Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  Fionn takes off the – hilarious – papoose and hands the little lad to Lauren, who goes, ‘Oh my God, Fionn, he’s so like you!’

  He’s like, ‘Thanks,’ even though she never said it was a compliment. Fionn’s no scene-stealer, bear in mind.

  He squints his eyes – focking glasses – and he looks at the TV. He’s like, ‘How’s the morch going?’

  ‘Amazing,’ Sophie goes. ‘Scorlett Johansson is there. And we think we saw America Ferrera?’

  He’s like, ‘They said on Newstalk that there’s a million people on the streets of Washington alone.’

  Chloe is like, ‘That’s, like, ten times more than were at the inauguration yesterday. I just hope Hillary is watching this and thinking, “Oh! My God!”’

  Sophie looks at her phone and goes, ‘Shit! They only have the Hashtag Not My President t-shirts left in grey! And grey totally washes me out!’

  Ross Junior is instantly jealous of the baby, of course. He hates not being the centre of attention, so he storts – I swear to fock – literally crying, going, ‘Mommy, I’m thcared! What if they ethcape from their room and come thown thtairth?’

  Lauren catches me shaking my head. She looks at me and goes, ‘Have you got a problem?’

  I’m like, ‘How about telling your son to stop being such a focking wuss, Lauren?’

  Her face just drops. She’s like, ‘What did you just say?’

  I’m there, ‘I’m sorry, Lauren, I’m just making the point. He’s not anxious, he’s just over-mothered.’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘You wrap a kid up in cotton wool and this is what ends up happening. He’s scared of his own shadow, Lauren.’

  ‘You stand there and lecture me about raising children? You’ve got three boys upstairs who’ve been banned from the Disney Store –’

  ‘They’re banned from Hamleys – get your facts right. They got focked out of the Disney Store. Big difference.’

  ‘– who’ve been banned from the Stillorgan Bowl, Imaginosity and God knows where else.’

  The Aquazone Waterpork in Blanchardstown.

  She goes, ‘Everyone in this town is talking about those boys and how they’re three little Antichrists.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Lauren, this is a day for women to support each other, not fall out.’

  But Lauren’s on a roll now. ‘And as for your daughter,’ she goes, ‘where do I even begin? You have no control over her whatsoever.’

  It’s funny, I actually don’t give a shit about her slagging off the boys. I know half the town is talking about them. They’ve been mentioned two or three times on Liveline and poor Joe Duffy was speechless listening to some of the stories. The three of them are dicks. But I won’t have Lauren or anyone else talking shit about Honor.

  I’m like, ‘You’re out of order, Lauren. I’d go even further and say you’re bang out of order?’

  She goes, ‘Lecturing me on how to raise children!’

  Some dude on the TV goes, ‘Hillary Clinton is not at the march, but she has tweeted her support,’ and Sorcha shushes everyone.

  She’s like, ‘Oh my God, she does know it’s happening!’

  The dude goes, ‘Just a moment ago, she posted the following message to her Twitter account: Thanks for standing, speaking & marching for our values @womensmarch. Important as ever. I truly believe we’re always Stronger Together.’

  Sorcha suddenly stands up.

  ‘Oh! My! God!’ she goes. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before? That’s what we’re going to name our little boy, Fionn!’

  Fionn’s like, ‘What are you talking about?’

  And Sorcha goes, ‘We’re going to call him Hillary!’

  I’m driving Sorcha home from Holles Street. She had a follow-up appointment to discuss, let’s just say, women’s stuff? I’m never too interested in the details because of my famously weak stomach, but I ask her how it went anyway – the whole loving husband routine.

  ‘Obviously I don’t want you to go into specifics,’ I go, ‘but is everything okay – I don’t know – in that general area?’

  Sorcha laughs. She goes, ‘Yes, Ross, everything’s fine – in that general area. They’re very happy with how my scars are healing.’

  I’m like, ‘Okay, T.M.I., Sorcha! Definite T.M.I.!’

  And then she says something that puts an instant smile on my face.

  ‘The doctor said I can go back to having sex,’ she goes, ‘as soon as I want.’

