The Phoenix Pork is absolutely rammers, by the way. Someone says that as many as one hundred thousand people might have come to hear what my old man has to say on the last Sunday before the actual election.
I go, ‘I need to talk to him.’
And Kennet’s there, ‘He d … d … d … d … dudn’t wanth to see addy wooden, Rosser. He’s throying to s … s … s … sabe he’s voice for he’s sp … sp … sp … spee-itch.’
I go, ‘How about I tell Dordeen that I saw you and her sister going at it like porn stors in my old man’s cor?’
He’s like, ‘’M …’M …’M …’Mon this way, so,’ and he leads me through the throng of porty workers and hangers-on to the old man’s trailer. I bang the door with my fist and the door opens. It’s Hennessy. ‘He’s not seeing anyone,’ he tries to go. ‘He’s saving his voice.’
But I just push past him. Saving his voice? That’s a joke. He’s smoking a cigor the size of Keith Earls and, at the top of his voice, he’s telling Fyodor about the time he shook the hand of Greg Norman – ‘the Great White Shork himself!’ – at Mount Juliet in 1995, just before Greg told him to get the fock off the fairway.
He spots me and goes, ‘Kicker! Just reminiscing about the good old days – quote-unquote! So you’ve come to hear your old dad make the speech that’s going to decide the election, have you?’
I’m there, ‘No, I’ve come to talk to you about the old dear.’
It’s the fact that I call her the ‘old dear’ – and not, for example, ‘that ugly, refuse sack of Botox, bitterness and animal organs that you for some reason married’ – that convinces him that this is serious.
He goes, ‘Okay, clear the room, people, while I speak to the famous Ross for a moment!’
When everyone has gone, I turn around to him and go, ‘You’ve got to stop her before it’s too late!’
He’s like, ‘Too late? What on Earth are you talking about, Kicker?’
‘You can’t let her bring six babies into the world. She’s only doing it to get back at me for letting her choke on that olive.’
‘I’m afraid the proverbial die has been cast, Kicker! Each of the girls is with child as it were! There’s no turning back now!’
‘You could let them go.’
‘Let them go? Good Lord!’
‘I mean, you could buy them each a plane ticket and send them back to –’
‘Chis¸ina˘u!’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘But they’re carrying your brothers and/or sisters, Kicker!’
‘Just because we have the same mother and father doesn’t make us brothers and sisters.’
There’s a knock on the door. Hennessy sticks his head around it and goes, ‘Charlie, it’s time!’
The old man stands up. He goes, ‘I’m sorry to cut our little tête-à-tête short, Ross! I have a General Election to win!’
He walks out of the trailer and through the VIP area towards the makeshift stage. I spot the old dear, surrounded by her surrogates. The old man hugs and kisses her and she whispers something in his ear. Then – un-focking-believable – he kisses the bellies of each of the surrogates, presumably for luck, then he walks up the steps to the stage.
I hear his name announced by, I don’t know, whoever. It’s just like, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m proud to introduce to you … to the next Taoiseach … Charles … O’Carroll … Kelly!’
There’s, like, a roar from the crowd – and – yeah, no – it is deafening – as the old man steps out onto the stage.
He’s there, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I will be brief – although not quite as brief as Leo Varadkar’s time in office!’
There’s, like, howls of laughter from the crowd, then a round of applause that goes on for a good thirty seconds.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he goes, ‘in the coming week, the voters of this country will have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do something that is truly revolutionary! We have a chance to boot out the career politicians who have helped turn this country into a vassal state! We have a chance to remove from office those politicians who stood around like eunuchs in a proverbial harem while unelected bureaucrats with cross faces told you, the people of Ireland, that you would have to cover billions and billions of euros’ worth of debt that had nothing whatsoever to do with you! Because your children, and your children’s children, and twenty generations of children yet unborn, will be paying for the greed of rich men and the incompetence of politicians who were elected to represent you but don’t represent you at all!’
People stort booing.
