Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m just, like, staring at her in total shock. I’m like, ‘Six embryos? Does that mean – Jesus focking Christ – six babies?’

  And she goes, ‘Yes! And these beautiful, strong, young women have come to Ireland to help bring your little brothers or sisters into the world!’

  7.

  Outfit of the Day is a Canterbury Drill Top!

  The old man has spent the last two days avoiding me. He hasn’t returned any of the abusive messages that I left on his voicemail or with his Dáil secretary. But I end up finally tracking him down – as usual – to Hennessy’s office in Fitzwilliam Square.

  The man has no shame whatsoever. His opening line is ‘So the race is on, Kicker!’

  And I’m like, ‘What race?’

  ‘The race to replace Enda Kenny as the so-called leader of the country! He’s just announced that he’s stepping down as the leader of Fine Gael at midnight tonight!’ and he storts tweeting while he’s talking to me.

  I’m there, ‘Can you put your focking phone down, please?’

  He goes, ‘I just wanted to send this, Ross, while it’s still fresh in my mind!’

  Charles O’Carroll-Kelly √ @realCOCK – 12m

  I see @rtenews reporting it’s Leo ‘not another cent’ Varadkar versus HRH, the Merchant Prince, Simon Coveney for the #FGleadership. The Haves against the Have-Yachts! Are these two boarding school Hall Monitors really the best we can do in the search for someone to represent our country at home and abroad? #irexit #NewRepublic #CO’CKforTaoiseach

  Reply 1,302 Retweet 4,960 Like 13,811

  Suddenly, Hennessy steps into the room. ‘I just talked to Fyodor,’ he goes. ‘He’s got all their emails. Whose do we want to read first? I told him Varadkar and Coveney obviously. Donohoe. Harris. Flanagan …’

  He suddenly stops when he sees me sitting there in the corner.

  I’m like, ‘Hey, don’t worry, I don’t give a fock what you’re up to. I’m here to discuss something more important.’

  The old man goes, ‘Just give me a few minutes here, Old Scout! And tell Fyodor to put Micheál Mortin and Dara Calleary on the list as well!’

  Off Hennessy focks.

  ‘So,’ the old man goes, sitting down behind Hennessy’s desk, ‘what’s troubling you, Kicker?’

  I’m there, ‘What’s troubling me? You’re un-focking-believable! One baby has suddenly turned into six?’

  He’s like, ‘Oh, yes, your mother said you popped in to see her! You met our very lovely surrogate mums, I believe! Fyodor got them through a contact he has in Chis¸ina˘u!’

  ‘That’s racist.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to say where people are from any more.’

  ‘Why on Earth not?’

  ‘I don’t fully understand it myself. That’s not my point anyway. My point is why the fock do you want to bring six kids into the world?’

  ‘Well, the clinic rang and they said we had six viable embryos – and, well, you’ve seen your mother in action in Sydney Vard! Give her a choice between three fur coats and the chances are she’ll choose all three!’

  ‘This isn’t fur coats. This is actual babies.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’ll be wonderful, Ross? Six little brothers and sisters for you to play with!’

  ‘I’m thirty-focking-seven. And I’ve got kids coming out of my focking ears.’

  ‘Your concerns have been minuted!’

  ‘Minuted?’

  ‘Look, Ross, Fionnuala is supporting my dream of becoming Taoiseach and taking Ireland out of the European Union with its cruel austerity measures and its ridiculous rules relating to everything, including the size of bloody well cabbages. So it’s only fair that I support her dream of becoming a mother again!’

  ‘Even though I came here today to try to talk you out of it?’

  ‘There’s no changing our minds now, Ross! Fertilization has occurred! There’s no turning back! A lot of New Republic’s support base is Pro-Life, you see! Capital P! Capital L! It wouldn’t play at all well with the grassroots were it to get out that we binned five perfectly viable embryos!’

  I’m like, ‘Have you even thought about what it’s going to be like to have six babies in the house? The feeds? The nappies?’

  He goes, ‘Oh, we’ll get people to do all of that! I’m thinking more of the future, Kicker! I mean, there’s bound to be a boy or two among that lot! And I have to confess, I haven’t quite given up on the hope of seeing a son of mine play rugby for Ireland one day!’

  ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

  ‘It’s an ambition of mine that’s never gone away!’

  I stand up. ‘That’s it,’ I go. ‘You and me are focking finished.’

  He’s there, ‘Just think of it, Ross! A brother of yours winning the Grand Slam – maybe even captaining the Lions one day!’

  I’m like, ‘Seriously, Dude. I’m doing an Erika. I don’t need you any more. I don’t need you for anything.’

  Of course, I end up regretting being so firm on that point when I go back to Sorcha’s cor and discover that I’ve been clamped. I remember my old man’s arrangement with the Leinster Branch, then I ring Sean Cronin and I ask him to phone my old man and tell him that his Nissan Leaf has been clamped in Fitzwilliam Square. But Sean isn’t keen. Sean says he’d rather chew the clamp off with his own teeth than admit to driving a Nissan Leaf.

  In the end, after a lot of humming and hawing from a man who’s done pretty focking alright out of my old man over the years, Tadhg Furlong agrees to do it.

  I sit there and wait for the dudes in the yellow bibs to arrive and free my cor. And after about fifteen minutes, my phone rings. I can see from the screen that it’s Magnus calling me, which is a bit random. For some reason, I end up answering.

  I’m like, ‘Magnus, how the hell are you?’

  He goes, ‘All ish good, Rosh. We’re all shtill bushing here on the exshitement of our financial results from Q1. Alsho, I have joined the Fashebook Health Committee and we are shetting all teamsh with the goal of walking one hundred thoushand shtepsh every week until Sheptember!’

  ‘You’re losing me, Magnus.’

  ‘Shorry, Rosh, perhapsh the shignal ish not sho good where I’m shtanding.’

  ‘No, I mean in terms of my interest. You’re not ringing me to tell me how well the company’s doing presumably?’

  He laughs. He’s like, ‘Shorry, Rosh, Oisinn shays the shame thing to me – all I sheem to talk about theesh daysh ish Fashebook.’

  ‘It’s just I find stories about how well other people are doing very boring to listen to. That’s me being straight with you.’

  ‘Okay, sho I will tell you the reashon I am phoning. What are you doing on Shaturday morning?’

  I’m like, ‘Saaatuuurrrdaaayyy …’ dragging the word out, trying to come up with an excuse, except my head is – as usual – empty.

  He goes, ‘The reashon I am ashking ish becaush I am playing a match.’

  I should point out here that Magnus is very much a soccer guy. I’ve always thought it was the thing that would eventually break him and Oisinn up. I don’t fancy his chances of persuading me and the rest of the goys to watch him kick a ball around for however many minutes that ridiculous game lasts.

  ‘Dude,’ I go, ‘the only time I’ve ever deliberately watched soccer was when Bend It Like Beckham came out – and that had Keira Knightley in a sports bra in it.’

  He goes, ‘Thish time, I am not talking about shoccer, Rosh. I am talking about rugby.’

  I’m there, ‘Rugby?’

  ‘Yesh, I have taken up rugby – if you can believe it!’

  ‘At last.’

  ‘That ish what Oisinn alsho shays!’

  ‘It’ll help your marriage in the long run. So who are you playing for? Jesus, it’s not Greystones, is it?’

  I’ve never liked Greystones. I don’t know why. It’s probably because they pretend to be better than Bray, which they’r
e obviously not. Greystones is a Southside Skerries for Protestant underachievers.

  Magnus goes, ‘No, I am playing for Fashebook, of coursh!’

  And I’m there, ‘Facebook? I didn’t know they had a rugby team.’

  ‘Absholutely we haff a rugby team! Alsho, we are unbeaten for sheven matches. But shadly right now we haff no one to coach ush.’

  ‘I can’t believe Oisinn didn’t mention that you were playing the beautiful game.’

  ‘So I shay to my bosh, who ish the captain of the team, we are Fashebook. We are the besht. Which meansh we haff to haff the besht coach in the bishnish.’

  ‘Steve Hansen?’

  ‘No, of coursh not Shteve Hanshen – I’m talking about you, Rosh!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yesh, shometimesh I lishen to you when you are dishcushing rugby with Oisinn and the other guysh in Kielysh and I think, okay, thish ish a guy who knowsh what he’sh talking about. Thish ish a guy who knowsh hish rugby inshide-out.’

