I’m there, ‘What, you’re happy to let people just rip the piss out of you?’
‘The more people that take selfies, the more it gets around on social media. Actually, Christian is trying to get Leo Varadkar to come along?’
Oisinn’s there, ‘Why Leo Varadkar?’
‘Well,’ JP goes, ‘you know the way he says he admires people who get up early in the morning? Well, with this bed, you’re technically up all the time. Sleeping vertically means you’re ready to get up and go to work the second you open your eyes in the morning. I think it’s the kind of thing that Leo would definitely approve of.’
The poor dude – he’s head-in-the-fridge crazy at this point.
Christian arrives over. He goes, ‘I spoke to one of his people. He’s obviously got the leadership contest going on at the moment, but he’s going to try and get down in the afternoon.’
I’m like, ‘Fair focks to you, Christian,’ because he’s what I would call a real friend? Mind you, he’s also got fifty focking Ks invested in this bullshit idea, so it’s in his interests to get the word out there.
Shit. My old man is here. I spot him coming. He’s with Hennessy and – yeah, no – that little, bald Russian mate of theirs, Hodor or Fyodor or whatever the fock he’s called.
I’m like, ‘What the fock are you doing here?’
The old man goes, ‘As a porty, Ross, New Republic believes that business, enterprise and innovation will be the keys to Ireland’s future once we leave the entrepreneurship-averse, creativity-strangling, compliance culture of the European Union! These people here represent the future of our country post-Irexit!’
God focking help us, is all I can think.
Hennessy storts talking to Christian about Lauren in that awkward way that fathers-in-law talk to sons-in-laws. I can’t help but overhear the conversation.
Hennessy goes, ‘There’s fifty thousand euros missing from your joint savings account.’
And Christian’s there, ‘So?’
‘Where is it?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Does my daughter know?’
And it’s obvious the answer is no because Christian goes, ‘That’s none of your business either.’
He cleared out their savings to give the money to a friend to invest in an idea that’s doomed to failure. And he didn’t tell his wife. I’m going to say it again.
Rugby.
The old man goes, ‘So Joe Schmidt will be taking the chaps off to Japan and America any day soon – I expect you’ve been taking quite a few notes in that famous tactics book of yours, Kicker!’
I think about telling him about my call from the great man, but in the end I don’t.
I just go, ‘Hey, I’m not interested in having the big chats. Like I told you the last day in town, you and me are done. I don’t need anything from you.’
‘It’s funny you should say that, Ross, because after you left the office that day, I had a call from young Tadhg Furlong, would you believe? Wanted to know could I have the clamp removed from his Nissan Leaf! Parked in Fitzwilliam Square, he was!’
‘A lot of people drive Nissan Leafs. It’s not just a woman’s cor.’
It is just a woman’s cor.
‘It was a 161D registration,’ he tries to go, ‘just like your good lady wife drives!’
And I’m there, ‘A lot of people drive 161D Nissan Leafs – what’s your point?’
‘Well, about twenty minutes after it was declamped, I had a call from Dan Leavy, asking me to unclamp the exact same car!’
Fock. Yeah, no, I left voice messages for a few other players before I finally talked Tadhg into doing it.
‘This continued for the rest of the day!’ the old man goes. ‘Jack McGrath! Dave Kearney! Jamison Gibson-Pork! All requesting that I remove the clamp from the same 161D Nissan Leaf!’
I’m there, ‘I don’t know what you think any of this proves?’
‘Devin Toner! I mean, how would Big Dev even fit into such a cor? He’d have to remove the bloody well back seats!’
I decide not to get into it with him. And anyway, our attention is suddenly drawn to Fyodor, who has his phone clamped to his ear and he’s talking excitedly to someone in what I’m presuming is Russian?
When he finally hangs up, he points at one of JP’s vertical beds and goes, ‘This! I want this!’
JP smiles. It’s obviously a relief for him to finally get a sale. He goes, ‘Congratulations! You are the very first owner of a Vampire Bed!’
Fyodor turns to the rest of us and goes, ‘This bed! This is miracle!’
We’re all, like, looking at each other.