  I’m like, ‘That’s great news,’ and I’m suddenly grinning so hord that my face actually hurts. ‘So when do you want it and we’ll schedule it in?’

  ‘Would you think it was weird if I said now?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I don’t know why but I’m, like – oh my God – so horny all of a sudden.’

  ‘It could be my Acqua di Parma.’

  ‘You do smell great.’

  ‘Or my Canterbury Vaposhield Hybrid Padded Zip Top. It’s new.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a bit of both.’

  ‘Hey, we’ll be home in a few minutes – we can do something about it then.’

  ‘I don’t think I can wait.’

  I’m like, ‘What?’

  She laughs. She’s like, ‘Seriously, Ross. I actually don’t?’

  I’m there, ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Pull in!’

  ‘Pull in? Pull in where?’

  ‘Pull in here!’

  Here ends up being a little layby at the Dalkey end of the Vico Road. It’s pretty public, it has to be said, but Sorcha doesn’t seem to give a shit? The second I pull in, the girl is literally all over me. She grabs me by the back of the head and forces my mouth onto hers, then with her other hand, she storts going at the buttons on my chinos like she’s rummaging for her shopping trolley token in a pocketful of change.

  I’m not going to go into any more detail than that because it’s private, husband-and-wife stuff. All I will say is that she manages to pull my – okay, there’s no easy way of saying it – penis out of my trousers while I unzip her Canada Goose jacket, pull up her jumper and have a bit of fun with the Knowles sisters.

  ‘Oh! My God!’ she goes, kicking off her Uggs, then pulling off her jeans with her knickers still inside, ‘I have to have it, Ross! I have to have it now!’ then she throws her left leg over me, so that she’s suddenly sitting astride me, and I tell her that I haven’t seen her this horny since the night she drank half a bottle of Advocaat at a charity table quiz to send the Three Rock Rovers women’s thirds to a blitz in Eindhoven.

  With her face filled with concentration, she moves our pieces into position and she goes, ‘Oh my God, this is going to feel so good. Oh my God, this is going to feel so good. Oh my God, this is going to feel so …’

  Oh, fock!

  I’ve woken up. Yeah, no, I’m lying in bed, covered in sweat, with Sorcha nowhere to be seen. I focking hate when that happens in movies, never mind in real life when I think I’m just about to get some. I end up just putting a pillow over my face and screaming into it. It’s been, like, six or seven weeks since I rode Sincerity’s mother – my longest losing run in years – and I think it’s genuinely beginning to affect me. Backed up doesn’t even begin to describe it.

  I decide then to just – the usual – rub one out and I stort looking around the room for Sorcha’s MacBook. Fun fact about me, I can’t actually do it using just my imagination? Yeah, no, I’ve always needed a visual. But I can’t find Sorcha’s laptop anywhere and it’s quite possible she hid it after the last time I borrowed it and forgot to clear the search history.

  It doesn’t matter because I end up finding a stack of women’s magazines on the floor beside the bed, one of which is Irish Tatler. There’s a sort of hot MILF on the cover of the thing and she’s wearing a black, sort of, like, cashmere jumper dress with suede, thigh-high boots. I stort thinking about slowly hitching that dress up around her waist, inch by inch, while kissing that long, slender neck and sudden
ly my – again – penis is throbbing like a toad’s throat.

  So I’m lying there, leaning on one elbow, staring at the cover of the magazine while beating one out. And, just as I’m shutting my eyes to bring the horse home, I hear this sudden piercing scream and I open them again to discover that Sorcha has walked into the room.

  She’s like, ‘Oh my God! What the fock are you doing?’

  Which I personally think is a little bit of an overreaction? I totally get that she’s shocked, but she’s walked in on me having sex with her actual friends in the past. At least this is only a wank.

  I say that to her as well – although obviously in a nicer way.

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m backed up!’ I go. ‘Jesus Christ, Sorcha, I’ve got balls like focking Galias here!’

  And that’s when she says something that makes me instantly lose my horn. ‘Ross,’ she goes, her hand over her mouth, ‘that’s your mother!’

