Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m there, ‘Don’t you?’ because it comes as a genuine shock to me. I thought all kids believed in God.

  She goes, ‘Of course I don’t believe in him! Because there’s no such focking thing! It’s just a bullshit story that someone made up two thousand years ago to make poor people happy with having nothing!’

  I turn around to Sister Dave and I’m like, ‘Is this true?’

  She says fock-all. She’s obviously a company woman.

  ‘Yeah, right!’ Honor goes. ‘A fairy visited a virgin and told her she was pregnant with God’s baby!’

  I actually laugh. I’m there, ‘Whoa, give me that again, Honor?’

  ‘A fairy,’ she goes. ‘Visited a woman. Who’d never had sex before. And said she was going to have God’s baby.’

  ‘Who’s claiming that?’

  ‘It’s in the Bible, Dad.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Er, it’s kind of the whole point of the book?’

  ‘Well, I don’t remember that storyline. But, now that you say it, it does sound like total horseshit.’

  I look at Sister Dave.

  ‘And presumably,’ I go, ‘you’re saying it’s not horseshit?’ because I’m still prepared to hear both sides.

  She’s there, ‘I am not here to discuss the issue of faith with you. I’m here to tell you that Honor is expected to make her Confirmation along with all of the other girls in her class.’

  In the rear-view mirror, I watch Brian put his hand down the back of his trousers, fart into his hand and then – this is definitely new – blow it, like a kiss, at Sister Dave. Honor cracks up laughing. I’m wondering, where the fock did he learn that?

  Sister Dave tries to just ignore it. She’s there, ‘When Honor’s mother was a student in this school, she was a member of the St Madeleine Sophie Barat Prayer Circle.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Honor goes, ‘just because she was a gullible sap doesn’t mean I have to be?’

  I look at Sister Dave and go, ‘You heard the girl. If she’s not into it, she’s not into it.’

  But Sister Dave goes, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ and she turns on her heel – lace-up brogues never went out of style with that lot – and she walks back into the school.

  ‘Ugly bitch!’ Leo shouts after her.

  I put the cor into Drive and we’re suddenly out of there. I’m thinking about Sorcha, though. I’m like, ‘You know your old dear is going to go ballistic when she finds out you don’t believe in God?’

  Honor goes, ‘I don’t care. When was the last time you saw her go to Mass on a Sunday? When was the last time you saw her actually pray?’

  ‘That’s true. The word hypocrite comes to mind. Well, let’s not tell her about the whole you-not-making-your-Confirmation thing. I think it’s the kind of thing we should maybe spring on her at the last minute – maybe even the morning of? It’ll be too late for her to do anything about it then.’

  Sorcha’s in bad form and I know what it’s about. Yeah, no, people have been texting her and WhatsApping her and Facebook messaging her all week about the video of me and Honor calling out that dude in Roly’s. They’re saying – I’m guessing – fair focks to your husband and fair focks to your daughter, who’s very much a chip off the old block.

  So it’s understandable that she’s a little bit jealous about all the attention we’ve been getting, especially because she just sat there with her mouth open while the dude was ripping the waitress – I’m going to use the phrase – a new one?

  She goes, ‘Seriously, Ross, I’ve had, like, five times more messages about this than I did about Hillary being born.’

  I’m there, ‘I have to admit, I can’t believe how huge this thing has suddenly become. Three people said it to me this morning when I was in Cavistons. I’m talking about three people separately. The word hero is being bandied about online. Not to rub your nose in it.’

  She’s doing her yogalates exercises in the bedroom, by the way, and she’s so irritated that she ends up having to pull out of a pose, mid-pigeon.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she goes, ‘I’m actually really proud of Honor for daring to speak truth to power.’

  She wouldn’t be saying that if she heard the way she spoke to Sister Dave yesterday.

  She goes, ‘It’s just that Dad is very upset, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘Only because she cost him work. Her vlog is suddenly massive, by the way. You know she’s got, like, nine thousand subscribers now? Although I should say we?’

  Sorcha pulls a face like she’s not impressed, but I can tell that she definitely is.

  She goes, ‘I still say she’s only using you to punish me.’

  I’m there, ‘Why would she want to punish you?’

  ‘Er, for having another baby?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Sorcha.’