  ‘Sometimes, when people ask me what I do for a living, I just say teacher. And I mean every word of it.’

  ‘You can really help ush, Rosh.’

  ‘Yeah, no, it’s just if I do decide to go into coaching, I had it in my head that it’d be at, like, All Ireland League level? I’ve always liked Old Wesley as a club.’

  ‘I should tell you alsho that the Shportsh and Shocial Committee has shet ashide a budget for thish.’

  ‘No offence but coaching Facebook is going to do fock-all for my CV. It’s beneath me.’

  He goes, ‘They are prepared to pay you ten thoushand eurosh per session.’

  And I’m just like, ‘So, er, where do we train?’

  ‘Six kids!’ I go. ‘Focking six, Sorcha!’

  Yeah, no, I’m still trying – and failing – to get my head around it. We’re in the Nissan Leaf on the way to Ranelagh for Brian, Johnny and Leo’s first day at Little Cambridge.

  I’m there, ‘She’s seventy years of age. What the fock does she think she’s doing bringing six little groin-wreckers into the world?’

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘please don’t refer to children as groin-wreckers.’

  I’m like, ‘Six, though, Sorcha!’

  She’s there, ‘I don’t blame you for being upset. What on Earth are your mom and dad thinking?’

  ‘They’re not thinking. He’s drunk on power and she’s drunk on, I don’t know, anything she can get her hands on. Usually gin, but I once saw her drink hand sanitizer while she was waiting for Molloy’s Liquor Store to open on the Ballyogan Road.’

  ‘I mean, I can totally understand her wanting to have a baby, especially if she regrets putting her career and her advocacy work ahead of having a lorger family.’

  ‘Advocacy work? You mean trying to run Funderland out of Ballsbridge?’

  ‘I can get my head around her wanting to have one baby. But like you say –’

  ‘Focking six!’

  ‘I don’t want to upset you, Ross, but your mom is very much in the autumn of her life.’

  ‘Deep focking winter, you mean.’

  ‘This isn’t me being a bitch, but there’s a very real chance that those children will be orphans before they’re even teenagers.’

  Brian is suddenly looking around him.

  ‘The fock are we?’ he goes.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘We’re in Ranelagh, Brian. Today is the day you’re storting your new school. There’s, like, an actual waiting list to get into this place. Isn’t it exciting?’

  Brian goes, ‘Fock school! And fock you!’

  ‘You’re going to meet your new teacher,’ Sorcha goes. ‘She’s called Sasha – she went to Holy Child Killiney – and she’s going to help you find your potential.’

  I’m there, ‘She actually said unlock their potential.’

  ‘Did you flirt with her, by the way?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I don’t mind if the answer is yes. Lauren tried to get Oliver in here but couldn’t. And Chloe said Isa is number one hundred and thirty something on the waiting list.’

  ‘I didn’t knowingly flirt?’

  ‘Well, you obviously did something right. Didn’t you go to her debs?’

  ‘Er, I can’t remember if I did or not. She’s very happily married now. A couple kids. Degree and Master’s.’

  ‘I do remember she was mad about you.’

  ‘Hey, I have a way with people – what can I say?’

  ‘Well, for once I’m not complaining.’

  We find the school – it’s in a massive gaff on, like, Elmwood Avenue? – and Sorcha parallel-porks the cor outside with, let’s just say, her usual level of skill and spatial awareness?

  ‘Can’t drive for shit,’ Brian goes.

  And I’m there, ‘Yeah, you can afford to talk. Four grand’s worth of damage to my Audi?’

  ‘Shut your focking hole,’ he goes. ‘You focking shitwad fock.’

  We take the boys out of the cor and up the path we go. We don’t even need to knock. Sasha is waiting at the door for us with a big smile on her face. She goes, ‘Here they are! Look at these beautiful boys!’

  Leo – I swear to God – goes, ‘Hey, Gorgeous!’ which is kind of a me thing to say, while Brian walks straight past her and goes, ‘I need to focking hit someone.’

  It doesn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. She keeps on smiling and goes, ‘Hi, Sorcha. I’m Sasha.’

  And Sorcha’s like, ‘I remember you. You were an amazing debater.’

  ‘I seem to remember you were a pretty amazing debater yourself.’