‘You’re angry!’ the old man goes. ‘And you’re bloody well right to be angry! You’ve lived through a decade of – inverted commas – austerity! And what was it all for! It was the price they decided you should pay to remain part of a club that doesn’t care a bloody well jot about you – that would sell this country out at the first opportunity! And meanwhile, across the water, we see our wonderful friends, the good people of Great Britain, doing what we should have done ten years ago – standing up to the tyranny of Brussels in the same way they stood up to the tyranny of a certain Adolf Hitler! And this time, I say, let us be on the right side of history! This time, let us stand with them!’
There’s, like, a huge roar of approval from the crowd. And that’s when I see it in the distance, rising slowly from the ground – a blimp that looks, it has to be said, exactly like my old man.
He must see it as well, but he tries not to let it put him off his speech.
He goes, ‘Unfortunately, we, in this country, do not have leaders of courage! We do not have leaders of substance! We have Varadkar! And Coveney! And Murphy! And Harris! The smartest boys in the Sixth Year Common Room! We have a Taoiseach who admires people who get up early in the morning, remember, to ensure we all keep chipping away at that debt burden like good little Europeans!’
The blimp storts to rise and suddenly it’s blocking out the sun and casting a humungous shadow over the crowd. People are turning around and booing. There’s, like, definite anger in the air.
The old man goes, ‘And this is what happens, ladies and gentleman, when you challenge the authority of our smug, privately educated, ruling elite! Instead of answering your arguments, they try to ridicule you for having the courage to think differently from them!’
Behind me, I hear Fyodor go, ‘Where is my gun?’
‘We must not let them win!’ the old man goes. ‘We! Must! Not! Let! Them! Win!’
Kennet sidles up to me then and he says the most random thing. He goes, ‘Sh … Sh … Sh … Sh … Shadden and Ronan seem to be habbon the t … t … t … t … t … toyum of their loyuvs, Rosser!’
I turn around to him and I go, ‘What are you shitting about?’
‘Thee weddent away, thee did. D … D … D … D … Did Ronan not ted you?’
‘No, he didn’t ted me. Where the fock have they gone?’
‘Thee weddent to V … V … V … V … V … Vegas. With Rihatta-Barrogan – a p … p … p … p … proper famidy hodiday, wha? And alls Ine saying is thee l … l … l … l … looked veddy lubbed up in the ph … ph … ph … phoros that Shadden purrup on the F … F … F … F … Facebuke. Dordeen says to me sh … sh … sh … she wootunt be surproyzed if thee kem back m … m … m … m … maddied!’
That’s when I hear a loud bang like a gunshot. I look over my right shoulder and I see Fyodor lowering a rifle. There’s, like, screams in the crowd.
The old man goes, ‘Don’t be alarmed, people, this man is here for our protection!’
It turns out the dude missed the blimp but ended up hitting the rope that was, like, tethering it to the ground. Because suddenly the thing lifts off and storts blowing across the pork, sending screaming people scattering for cover. The entire crowd turns and watches in absolute horror as this ginormous, Chorles O’Carroll-Kelly-shaped balloon sweeps over the tops of the trees and towards Áras an actual Uachtaráin.
The old man’s there,
‘This is what they do, my friends, to people who disagree with their agenda! They try to sabotage them! They try to silence them! Good God, I can only hope, for his sake, that poor President Higgins isn’t home and looking out the window! Imagine the fright the poor chap will get if he sees that thing coming towards him! Doesn’t bear thinking about!’
‘They’re m … m … m … m … med for each utter,’ Kennet goes.
I’m like, ‘What?’
‘Shadden and Ronan. They’re a l … l … l … l … l … lubbly cupiddle. Bout t … t … t … toyum he made an hodest wooban ourrof her. And joost think ob it, Rosser – me and you and Ch … Ch … Ch … Ch … Ch … Cheerdles there will be famidy!’
There’s an enormous crash then, like the sound of a building collapsing. The Charles O’Carroll-Kelly blimp has crashed into the front of the Áras, sending bricks and slates raining down on the lawn below.
The old man goes, ‘They must not – they will not – be allowed to silence our movement!’
And then the crowd bursts into a chant of, ‘CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach!’
