Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  He’s like, ‘Soddy?’

  ‘Okay, one night last week, Sorcha dragged me along to this feminist podcast live taping. I don’t know what she was thinking bringing me somewhere like that.’

  He doesn’t respond. He clearly wants more.

  ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘while I was there, I ran into Huguette and let’s just say that words were exchanged.’

  He’s there, ‘It was you, Rosser! It was you opent yisser bleaten mowt.’

  I’m there, ‘My biggest regret of that night, Ro, was not having a few pints before we went in there.’

  But he’s not ready to see things from my POV.

  He goes, ‘I should nebber hab listened to you, Rosser. If I’d nebber of listened to you, I’d be a happy madden today.’

  ‘I want to go to school!’ Brian goes.

  He literally says that. If I was a suspicious man, I’d be wondering is he one of Fionn’s as well?

  I’m there, ‘It’s, er, closed today, boys. It’s a holy day of obbledy-gobbledy.’

  Which it’s not, of course. It’s, like, a regular Monday morning, but I can’t bring the boys to Little Cambridge because the two-week ultimatum that Sasha gave me is up.

  She ends up texting me when I don’t show up with them. She’s like, ‘U avoiding me?’

  And I text back, going, ‘Sory the boys r a bit sick this am, both ends, blah blah blah.’

  And then she texts me back and it’s like, ‘Remember our conversation, don’t come back here again unless the answer’s yes.’

  ‘Daddy,’ Leo goes, ‘why is the sky so low?’

  And I’m like, ‘It’s because we’re in Finglas, Leo. We’re going to visit your brother Ronan.’

  Five minutes later, I’m knocking on the door of Tina’s gaff. She answers. Still in her dressing gown. Ten o’clock in the morning. This time there’s no comment from me. I’m just laying out the facts for others to draw their own conclusions.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, Tina, is he here?’

  ‘No,’ she goes, ‘he’s not hee-or. Ine presuming he’s gone back howum.’

  I’m like, ‘What? Are you saying he’s back with Shadden?’

  ‘All’s I know is he toalt me last neet that taking relashiddenship advice from he’s fadder was the woorst mistake he ebber made in he’s life. Then I came from work this morden and all he’s clowuts was gone ourra the warthrobe.’

  ‘Fock.’

  I jump back in the cor and I point it in the direction of his gaff.

  Five minutes later, I’m banging on his door – literally, because there’s no actual knocker. The letter box has been blocked up to stop the local kids putting bangers through it.

  Shadden answers. I can’t say whether she’s wearing day clothes or night clothes because around here it’s not always easy to tell. I don’t bring it up with her.

  I just go, ‘Where’s Ro?’

  She’s like, ‘He dudn’t wanth to thalk to you, Rosser.’

  I’m there, ‘Don’t give me that,’ and I push past her into the gaff. ‘He’s my son.’

  Ronan’s sitting at the kitchen table, finishing his breakfast – yeah, no, he’s stubbing it into the ashtray when I walk into the kitchen. We look at each other through a fog of John Player Blue smoke. He doesn’t say shit. I suddenly spot what I think is Rihanna-Brogan sitting next to him. Like I said, it’s pretty hord to see anything.

  She goes, ‘Hi, Rosser!’

  And I’m like, ‘Hey, Rihanna-Brogan – how the hell are you?’

  Ronan’s there, ‘Rihatta-Barrogan, lub, why doatunt you go up to yizzer roowum and watch a birra teddy while I thalk to me auld fedda?’

  She goes, ‘Okay, Dad. Mustard,’ and then off she focks.

  I’m there, ‘Ro, look, I’m sorry for sort of accidentally landing you in it.’

  He’s there, ‘You ditn’t sort ob accidentoddy land me in it, Rosser. You opent your bleaten mowt and sold me down the ribber.’

  ‘Down the –’

  ‘Ribber.’

  ‘Got it. River.’

  ‘And now I caddent go back to coddidge in Septembor cos I’d hab to face one of Huguette’s heardons.’

  ‘You won’t, Ro. I’ll fix it.’

  ‘You’ve dud enough, Rosser.’

  ‘Leave it to me. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid in the meantime. Like getting back with Shadden. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought I’d done something to push you back into the orms of her and her scumbag family. No offence, Shadden.’