  ‘Ross, Honor never had any interest in clothes. And she knows I’ve always talked about having my own style vlog – that was before I went into politics. Seriously, she’s doing it to make me jealous. And you’re being totally used, by the way. You just can’t see it.’

  She asks me then if I’ve seen her noise-cancelling headphones and I tell her they’re under the bed. She grabs them and she puts them on – presumably to drown me out, because I’ve spent the last twenty minutes reading her out some of the comments about our video on style hacks to make any bag look AH-MAZING – even if all you can afford is High Street! My favourite description of us is still ‘a father and daughter act with a very funny but beautifully touching dynamic’ or ‘a sort of foul-mouthed Ant and Dec’.

  That’s when I hear cor doors slamming outside. I look out the window and it ends up being Fionn’s old pair and his sister, Eleanor, who used to look like Carolyn Lilipaly but sadly doesn’t any more? They’re getting out of a silver Renault Megane and the girl is carrying a present, which is presumably for Hillary, and a bunch of flowers, which are presumably for Sorcha.

  Fionn steps out of the house to greet them, carrying the baby in that famous focking papoose of his. He goes, ‘Regarde, Hillary! C’est ta grand-mère! Et ton grand-père! Et ta tante! Elle s’appelle Eleanor!’

  I have literally no idea what language he’s attempting to speak. But I stort thinking about him trying to fock me over – yeah, no, driving Sorcha to the restaurant where he knew I was having dinner with another bird? And I suddenly have an idea.

  I turn around and Sorcha’s doing the plough pose with her headphones on and her eyes shut tight. I open the window a crack and a second later – okay, this is going to sound possibly childish? – but I shout, ‘OH, THAT’S FANTASTIC, SORCHA – KEEP DOING THAT!’

  She can’t hear me. God, those headphones are unbelievable. But Fionn definitely hears me – and so do his old pair and his sister, because when I peek at them through the closed curtains I can see them looking up at the window in shock.

  I go, ‘THAT’S IT, SORCHA! YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! THAT’S IT, DIG YOUR NAILS INTO MY ACTUAL BACK!’

  This must all come as a massive disappointment to Fionn, who presumably heard Sorcha tell me a couple of weeks ago that she’s not ready to let me put my P in her V – and now here we are, in the middle of the day, going at it like farm dogs.

  ‘HOME STRETCH NOW!’ I shout. I look at Sorcha – still oblivious. ‘THAT’S IT! BRING IT HOME, GIRL! GO ON, SORCHA! BRING IT HOME! ATTAGIRL! BRING IT HOME! BRING IT HOME!’

  It’s hilarious. They’re all just, like, staring at each other in shock. I keep the commentary going while Fionn invites his old pair into the house. I can hear his old man downstairs in the hall, suddenly talking very loudly, either trying to drown out my shouting or trying to alert us to the fact that there’s someone in the gaff.

  He’s going, ‘DID YOU HEAR ENDA KENNY’S BREXIT SPEECH?’ at the top of his voice. ‘SAID A LOT OF THINGS THAT NEEDED TO BE SAID, I THOUGHT. I ESPECIALLY AGREED WITH WHAT HE HAD TO SAY ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF PROTECTING THE GOOD FRIDAY AGREEMENT, AS WELL AS ENSURING FREE MOVEME
NT ON THESE ISLANDS AS PART OF THE COMMON TRAVEL AREA.’

  I really let them have it then. I move over to the bed and I stort banging the headboard off the wall really hord, going, ‘SLOW DOWN, HORSEY! SLOW DOWN, HORSEY! OH MY GOD, HERE IT COMES! OH MY GOD, HERE IT COMES! OH MY GOD, HERE IT COOOMMMEEESSS!!!’

  And it’s hilarious because Sorcha is still lying on her back with her feet around her ears, not a clue what’s going on.

  I tip downstairs then – at the same time opening my trousers and unbuttoning my shirt. I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. Again, Fionn’s old man is trying to warn me of their presence. ‘IRELAND’S MEMBERSHIP OF THE SINGLE MARKET AND THE CUSTOMS UNION HAS BEEN THE CORNERSTONE OF MUCH OF OUR SOCIAL PROGRESS OVER THE LAST GENERATION!’