Sorcha asks me if I’ve voted yet, even though I’ve actually never voted – as in, like, ever? Seriously, after twenty years together, sometimes it’s like we’ve never even been introduced.
‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I’m, er, hoping to get out to do it at some stage.’
This is us in the kitchen, by the way. The boys are playing quietly with their Lego on the floor. They’re very focking wary of their mother all of a sudden.
She’s there, ‘Because this is an important election, Ross. Possibly the most important? As my dad was just saying, this is the one that will decide whether we remain port of Europe or disappear down the same – oh my God – rabbit hole as Britain and the States.’
I’m like, ‘I noticed this morning that we were out of Heineken. Yeah, no, I might vote on the way back from the off-licence.’
I don’t even know where I’m supposed to do it? And aren’t you supposed to be, like, registered or some shit?
I’m there, ‘Are you looking forward to seeing Honor?’
She’s arriving home tomorrow, by the way.
She goes, ‘I am, Ross. I know you might not believe me, but I actually am?’
I’m there, ‘And you definitely think that not telling her the truth about what happened to Hillary is the right way to go?’
‘She would never, ever forgive me, Ross.’
‘Yeah, you’re, er, probably right there.’
‘This way we at least have a chance to stort over again. I think the break from each other might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to us. It gives us a chance to reboot our relationship – to be the best friends that I’ve always dreamt we would be?’
Yeah, good luck with that, I think.
I knock back the last of my coffee while she checks the news on her phone.
‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘Muirgheal, Croía and her niece have been arrested and chorged with causing a million euros’ worth of damage to the roof of the Áras.’
I’m there, ‘I’m not surprised. Three dopes.’
‘And endangering the lives of the public. That’s, like, oh my God! It says here that when chorged, Croía refused to accept the validity of the chorge until it was put to her by a Bean Gorda. When a Bean Gorda put the chorge to her, she accused her of being a hapless stooge for a patriarchal organization that oppresses women and the right to free speech and freedom of expression.’
‘Hilarious.’
‘I’d say that’s Muirgheal’s seat probably gone as well.’
‘Well,’ I go, standing up, ‘I can’t say I feel sorry for either of them. Is Fionn finished packing up all his shit, by the way?’
She’s there, ‘Ross, please don’t gloat. He’s upset enough as it is.’
‘I’m going to go out and grab that Heineken. It’s a day of celebration.’
‘Don’t forget to vote on the way back.’
‘Yeah, no, I’ll go with the flow, Babes, and see what happens.’
All of Fionn’s shit is piled up in boxes in the hallway, waiting for him to put it into his cor. He’s standing there and he’s saying his final farewells to Hillary. He’s looking into the little lad’s eyes and you can tell he’s trying his best not to cry. He’s going, ‘I won’t be here any more, Hillary, but I won’t be very far away either. And I’ll come and visit you all the time.’
And I’m like, ‘Yeah, make sure and ring ahead first, Fionn,’ as I walk past them, then as I’m going out the front door I stort singing Paul Brady’s ‘The Long Goodbye’.
I get into the cor. I feel actually good. I’m just about to stort the engine when my phone suddenly rings. I check my caller ID and I notice that it’s Joe Schmidt. I answer and there’s, like, five seconds of silence on the other end.
‘Joe,’ I shout, ‘you’ve orse-dialled me again!’
Then I hear his voice – God, it’s like honey – go, ‘Nah, Oy actually mint toy ring yoy thus toym, Ross! How are yoy goying?’
I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, no, cool.’
‘Oy just wanted toy sind yoy back your Rugboy Tictucs Book.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Oy wanted toy git your addriss.’
‘It’s Honalee, Vico Road, Killiney, County Dublin.’
‘Got ut. Boy the woy, that mooyve on poyge eight – yoy knoy the one Oy moyn?’
I’m there, ‘The one I designed for Garry Ringrose and Jordan Larmour?’
‘That’s ut. That was prutty smaaht.’
‘Do you think?’
‘Oy moyn royloy, royloy smaaht. Ross, Oy hoype yoy doyn’t moynd but Oy talked toy one or toy poyple abaaht yoy.’