  Shadden just glowers at me. It reminds me of the look Sorcha gave me once when I let another girl’s name slip while we were having sex. It’s, like, pure hatred.

  I’m there, ‘I’m just making the point that he can do better.’

  Ronan goes, ‘Gerrout, Rosser.’

  ‘Just guarantee me that you won’t do anything rash until I at least try to fix this thing?’

  But he just roars at me then. He’s like, ‘I said gerrout!’

  So I end up leaving. I tip back to the cor and get the fock out of the old Costa del Fingal as fast my Goodyears can carry me.

  Despite my promise to fix the mess that – let’s be honest here – I helped create, I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do next. I get back onto the M50 and I drive as far as Dundrum Town Centre. I pull into the cor pork.

  ‘Daddy,’ Johnny goes, ‘can we go to McDonald’s?’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah, just give me a second, Johnny,’ because an idea is suddenly forming in my mind.

  I whip out my phone and I ring Joe Schmidt’s number, then I leave the phone on the seat beside me. A second or two later, I hear him answer. He’s like, ‘Helloy? HELLOY?’

  And I’m there, ‘So what are you going to have in McDonald’s, goys?’

  And they’re all like, ‘Big Mac! Quarter Pounder! Nuggets!’

  And in the background I can still hear Joe going, ‘HELLOY? HELLOY?’

  I’m like, ‘Who’s that? Can anyone else hear that? Hang on, I think it’s my phone.’

  I pick it up. I’m like, ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

  He goes, ‘Ut’s Joe Schmudt – yoy rang moy, Moyte.’

  ‘Sorry, Dude. I must have accidentally orse-dialled you.’

  ‘Not a problem – goodboy.’

  I’m like, ‘Wait! Don’t hang up! This is Ross O’Carroll-Kelly!’

  He goes, ‘Whoy?’

  Seriously? And they say this man has a memory like focking Santa Claus?

  I’m there, ‘Ross O’Carroll-Kelly? As in, my daughter wrote you a letter and then sent you my famous Rugby Tactics Book, which I wouldn’t mind getting back at some stage?’

  ‘Oy’ve just funished royding ut,’ he goes.

  I’m like, ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, Oy oynloy flucked throy ut before. But Oy’ve just had a chince to royd ut from cover to cover.’

  He sort of, like, chuckles to himself then. He goes, ‘Yoy’ve royloy got ut un for Warren Gitland, doyn’t yoy?’

  I’m there, ‘Does that come across?’

  ‘Just a little! Some of the comments yoy’ve wrutten abaaht hum un the maahgins!’

  ‘Yeah, no, there’s history there.’

  ‘Yoy’ve wrutten something abaaht hum on pretty much evroy poyge.’

  ‘The mad thing is, Joe, if he walked into Kielys tonight, I’d be the first one buying him a drink. I’m tempted to say that’s rugby.’

  ‘Oy was looking at what yoy wroyte before the England mitch. When we lost Joymoy Hoyslup, yoy rickoned Oy should’ve put Poyter O’Mihony in ut number oyt?’

  ‘I just thought he could do a lot of damage if you played him there.’

  ‘Well, thit’s what Oy dud doy.’

  ‘I know. For me, he was man of the match.’

  ‘Un a lot of woys, yoy and Oy thunk very similarloy abaaht the goym.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I go – and I can hear my voice crack.

  He’s there, ‘Not abaaht Warren, thoy. Oy’m very fond of the
goy.’

  ‘Just to let you know, you’ve just literally made my life by saying what you said to me a second ago.’

  ‘Moyd your loyf? What doy yoy moyn?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Look, Joe, can I admit something to you?’

  ‘Yeah, what us ut?’

  ‘Do you remember I told you I was coaching a team? I was talking shit. It was actually a tag rugby team I was coaching.’

  ‘Teg rugboy?’

  ‘You don’t have to say it, Dude, I already know. Don’t worry, though, I quit after one match. I have another confession to make. I didn’t accidentally orse-dial you just now. I rang you on purpose.’

  ‘Okoy. Whoy?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re just so, like, wise or something. You’re like Father Fehily, Mister Miyagi and Yoda all rolled into one.’

