house.”
But Sorcha’s old dear goes, “I can’t even look at him. He makes me sick to my stomach.”
I’m there, “Well, you always have the option of focking off somewhere else – pair of dickheads.”
He roars a me. He’s like, “How dare you speak to us like that after what you’ve done! How dare you!”
Anyway – to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? And by pleasure, I obviously mean the exact opposite?
— Ross
It’s a genuine miracle that he’s never killed me, even though he did buy me a plot in Shanganagh Cemetery for my 40th, which I thought was some sort of veiled threat on my life.
“Our grandchildren!” the dude goes. “Protestants!”
Sorcha’s old dear’s like, “I’m a minister of the Eucharist!”
I’m there, “So everyone keeps mentioning.”
She goes, “I couldn’t look Fr Rooney in the eye when I was telling him what had happened.”
He’s like, “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
I’m there, “Worse than your 25th wedding anniversary dinner, when I drank three-quarters of a bottle of tequila, turned my pockets inside-out and did my famous elephant impression in front of all your mates from the Law Library?”
For a second, I nearly regret reminding him, because he storts looking around for something to hit me over the head with?
Sorcha’s old dear sort of, like, tilts her head and goes, “How are they, Sorcha?”
I’m there, “What do you mean, how are they? They’re Protestants. They’re not terminally ill.”
But Sorcha’s like, “They’re bearing up, despite everything.”
I’m there, “You’ve lost your minds – all focking three of you. How many south Dublin parents pretend to be Protestants to get their kids into certain schools? Because I could name you 10 of them off the top of my head.”
“Yes,” Sorcha goes, “people tell white lies. They don’t change their actual religion.”
I’m there, “Hey, the Rossmeister has never played by the rules. It’s one of the reasons you fell so hord for him.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can nearly see the vein in her old man’s head throbbing like a septic finger.
My phone beeps. It’s, like, a text message from Oisinn. He’s flying to Borbados tomorrow to sail some rich dude’s yacht back to Ireland and he’s asked me to go with him. I read his message. It’s like, “You in, Dude?”
I text him back. I’m like, “No can do. I’m in the major doghouse with Sorcha. Have a great trip, Dude.”
I’m there, “Anyway – to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? And by pleasure, I obviously mean the exact opposite?”
Sorcha goes, “Mom and Dad are taking the boys out,” and then she goes to the kitchen door and calls them. “Brian! Johnny! Leo! Your grandparents are here!”
A few seconds later, they come spilling down the stairs and into the kitchen like molten lava.
You’re wasting your time. You do it and I’m just going to ask Alice to switch them back again
— Ross
When Sorcha said their grandparents were here, they obviously thought she meant my old pair, because their faces change from dumb excitement to deep disappointment when they see that it’s the Lalors.
“Fock sake,” Leo goes, rolling his eyes. “This focking pair.”
I laugh. No choice in the matter. He’s a brilliant kid.
Sorcha’s old man glowers at me and goes, “That’s your influence, is it?”
I’m like, “No, Dude, it’s your influence,” because he never puts his hand in his pocket when he sees them and he never laughs when they behave really badly in public.
Sorcha’s old dear bursts into tears when she sees them.
I’m like, “Will you get a focking grip on yourself? They’re still the same kids.”
Sorcha goes, “Get your coats, boys. Mom and Dad are taking you out.”
I’m there, “Where? The National Museum again, is it?” because I’m really on fire today.
And that’s when Sorcha says it. She goes, “They’re bringing them to the church, Ross – to get them rebaptised.”
I’m like, “Rebaptised? As in, like, returned to factory settings?”
[ Honor goes, ‘I was into Taylor Swift before, like, anyone?’Opens in new window ]
Sorcha’s old dear goes, “Fr Rooney said he could do it at two o’clock.”
I’m like, “No.”
Sorcha goes, “What do you mean, no?”
I’m there, “I like them being Protestants. I prefer them as Protestants.”
But Sorcha’s like, “Mom, take them out to the cor,” which is what the woman ends up doing, waving her orms to sort of, like, shoo them out the door, like she’s trying to steer a seagull out of a Londis.
“You’re wasting your time,” I shout after her. “You do it and I’m just going to ask Alice to switch them back again.”
“You won’t,” Sorcha goes, and as she says it, she looks at her old man, as if she’s looking for courage. “Ross, I need some time to myself – to think about everything.”
I’m like, “Time?”
And she goes, “Space.”
I’m there, “What, you’re, like, throwing me out again?”
And her old man goes, “She’s telling you to find somewhere else to live!” and it would take a good surgeon half a day to remove that smile from his face.
But I’m struggling not to smile myself, because I’m thinking – yeah, no – Borbados is supposably nice at this time of year.