  I walk into the kitchen, buttoning my chinos. And – holy fock! – what are the chances? Sorcha’s old pair are in there as well.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, Fionn, I didn’t hear you come in!’ and I pretend to be all out of breath. ‘Nice to see you, Mr and Mrs de Barra. Hey, you too, Eleanor. I hear you’re still with your husband. What was his name again?’

  She doesn’t answer me. Like the rest of them, she’s in shock. It’s one o’clock in the day, bear in mind.

  I go to the fridge, grab the milk and drink it straight from the corton, shirt still open. Sorcha’s old man is just, like, staring at me with total and utter hatred in his eyes.

  I can honestly say it’s the angriest anyone has been with me since two summers ago when I took Sean O’Brien’s brand-new Massey Ferguson out for a spin without his permission and managed to turn the thing over while performing a three-point turn outside the entrance to Tullow Business Pork.

  ‘In the name of God,’ Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘would you please button up your shirt?’

  But I’m like, ‘Hey, it’s my house. No one asked you to keep dropping in unannounced. And you’re more than welcome to fock off at any point – especially now that you’re not bankrupt any more.’

  A second or two later – hilarious – Sorcha comes downstairs and into the kitchen and, I swear to God, she’s actually limping?

  ‘Oh my God, hi!’ she goes, talking to Fionn’s old pair and sister. ‘I didn’t hear you come in!’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Clearly!’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Hola, Hillary! ¿Cómo estás?’ and then she limps across the kitchen and switches on the Nespresso. ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘I think I actually injured myself upstairs, Ross! I know I shouldn’t put my back under so much pressure, but it just felt so good! Actually, my toes are still tingling!’

  I can’t even begin to describe the faces in the kitchen – Fionn’s especially. I can’t even look at them in case I laugh in their faces. Instead, I whip out my phone and pretend to look at that. I’ve got a text message from the old man, reminding me about the old dear’s surprise birthday porty this weekend.

  I take another long drink from the milk corton.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, ‘it literally feels like the ground is still moving.’

  There’s a look of definite jealousy on Eleanor’s face. Like I said, she’s had the pleasure.

  Sorcha’s old dear goes, ‘Perhaps this is a case of – what’s this phrase your daughter sometimes uses? – T.M.O.?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Oh, it’s hordly that, Mom. Why shouldn’t I talk about it? Even though I know you’re not into it yourself, I was actually going to recommend it to Fionn’s mom.’

  Fionn’s old dear’s jaw practically hits the floor. It’s Fionn who ends up having to go, ‘Sorcha, I really don’t think –’

  She’s like, ‘I think it’d be good for you, Mrs de Barra! It would definitely help loosen you up a bit!’

  Jesus Christ!

  ‘Sorcha!’ Fionn’s old dear goes.

  ‘No, seriously,’ Sorcha goes. ‘I’m trying out this new position where I put my two legs in the air, my legs slightly open and then –’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Darling, do you really think this is something you should be telling us?’ and he sounds angry enough to kill me.

  Sorcha laughs. She’s like, ‘I know it’s not your kind of thing, Dad, but when you get into it – as in, really into it? – you want to do it all the time. And everywhere you go. Ross and I used to do it – obviously discreetly – while we were queuing for the checkout in Superquinn.’

  I end up having to leave the room then because I’m about to herniate myself trying not to laugh?

  Behind me Sorcha goes, ‘Now, who’s for a cappuccino?’

  It feels like Friday will never come around – but obviously it eventually does? It’s, like, just after lunchtime when I text Ronan and tell him not to worry – he’s going to see his daughter very, very soon. Then I stick the address into the satnav and hit the M50.

  Half an hour later, I’m crawling along Collinstown Road, with my eyes peeled for the old man’s matte-black Bentley Mulsanne, my hort beating in double-time with the excitement of it all.

  I drive past little groups of people – sad focks mostly – looking up at the sky for planes coming in to land, passing the binoculars between them. That’ll be Fionn in about twenty years, I think to myself, then I have a little chuckle at the idea. Him and Hillary – plane-spotting. The poor kid.

  Then I spot the cor. It’s porked at the end of a laneway to my right. I’m looking at the rear end of the thing. And even from this distance, I can see that they’re giving the suspension a real workout. The thing is going up and down like Mel Gibson on a three-day bender.

  I pork up about twenty yords behind them, then I get out of the cor and close the door as quietly as I can. In the boot, I’ve got the megaphone that Sorcha used to bring everywhere with her when she ran for election in Dublin Bay South.