  He laughs. He seems to find me funny even though he can’t remember my name ten seconds after he last spoke to me.

  I’m there, ‘The thing is, Dude, my life is a bit all over the place at the moment and I just like hearing your voice. That’s not me being weird. I just find it very soothing.’

  He chuckles at this. Then he says the most incredible thing. He goes, ‘Loyfe us loyk rugboy un a lot of woys, Ross. Ut’s just a seeroys of moyves, all of them connicted. Toyk keer of yoursilf, Moyte.’

  Then he hangs up on me.

  I’m sitting there in the cor thinking about what he said. Life is a series of moves. And suddenly – just like that – the answer comes to me. I know exactly what I’m going to do. And I’m going to do it right after I take the boys to McDonald’s.

  Sorcha is in the Shomera when we arrive home, still gabbing away with her old man. When he sees me, he goes, ‘Oh, there he is! You must be very proud of your father, are you?’

  There’s things I could say but I choose not to.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘More emails have been leaked this morning, Ross. It turns out that Leo Varadkar was also thinking about pulling out of the Confidence and Supply agreement. He said Micheál Mortin has a chip on his shoulder because he got an average Leaving Cert, which is how he ended becoming a school teacher and not studying Medicine in Trinity like him. Micheál Mortin has issued a statement saying he actually got a reasonably good Leaving Certificate, but now Simon Coveney has challenged him to produce his results. The Fianna Fáil porliamentary porty are meeting tonight, Ross! They’ve all been told to return from their holidays!’

  ‘There’s still time to stop it.’

  ‘Dad thinks I should request a return of the Seanad, then make a personal statement under Oireachtas privilege detailing how your dad has been colluding with Russian interests to undermine our democracy and make himself Taoiseach.’

  ‘It’ll sound better coming from me, Sorcha.’

  Her old man laughs. ‘Of course it will!’ he goes. ‘The man who heard his father talking openly about reading the private emails of members of the Cabinet and the opposition front bench and didn’t think to mention it to a soul!’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Dad, can we just hear what Ross has to say? He’s still an actual witness, even though he didn’t really understand what was going on.’

  I’m there, ‘Thanks, Sorcha. What I was going to suggest was that I make the statement?’

  ‘How can you, Ross? You’re not a member of Seanad Éireann!’

  She still thinks that’s something to brag about. She definitely slipped into the Mary Robinson voice when she said it as well.

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I was going to make the statement to Muirgheal. On her feminist podcast.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Oh my God, Muirgheal hates Chorles!’

  Hey, I’m not too wild about him any more either. And this is my chance to settle a lot of scores. Him and the old dear having a rake of kids to try to replace me. That shit he said about wanting a son who played rugby for Ireland. Him and his Russian mates burning down Erika’s gallery and driving her away to Australia.

  Yeah, no, he’s had it coming ever since he put that stupid wig on his head. It’s time that someone destroyed him once and for all.

  I’m like, ‘It’ll definitely mean more coming from me, Sorcha.’

  But her old man goes, ‘I still think you should request that the Seanad be recalled. This is the kind of watershed moment in our history that you want to be associated with, Dorling.’

  But Sorcha goes, ‘They’re not going to recall the Seanad, Dad, just because one of Enda Kenny’s nominees wants to say something. They’re all getting ready for a General Election.’

  I’m there, ‘Ignore him, Sorcha. We’re wasting time here. Let’s go and find Muirgheal. Come on, I’ve got the boys in the cor.’

  She’s like, ‘In the cor? Why aren’t they in Montessori?’

  ‘Yeah, no, let’s deal with one problem at a time, will we?’

  Ten minutes later, we’re in the cor and we’re heading for town. Sorcha manages to get Muirgheal on the phone. She’s having lunch – happy focking days – with Croía in the Pig’s Ear on Nassau Street. We throw the cor into Merrion Square, then we run all the way there – Sorcha carrying Johnny, me carrying Leo and Brian.

  Up the stairs we go, then over to the table where the two of them are sitting.

  ‘Eugh!’ Croía goes when she sees me and the boys. ‘I suddenly can’t taste my Pot Roast Cauliflower for the overwhelming stench of testosterone in here.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Please, Croía! Believe it or not, Ross has something to say that’s actually in the national interest?’