He’s there, ‘Biggest problem in the world today is space. Too many people, not enough room. This, my friends, is miracle. You invent this?’
JP’s like, ‘It was originally my old man’s idea, but – yeah, no – I own the patent, yeah.’
Fyodor turns back to us. He goes, ‘I hear on radio, Ireland has not enough homes. I hear, not enough room in hospitals. I hear, too many people in prisons. Here is answer.’
JP goes, ‘I’m glad you like it. Let me find my order book and you can tell me where you want me to deliver it.’
Fyodor goes, ‘No, no, you do not understand. How many of this do you have?’
JP looks at Christian, then goes, ‘I’ve got, em, a thousand of them, some singles, some doubles.’
The dude’s like, ‘I will take all.’
Our mouths just fall open.
JP goes, ‘You know they’re, em, three hundred euros each? Five hundred for the doubles?’
Fyodor’s there. ‘I will take. Also, my friends in Moscow would like to buy patent.’
‘Unfortunately, the patent isn’t for sale. It’s not about money. For me, it’s about honouring my late father and providing for my son’s future.’
Fyodor just nods, then goes, ‘I can arrange for you to have accident. I can arrange for your son to have accident.’
Hennessy laughs. I haven’t a clue who this dude is, but he’s definitely Hennessy’s kind of goy.
The old man puts his orm around Fyodor’s shoulder. He goes, ‘I’m sure there’ll be no need for that, Old Chap! Look, why don’t we arrange to sit down with JP – we’ll book a room in the Stephen’s Green Club – and see if we can’t come to some kind of arrangement! I’m a firm believer in that old truism – quote-unquote – that business always finds a way!’
There ends up being a far bigger crowd for the Facebook versus Google match than I was expecting – we’re talking two thousand people – and it has all the atmosphere of a Leinster Schools Senior Cup final, which is amazing given that there is literally fock-all at stake.
Although you wouldn’t know it standing in Herbert Pork. The Facebook staff – I suppose you could call them our fans? – are mixed in with the Google staff slash fans and you only have to listen to the conversations going on in the crowd to know that there’s a real edge to this fixture. People are literally bickering among themselves over which company is the best to work for.
‘Google has better maternity and paternity benefits,’ I hear one girl tell another girl. ‘We’re talking eighteen weeks of paid maternity leave and between seven and twelve weeks of paid paternity leave.’
‘You’re not comparing like with like,’ the girl from Facebook snaps back. ‘We have a seventeen-week-paid-leave policy that’s available to both men and women.’
Most of the crowd are wearing branded t-shirts with either the Facebook or the Google logo on the front. Quite a few of them are also wearing glasses, security swipe cords and bluetooth headsets and I honestly haven’t seen this many geeks since Fionn’s twenty-first birthday porty.
It feels great to be finally coaching, though. I thought I was possibly overdoing it wearing my IRFU ThermoReg padded jacket tonight, but I don’t actually feel overdressed?
Magnus is in a state of what can only be described as high excitement. He’s clapping his two hands together,
going, ‘Come on, Fashebook – thish ish for the pride of the company that we are playing! One team, one dream! One team, one dream!’
I’m thinking, Okay, it’s time for me to do some actual coaching here. I’m walking among them as they perform their stretches and I’m going, ‘Magnus, just defend our line like I showed you all week, okay … Derek from the cor pork, keep your eye on the ball when it’s coming to you and try to cut out the handling errors … And all of you, just try to get the ball as often as you can to Li from Capacity Planning,’ because she’s an absolute flier.
I give them one last shout of ‘Come on, Facebook – let’s do this thing!’ and then I step off the field.
The referee blows the whistle and the match – and let’s be honest, I’m using that term very, very loosely – gets under way.
The first couple of minutes go by in a flash. A lot of players are keen to get their hands on the ball, presumably to try to impress whichever colleague they’re hoping to get off with later on in Slattery’s or The Gasworks.
This is especially noticeable in the case of Ciaran from Regional Trade and Customs Compliance and Belinda from Anti-Abuse, Trust and Safety, Incorporating Spam, who decide to ignore every pre-match instruction they were given and just do their own thing, which means basically only passing the ball to each other – a form of toss-and-catch foreplay that causes us to turn over possession three times in the opening ten minutes.