‘Haters gonna hate, Joe. Was one of them your mate Gatland?’
‘When are yoy gonna give yourself some cridit? Yoy’ve got all thoyse great oydeas abaaht the goym and yoy’re doying nothing wuth them. All because yoy’ve got some koynd of chup on your shoulder.’
‘Some of kind of –?’
‘Chup.’
‘I thought that’s what you said. You were talking to Gatland then.’
‘Look, Oy’m gonna sind yoy a tixt missage in a few munnets. It’s just the noyms and numbers of a few contacts of moyn – AIL, one of toy Linster schools – whoy could use a coych with frish oydeas.’
I swear to fock, I suddenly feel like nearly crying.
I’m there, ‘Why are you doing this?’ because I honestly can’t remember the last time anyone was this nice to me.
He goes, ‘Because Oy think your daughter’s royt – Oy think yoy’ve royloy got something. Nah, just ring thoyse numbers Oy’m sinding yoy. And lit thus boy the staaht of something, okoy?’
I tell him it will. We both hang up. And then about twenty seconds later, my phone beeps and it’s a text message. I look at the names. DLSP. Old Belvedere. Newpork Comprehensive. Gorey Community School. Pres Bray.
I actually have a little chuckle to myself thinking about what Father Fehily would say if he knew I was thinking of coaching Pres Bray. And then it suddenly hits me. I’m thinking about Father Fehily and all these memories from my schooldays come suddenly flooding back. I’m remembering one time, against St Mary’s, Fionn taking an unbelievably hord hit just so he could play a pass to me at exactly the right moment for me to score a try. I’m remembering him another time throwing himself into the middle of a group of Terenure players who objected to me flashing my sixpack at their supporters and taking a punch in the face for me. I’m remembering him another time trying to give me grinds the night before we sat Leaving Cert Maths Paper I and explaining everything to me without ever losing his patience, even though nothing actually went into my head in the end.
I stare at the door of the house and I think, ‘What the fock have you become, Rossmeister?’
I get out of the cor and I walk back to the house. I let myself in. Fionn looks at me. He’s got, like, tears str
eaming down his face as he says his last goodbyes to Hillary.
‘Pick up all your focking shit,’ I go, ‘and put it back upstairs.’
He’s like, ‘What?’
I’m there, ‘I’m going to end up tripping over it and breaking my focking neck. Then I’d be no use to any club. Put it back upstairs. In your room.’
Sorcha comes out of the kitchen. She goes, ‘Oh! My God!’
Fionn’s there, ‘Are you saying –?’
‘I’m saying you can stay,’ I go. ‘I’m saying you don’t have to move out – if you don’t want to.’
He’s in shock.
He goes, ‘What changed your mind?’
I’m there, ‘The short answer is rugby.’
‘Jesus, Ross.’
‘The long answer is that I’ve just spent the entire summer separated from my daughter and I’ve missed her more than I have the words to say. And I wouldn’t want to think of anyone else going through what I just went through – even you, Fionn.’
He goes, ‘That’s very decent of you – considering.’
We’re just, like, staring hord at each other.
Sorcha’s there, ‘What about my mom and dad, Ross?’
I don’t take my eyes off Fionn. I’m there, ‘I didn’t play rugby with your mom and dad, Sorcha.’
And she knows just to leave it at that.
I bend down and I pick up a box. It’s got, like, a mobile inside with what I’m presuming are all the planets in the – I think it’s the right word – but sonar system?
‘Come on,’ I go, ‘let’s get all this focking junk back up to your room.’
The same words keep getting used. Stunning. Shocking. Staggering. Chorles O’Carroll-Kelly’s New Republic are on course to win an overall majority as counting continues in twelve constituencies and it’s all anyone in the country seems to be talking about.
People are walking through the doors of Arrivals, having obviously read the news on their phones, and they’re hugging loved ones and going, ‘Is this for real?’ and ‘He’s a Fascist lunatic.’
You’d genuinely have to wonder who actually voted for him because no one seems to be admitting it.
I’m looking up at the little monitor.
Schmidt Happens Page 38