  I’m there, ‘What time do you want us to pick them up, Sasha?’ pretty keen to be off. This seems to come as a surprise to the girl. She goes, ‘You don’t want to look around the place?’

  I look at Sorcha and I’m like, ‘Not really – do we? No offence, but I think we’ll pass, Sash.’

  I’m going to be honest with you, I’m just worried that Brian has already belted some kid in there. My plan is for me and Sorcha to switch off our phones – taking a leaf from Honor’s book – and go to Cinnamon for a long breakfast.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, this is, like, the most famous Montessori school in Ireland in terms of identifying young people’s talents. We’d love the tour, Sasha!’ and I end up being overruled.

  So in we go. The place is like a spa. And by that I mean all the walls are painted white, it smells of mint and lavender and all the staff are smiling so hord that it makes you think they’re either Mormons or up to something.

  Sasha leads us into a lorge, open-plan room, which is full of boys and girls of all shades and colours – notice I’m being careful not to mention specific countries here – and they’re all quietly reading or drawing or listening to presumably music on giant Beats.

  I spot Brian. To my great relief, he isn’t panelling the fock out some genius of tomorrow – he’s just standing there, looking around the room with a slightly hostile look on his face.

  ‘The fock is this shit?’ he goes.

  ‘As parents,’ Sorcha goes, ‘we chose not to correct our children when they used bad language for fear of actually encouraging it?’

  ‘You did right,’ Sasha goes. ‘We don’t correct them either. And I’m also putting inverted commas around the word correct. Most of what we consider to be bad behaviour in children comes as a result of intellectual boredom, usually because they haven’t discovered their gifts yet.’

  I’m there, ‘What if they don’t have any gifts? What if they’re just – I’m pre-warning you here – focking dopes?’

  She goes, ‘All children have gifts, Ross. And our priority at Little Cambridge is to help them discover those gifts and engage their minds in positive and hopefully creative ways. Come on, let me show you some of the work the children are doing.’

  So she leads us around the room, pointing out various kids and what they’re up to.

  ‘This is Shinya,’ pointing out this little boy from you can probably guess wh
ere. He’s the one wearing the humungous Beats and he’s also writing something down in, like, a copybook? ‘He can listen to a concerto, pick out the individual instruments and – as you can see – write out the notes that each member of the orchestra is playing.’

  Brian goes to throw a punch at him, but I manage to block it before it hits the back of his head.

  ‘And this is Rebecca,’ she goes, pointing out this – I don’t even know if I’m allowed to say the word Irish – girl, who’s drawing what looks like a humungous church.

  I’m there, ‘She must have traced that,’ because it’s that good – unbelievable detail and everything. ‘I think she’s pulling the wool over all of your eyes, Sash.’

  Sasha laughs. She goes, ‘I can promise you that she didn’t trace it. She’s drawing Christchurch Cathedral. Her mom and dad took her there for the first time at the weekend and she’s drawing the entire thing from memory.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Oh! My God! Do you think our boys might be gifted like these children are gifted?’

  And Sasha goes, ‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’

  My hopes aren’t high. I’m there, ‘We’ll see you at, what, seven o’clock tonight?’ and I reach into my pocket and switch my phone off.

  But she goes, ‘Well, the school day actually finishes at two thirty, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘Two thirty? I think it’s going to take a hell of a lot more time than that to fix the problem, Sash. But, hey, you seem to know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’ve always thought that Johnny might be gifted,’ Sorcha goes, ‘because he’s the quiet, sensitive one,’ meaning the one who’s been beaten down by the other two.

  Sasha goes, ‘Whatever his talent is, we will discover it here.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Thank you so much, Sasha. On behalf of both of us. I can’t tell you how much it means to find someone who doesn’t just write off our children as thugs.’

  That’s aimed at me. I decide to just let it go. I turn to leave. And out of the corner of my eye – oh, Jesus, no! – I spot Brian, hunkered down, taking a shit in the middle of the floor.

  So I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom in my Canterbury VapoDri drill top and I’m thinking about what I’m going to say to the players this morning. I’ve been up since – not a lie – eight o’clock, doing a lot of sit-ups, then having another search for my Rugby Tactics Book to try to dig out some inspirational quotes to give them. But I still can’t find the focking thing.