They’re not alone either. As a matter of fact, none of our players is doing a single thing I told them to do. They’re all just running around excitedly after the same ball – like they do in children’s rugby. And grown-up Gaelic football.
I’m going, ‘Come on, goys, this isn’t the gameplan we worked on!’ but it’s obvious that that’s gone out the window.
There’s, like, fifteen minutes gone when some little dude on the Google team, who looks like Peter Stringer except with hair, gets the ball in his hands, slips in between Karim from Content Moderation (Happy Slappings, White Nationalism and Islamic State Executions) and Donna from Abuse Investigation (Sexual Harassment, Hate Speech and Overseas Election Meddling) and manages to ground the ball for a try – or at least the tag rugby equivalent of a try?
Then he throws the ball into the air and shouts, ‘Congratulations! You have just been GOOGLED!’ right in the face of Tarek from Data Analytics (Europe, Middle East and Africa).
Magnus ends up totally losing it. He shoves the dude in the chest and the referee ends up having to step in between them to separate them.
I’m there, ‘Dude, I told you to keep the head!’
I look over my shoulder and I happen to notice that Oisinn is standing in the crowd just behind me.
I’m there, ‘I’m being totally focking ignored?’
‘Welcome to my life,’ he goes.
Magnus storts giving out instructions then. He’s there, ‘Come on, guysh, let’sh go in hard on them!’
And I’m like, ‘That’s the exact opposite of what I want you to do! Get the ball to Li from Capacity Planning – we need to utilize her pace!’
Sixty seconds later, in all fairness to him, Magnus takes a pass from Chris from SMB Accounts and runs past three women – one of them good-looking – to score a tag rugby try. He turns around to Peter Stringer with Hair and goes, ‘Perhapsh now you can shee how Fashebook rollsh, Mishter Google Man – yesh?’
This time, it’s their teammates who end up having to pull them aport. I’m like, ‘Magnus, keep the head! Come on, let’s stort using some of the moves we worked on in training.’
Oisinn goes, ‘He’s not listening, Ross. It’s like they’ve stolen his mind or something.’
The crowd is going ballistic. There’s a definite sense that this could turn nasty.
Ten minutes before half-time, a woman from Google – not the looker – gets the ball in her hands and takes advantage of a lapse in concentration in the Facebook defence, when Ciaran from Regional Trade and Customs Compliance takes his eye off the ball and asks Belinda from Anti-Abuse, Trust and Safety, Incorporating Spam if she has a boyfriend and if she’s going to The Gasworks later on.
I’m like, ‘For fock’s sake, Facebook!’ because everything I said about tag rugby is being proven spectacularly right.
A minute after that, Magnus gets the ball from Derek from the cor pork and makes a break for the line. And that’s when, out of nowhere, and totally against the rules, Peter Stringer with Hair tackles him – as in full-on rugby tackles him?
The referee blows the whistle for a foul, but Magnus jumps to his feet and he’s absolutely livid with the dude. He shouts, ‘Thish ish typical for Google to show contempt for the rulesh!’
Oh, that doesn’t go down well with the Google crowd, who are getting seriously stirred up. They all stort booing him and telling him to fock off back to Grand Canal Square and take his low-skilled and poorly motivated colleagues with him.
Peter Stringer with Hair makes the mistake of telling Magnus to chill out. He goes, ‘It’s only a game!’
‘Yesh, for shure,’ Magnus goes, ‘everything ish jusht a game for Google! Like, for inshtansh, forshing shellphone makersh to ushe your shoftware on Android phonesh!’
The Google dude suddenly sees red. He grabs Magnus by the front of his branded t-shirt and goes, ‘You’re out of order!’
‘Perhapsh I am not sho out of order!’ Magnus goes, shoving him away. ‘Becaush your company wash fined five billion dollarsh for thish by the European Union!’
‘Oh,’ the Google dude goes, ‘do you want to talk about Facebook’s market abuses and lack of social and political accountability?’