  I whip it out – I’m talking about the megaphone – then I creep up behind the cor.

  The windows are all steamed up. Inside, I can hear them going hord at it and the conversation is comical. He’s there, ‘Your t … t … t … t … t … t … t … t … tits are l … l … l … l … l … l … l … l … l … l … lubbly, so thee are.’

  And she’s going, ‘Jaysus, you hab me bleaten sweating, so you do.’

  ‘Throy not to get addy f … f … f … f … fake tadden on the seats. Ch … Ch … Cheerdles woatunt be happy abourrit.’

  ‘Ine lubben what you’re doing to me, Kennet.’

  ‘Ine l … l … l … lubben it as weddle, Mordeen.’

  ‘Say sometin romaddentic.’

  ‘Wh … wh … wh … what are you wanton me to say?’

  ‘Call me that nayum.’

  ‘What nayum?’

  ‘The nayum you used to call me.’

  ‘Geebag?’

  ‘No – arthur you realized that you ditn’t hate me, that you reedy lubbed me and you wished you’d maddied me instead of Dordeen.’

  ‘Oh, yeah – th … th … th … th … th … th … the Rowuz of Finglas West.’

  ‘The Rowuz of Finglas West! I lub that Kennet, so I do. Call me it again – while you’re riding me.’

  ‘The Rowuz of Finglas West.’

  ‘No, woork it into a seddentence!’

  ‘Ine lubbing riding you – the R … R … R … R … R … Rowuz of Finglas West.’

  Much as I hate to break up this romantic scene, I’ve got actual shit to do, so I put the megaphone up to my mouth and – in my best bogger accent – I go, ‘Eermed Gyardai! We have you surrounded, you filty animals! Gesh oush of thet vehickle with your hends in the eer!’

  I can hear Kennet in the cor going, ‘W … W … W … W … W … W … W … What in the nayum of J … J … J … J … J … J … Jaysus!’

  Then I can hear Mordeen going, ‘Will you gerroff of me, you bleaten dope!’ and Kennet’s like, ‘Ine th … th … th … th … throying, ardent I?’

  I decide to up the stakes.

  I’m there, ‘Gesh oush of thet vehickle with your hends in the eer – or we will open fire in five seco
nds. Five … four … three … two …’

  The back door suddenly flies open. She gets out first – totally storkers except for Kennet’s chauffeur hat, which she’s using to cover her money box. Her flabby, fake-tan-covered body is glistening with sweat – she looks like something you’d see on a blind potter’s wheel.

  A few seconds later, the other door opens and out climbs Kennet, again, totally naked except for his shoes and socks and his mickey sticking out like the little peg on the front of a bird box.

  His opening line is a cracker. He goes, ‘It’s n … n … n … n … n … not whorrit l … l … l … l … l … looks like, Geerd.’

  That’s when he suddenly cops that it’s not a Gord at all, that it’s me.

  He’s there, ‘What in the nayum of J … J … J … J … J …?’ and, as he’s saying it, I whip out my phone and I stort filming the two of them – focking Skobeo and Juliet.

  He’s like, ‘R … R … R … R … Rosser? What are you bleaten playing at?’

  He’s slower on the uptake than even me. I’m there, ‘I’m blackmailing you, Kennet.’

  I keep filming him, capturing the moment when the penny finally drops.

  He goes, ‘You d … d … d … d … d … d …’

  And I’m like, ‘I’m going to stop you there, Kennet – before you say something you regret.’

  The two of them are, like, shivering with the cold. It’s the end of January, bear in mind, and they’re both in the focking raw.

  I’m like, ‘Here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to ring Ronan right this second and you’re going to tell him that he can see Rihanna-Brogan any time he wants. Day or night.’

  ‘Ast me b … b … b … b … b … boddicks.’

  ‘You either do it or Dordeen finds out about you and the focking Rowuz of F … F … F … F … Finglas West here.’

  He stares at me for a long time. But he knows he’s beaten. He goes, ‘I’ll rig him when I get howum arthur woork.’

  But I’m there, ‘No, you’ll ring him right now – while I’m standing here. Go and get your phone.’

  He just shakes his head, then reaches into the back of the cor for his trousers. He takes the phone out of his sky rocket, then dials Ronan’s number.