  I’m like, ‘What?’

  ‘On the cover of Irish Tatler, Ross! It’s Fionnuala!’

  I look at the picture more closely. Oh, Jesus Christ, she’s right.

  In my defence, I could say that her face has been heavily airbrushed – but, at the same time, like I said, Jesus focking Christ.

  Sorcha goes, ‘What the fock is wrong with you, Ross?’ because I’m still lying there on my side, my dick draped limply across my thigh now, looking like an empty pop sock.

  I’m there, ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Sorcha. I thought it was just some random MILF. The woman’s a disgrace, dressing like that at her age.’

  Sorcha just shakes her head – she’s seriously disgusted with me – then she turns around and walks out of the room.

  I’m about to get up and throw the magazine in the bin, but that’s when I notice what it says next to her picture. It’s like, ‘Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly at 60!’ and I genuinely laugh.

  She’s managed to lose a decade somewhere.

  I open the magazine and I flick through it, looking for the feature on her. There ends up being fifteen or sixteen pages on the woman and then loads of photographs of her wearing various clothes provided by Brown Thomas, none of which can disguise the fact that the woman is pure trogfilth.

  None of the outfits she’s wearing does anything for me. There’s no reason why they should, of course, and I don’t even know why I’m mentioning it.

  I read down through the orticle. It’s the usual horseshit. Her charity work. All of the causes she’s raised awareness – but no actual money! – for. The strength of character it took to forgive after she was wrongly – yeah, spare me! – accused of murdering her second husband. The pride she feels at being described as a – hilarious! – strong, feminist role model. Her ‘second shot at love’ with the man some people are predicting will be Ireland’s next Taoiseach. And her regrets about not having had any …

  I actually stop dead when I read it. Then I end up having to read it again and again and again. I can’t believe it. But at the same time it’s there in actual quotes – my old dear going, ‘My only real regret in life … is that I never had children.’

  I end up ringing my old man in a rage. From the dial tone, it’s obvious that he’s away somewhere. He answers after six rings. He goes, ‘Hello there, Kicker!’

  I’m like, ‘Where the fock are you?’

  He’s there, ‘Hennessy and I are in Moscow, Ross! Little bit of business! And don’t worry, I know why you’re ringing!’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course! Enda Kenny’s announcement!’

  I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’

  He goes, ‘He’s promised to deal with his future effectively and conclusively – his words, Kicker – after his Saint Patrick’s Day visit to the White House!’

  I’m like, ‘That’s not why I’m ringing! I’m ringing because that bag of dolphin semen and illegally sourced donor organs who used to call herself my mother is suddenly telling Tatler magazine that her one regret in life was not having children.’

  He’s there, ‘I’m sure she didn’t say that, Ross!’ always prepared to see the good in her. ‘What’s this our friend calls it? Fake news – quote-unquote!’

  I’m there, ‘She focking said it. I’m looking at the magazine now: “My only real regret in life is that I never had children.” And she looks bet-down in all the photographs, by the way – including the cover.’

  He goes, ‘She must have meant more children! “My only real regret in life is that I never had more children!” Yes, that makes sense! I expect it’s one of these famous misprints that sometimes happen!’

  There’s, like, a knock on the bedroom door then and I hear Sorcha go, ‘Ross, are you decent?’

  I end up just hanging up on the old man and I go, ‘Of course I’m decent!’

  Sorcha walks into the room after first peeping around the door to make sure.

  I’m there, ‘I said I was decent, Sorcha. You don’t have to turn this into a thing.’

  She’s like, ‘You can’t blame me for being shocked, Ross.’

  ‘I told you,’ I go, ‘I thought it was some random middle-aged looker, like Mary Kennedy or Celia Holman Lee. The photographs have been doctored, Sorcha. I’ve a good mind to sue – who was it again? – Irish Tatler?’

  She sits down on the side of the bed. ‘Ross, I want to talk to you about something,’ she goes. ‘I want to clear the air between us.’

  I’m like, ‘Er, okay?’

  God, I love Celia Holman Lee.