There’s a really ugly atmosphere developing in the crowd. I haven’t seen this many angry geeks since I set off the fire alorm at a meeting of the UCD Harry Potter Society while they were doing a marathon reading of The Goblet of Fire. Half of them are screaming abuse at Magnus while the other half are egging him on to hit the goy and – as one girl standing behind me puts it – ‘send him back to Barrow Street in a focking wheelchair’.
This provokes an argument in the crowd over whether Facebook or Google provides the most accessible working environment for those with mobility issues and I notice one or two punches thrown.
On the field, Magnus and Peter Stringer with Hair are really going at it now. They have a hold of each other’s branded t-shirts and they’re pushing and pulling each other all over the pitch, even though the other players are trying to break it up. Magnus is going, ‘Google people are all ash holesh!’
And Peter Stringer with Hair is like, ‘Hey, at least our company only hires the brightest and best!’
‘The brightesht and the besht? Ha! That ish what you shay! But everyone knowsh that moasht of your Google shtaff wishes they worked inshtead for Fashebook!’
‘And why would they do that?’
‘Becaush Fashebook ish the besht company to work for!’
‘Not according to Glassdoor, which recently placed Google ahead of Facebook in terms of employee satisfaction! And that was based on a survey of three thousand worldwide employees!’
‘Thish ish shuch bullshit. The Shunday Bishnish Posht had a shimilar shurvey which showed that Fashebook’s Irish employeesh were far more likely to recommend their company to othersh, bashed on key workplashe factorsh shuch ash career advanshment opportunitiesh, compenshation and benefitsh, culture and alsho valuesh!’
There are similar rows happening everywhere in the crowd. I hear two girls having an absolute screaming match and it goes like this:
‘You don’t even have a focking hairdressers in your building!’
‘Er, yes, we do, actually – and a focking nail bar!’
‘Well, we have a dentist! I get my teeth whitened there twice a week!’
‘How would you like me to smash them down your focking throat?’
‘It wouldn’t bother me! I could get them fixed again first thing in the morning – no chorge!’
‘Well, we have two doctors and
a full-time nurse in our building.’
‘We have a midwife! I gave birth to both of my children in the Google building and I was back working that night!’
‘Well, my boyfriend, who’s also my Team Leader, had a stent put in his heart last year! It was done in the office and he was sitting up in one of the sleep pods working on his laptop an hour later!’
Five seconds later, the two of them are rolling around on the ground, pulling out handfuls of each other’s hair. The hairdressers in both companies are going to be rushed off their focking feet tomorrow.
All hell breaks loose then. There ends up being a pitch invasion and Herbert Pork turns into a pretty much riot zone? People are throwing and aiming kicks at each other while boasting about their working conditions and their levels of employee satisfaction.
The referee announces that he’s abandoning the match – proof, if proof were needed, that it actually doesn’t matter to anyone – and he’s heading to The Bridge 1859 for a pint.
I decide that, on balance, my time coaching Facebook is over. It was only ever about – as Joe Schmidt said – putting a first line down on my CV. I’m actually on the point of joining the referee in The Bridge when I notice Oisinn rush onto the field of play to try to separate Magnus from Peter Stringer with Hair.
Yeah, no, they’re now rolling around on the ground and Magnus is going, ‘Fashebook ish the besht!’ while Peter Stringer with Hair is going, ‘Google is best! By a mile!’
Oisinn somehow manages to drag Magnus off the dude before he kills him. He’s like, ‘What the fock are you doing?’
But Magnus goes, ‘Perhapsh I musht ashk you what the fuck you are doing!’
Oisinn just shakes his head. It’s like he doesn’t even recognize the man he’s married to any more. ‘Magnus,’ he goes, ‘you’re fighting over which American multinational tech company is the best! What the fock is happening to you?’
And Magnus goes, ‘I might alsho ashk what the fock ish happening to you? I haff found shomewhere where I feel really valued. And let me tell you shomeshing, Oisinn – I don’t feel that way any more when I am around you.’
Oisinn looks about as hurt as I’ve ever seen him.
Schmidt Happens Page 28