  Yeah, no, it’s a definite first, I admit.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Croía goes, ‘is it the names of more girls his asshole son slept with behind my niece’s back?’

  ‘My old man hacked Leo Varadkar’s emails,’ I go. ‘And Micheál Mortin’s. And basically everyone else’s in the Dáil.’

  Oh, that rocks them back on their heels.

  ‘He doesn’t know about the Seanad,’ Sorcha goes.

  I do, though. I think, deep down, we all know.

  Muirgheal goes, ‘How do you know about this?’

  I’m there, ‘Because I was there in his office when he was talking about it. He’s got some dude working for him called Fyodor, although it’s his bosses in Russia who are pulling the old man’s strings.’

  ‘Russia?’

  ‘Yeah, no, he’s got all these dodgy business interests over there. It’s all connected to this, like, foundation that my old dear set up – so-called.’

  ‘Erika was looking into it,’ Sorcha goes, ‘before she went to Australia. She said he was basically pre-selling all of Ireland’s natural resources in expectation of becoming Taoiseach one day. And they were using Fionnuala’s foundation as a front to launder the money.’

  That definitely shocks Muirgheal. She goes, ‘Sorcha, why didn’t you bring this up in the Seanad?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Yeah, I was actually on maternity leave, Muirgheal? Plus, I didn’t think he was ever going to be the Taoiseach.’

  Croía goes, ‘We can’t let that misogynist asshole become the leader of the country.’

  I’m like, ‘None taken.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Ross is prepared to go on the record about what his dad has been doing, Muirgheal – if you want to interview him for your podcast?’

  Muirgheal’s face lights up. And why wouldn’t it?

  ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘this is a chance to finish Charles O’Carroll-Kelly off once and for all.’

  And that’s when Croía suddenly reads the look on my face. ‘He wants something,’ she goes. ‘Something in return.’

  No one ever said Croía was stupid. Just focking irritating.

  I’m there, ‘It’s quite small, you’ll be happy to hear. I’ll give you the goods on my old man – everything you need to bring him down – but first, Croía, you need to call off Huguette.’

  Croía goes, ‘What do you mean by call her off?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. She’s put the Students�
�� Union on Ronan’s case for sharing some video on Facebook that was hilarious but also supposedly racist. He’s been chorged.’

  Croía smiles. You can see that she admires her niece – probably reminds her a lot of herself.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ she goes. ‘I’ll get her to drop the chorges.’

  I turn around to Muirgheal. ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘you’ve got yourself an interview.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, I’ll drive the boys home. I might actually ring Erika later on to find out what else she remembers. I think she said your dad was selling off Ireland’s gas, petroleum and peat reserves, as well as our forests.’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, you go and do that. And I’ll see you later, Babes.’

  At the mention of the B word, I can see that Croía wants to stick her thumbs in my eyes.

  I’m there, ‘Okay, Muirgheal, let’s do this interview. I’ve got a lot of shit to get off my chest.’

  Muirgheal books a room in Buswells on Molesworth Street. The interview lasts for four hours and she barely gets a word in edgeways except when I stray off-topic.

  ‘Why do you always end up talking about your mother?’ she goes. ‘I don’t give a fock if she was cold and withholding when you were a child. It’s Charles I’m interested in.’

  So I tell her everything. About how the old man has all these dodgy Russian interests who want to buy up our – quoting Sorcha – natural resources. About the – again – Russian dudes working out of Hennessy’s building and how I overheard them talking about hacking the email accounts of everyone in the Dáil. I mention the Seanad as well – just to throw Sorcha a bone. I mention my old dear’s trips to Russia and her supposedly charitable foundation and how it’s apparently dodgy as fock. I mention my sister, Erika, and how she found out a lot of this shit but all the evidence she gathered was stolen and her ort gallery was mysteriously burned to the ground.

  I mention the six women that my old pair are using as hosts for their babies and the way the old dear treats them. I mention all the plastic surgeries she’s had, how much she drinks in an average morning and how the plots for her books were all ripped off from other writers.

  It’s, like, seven o’clock in the evening when I finish and I’m absolutely wrecked from talking.

  Muirgheal thanks me. ‘Weird as it sounds,’ she goes, ‘I think you’ve actually done an amazing thing for the country today.’