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘I know you’re, let’s just say, frustrated at the moment.’

  I’m like, ‘Blue balls, Sorcha. Blue focking balls.’

  ‘Which is why I want to address the issue. Look, I know we’re back together and everything, but I’m definitely not ready for us to be, you know, intimate yet.’

  ‘By not ready to be intimate you obviously mean not ready to have sex,’ I go.

  ‘I need to learn to trust you again.’

  ‘How long is that going to take?’

  ‘It’ll take as long as it takes, Ross.’

  ‘That long, huh?’

  ‘But in the meantime, while we’re rebuilding our relationship …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What would you think of the idea of us going back dating again?’

  Naturally enough, I’m like, ‘Dating?’ wondering is it possibly a trap? ‘Are you being serious?’

  She laughs. She goes, ‘A lot of married couples go on dates, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘Do they?’

  ‘Of course they do. Everyday life is, like, so stressful, with work and family and blah, blah, blah. I was reading in a magazine – it might even have been that Irish Tatler – where this relationship counsellor was saying that all married couples should do it, whether it’s once a month or once a week …’

  I’m there, ‘And you’d be totally cool with that?’

  She actually laughs. She’s there, ‘Why wouldn’t I be cool with it?’

  I don’t know is the answer. It’s just that she used to be the jealous type – especially when I rode other women.

  She’s like, ‘Do you remember my friend Maoilíosa spelt the Irish way? I met her coming out of Platinum Pilates in Stillorgan the other day and she said that going on date nights was how she and her husband have kept the actual magic in their marriage.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I can see how it’d definitely make things interesting. And if it leads to something else – as in, sex – you’re saying that you’d be totally cool with that?’

  She goes, ‘I kind of want it to lead to something else, Ross? That’s the whole point going back dating again. Do you want to think about it?’

  I’m like, ‘No! I mean, I already have. And the answer is yes. Big time.’

  I check the time. Fock. It’s after two o’clock. I tell Sorcha that I have to go and collect Honor from school.

  As I’m passing Fionn’s room, I notice that his door is open. I look inside and he
’s lying on the bed, with Hillary resting on his chest. He’s also reading a book, like the attention seeker that he is. I suddenly remember that the baby monitor was probably on in our room. So I stick my head into the room and I go, ‘You heard every word of that, I presume?’

  He’s like, ‘Ross, what goes on in your marriage is none of my business.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, did you hear the bit about me wanking off while looking at Sorcha’s Irish Tatler?’

  ‘Ross, I’ve got more important things to do than listen to your conversations.’

  ‘What, like reading books? What is it, by the way? Not that I’ve any interest.’

  ‘It’s a book about how communicating with babies in a myriad of different languages can encourage faster brain development.’

  ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

  ‘You asked me what I was reading.’

  ‘That was just to make the point,’ I go, ‘that not everything worth knowing can be found in books.’

  There’s, like, silence between us then.

  I’m there, ‘And keep that thing about me accidentally wanking over a picture of my mother to yourself.’

  I’m like, ‘Okay, say that again?’

  JP laughs. He’s there, ‘You’ve got to see it, Dude. She opened a bottle of champagne … using a focking sword! Well, a sabre. She hit the bottle with the blunt side of it and the top of the bottle separated from the actual neck.’

  ‘And you’re saying this is something that’s going on in the Shelbourne?’

  ‘The woman is on the actual staff there now. Let me see can I find the video.’

  He storts looking through his phone while all the rest of us can do is just shake our heads.

  I’m there, ‘Ten years ago, I was worried about this country. But then I hear shit like that and it suddenly feels like it’s 2003 again.’

  This ends up sending us all on a trip down memory lane, where we’re suddenly remembering our favourite things about the Celtic Tiger.

  ‘Hey,’ Oisinn goes, ‘do you remember that oxygen bor in Brown Thomas?’

  And I actually laugh because Sorcha used to use it at least twice a week. They basically pumped air up your nose for fifty squids an hour.

  ‘That’sh hilarioush!’ Magnus goes. ‘You guysh were happy to pay for fresh air and now you refushe to pay for water?’