Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

“So, anyway, I tee’d off,” the old man goes, loving the sound of his own voice, “and of course I managed to slice the bloody-well ball and, well, naturally enough, it ended up in the lake!”

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JP looks well – even though I don’t know what to call him any more? I’m like, “So how are things – I don’t know – Father?” He actually laughs at that? He’s there, “Ross, you don’t have to call me Father.” I’m like, “What do I call you then?” because it’s my first time seeing the dude since he finished his studies to become an actual priest.

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I think I’m on the record as saying that being a parent is one of those things that I just happen to be very, very good at without having to put any actual effort into it. Even allowing for that, at the end of a long, hot summer, just like the rest of you, I’m absolutely sick of the sight of my children and I’m glad they’re now someone else’s problem until the end of October. 

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Hennessy is grinning like a dog trying to pass a laundry ball through its urinary tract. Yeah, no, for five days now, me and Bernie from Bray of all places have been – in fairness – texting each other, and the dude is reading through the exchanges, some of which are pretty, it might be a word, explicit?

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Hennessy actually laughs when he sees me sitting at the bor with a pint of the old Dutch medicine in front of me. He’s like, “What the hell are you doing here?”

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Everybody knows about the Dalkey Lobster Festival. It’s coming up in, like, two weeks’ time, and Sorcha is already practising her walk and wave for the Parade of Lobster Queens Past, wearing the sash and crown that she’s held onto ever since her victory in 2008, at the stort of the crash, on a platform of, I want to say, hope?

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All of Ronan’s old mates are there. We’re talking Buckets of Blood. We’re talking Stacks of Money. We’re talking Nudger. We’re talking Gull. It’s actually Stacks of Money who sidles up to me as I’m watching Ronan across the room, chatting to Paul Reynolds from RTÉ.

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The old man looks wretched. I say it to him as well. I’m like, “You look focking wretched – worse than usual"

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“The fock is going on here?” I go. Because – yeah, no – I’ve arrived home to find my wife, my four sons and my in-laws sitting in front of the TV watching, quite literally, a soccer match? My reaction is basically the same as it would be if I arrived home to find Sorcha in bed with Russell Crowe.

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So me and Ronan swing out to – believe it or not – Bray, just to see how my old man is getting on. I’ve a bet with him that he won’t last the summer living out there and I like to check on my investment from time to time.

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I absolutely despise Christian’s wife, Lauren. I say it as well. Not to her face obviously. Sorcha goes, “Ross, you shouldn’t despise anyone.” This coming from the girl who refuses to watch anything with Jake Gyllenhaal in it because he broke Taylor Swift’s hort a life sentence ago.

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So the latest “thing” in our house is the Swedish death clean. For those of you who aren’tmarried to Sorcha Lalor, this is a decluttering method that’s meant to spare your loved ones the trouble of sorting through your shit after you’ve dropped the mic.

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The old man says he thinks he might not live long enough to see Leinster win the European Cup again. I tell him I’m only 46 years old and I’m storting to feel the same way.

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Sorcha says she’s – oh my God – so excited about Saturday and I tell her I am too. She goes, “These are the moments, aren’t they?” Which is random because she’s hasn’t shown the slightest flicker of interest in rugby since she thought Rob Kearney gave her a smile and a wave at Taste of Dublin the year before the pandemic and I didn’t have the hort to tell her that he was smiling and waving at me.

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So what do you think? Yeah, no, Nicola – as in, like, Honor’s girlfriend – is showing me a watch that she bought from, like, Tiffany of all places? It must be, like, a grand’s worth.

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The old man asks me if I’ve been boning up on my Spanish ahead of the trip to Bilbao. I’m like, “Is that where Bilbao is? In Spain?” I honestly think I learned more from rugby than I ever did at school.

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So I’m in the gym and I’m bench-pressing, I don’t know, something ridiculous, when all of a sudden there’s someone standing over me and – yeah, no – they’re, like, talking to me? I take out the old AirPods and sit up and it ends up being Nicola, as in, like, Honor’s new – in fairness – girlfriend. 

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The old man is sitting in the corner of what was once Shanahan’s on the Green, sucking on a Cohiba the size of a Daihatsu exhaust. 

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Sorcha asks me how I’m feeling and I tell her I’m in scintillating form – especially after the win over Sale yesterday. I’m half-thinking of doing my joke about having a semi to look forward to – but then I think better of it.

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“Come in,” she goes.

This is Bernie I’m quoting – word for word, by the way – as in, like, Bernie the mother of Claire from, like, Brayof all places?

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“Stop!” Sorcha goes. Yeah, no, we’re driving through Donnybrook at the time. I generally slow down anyway as we’re passing the spot where Kielys once stood, just to make the sign of the cross on myself. Except Sorcha is looking past me at the other side of the road?

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The airport is absolutely rammers and I’m in – it has to be said – scintillating form, so much so that Sorcha actually remorks on it.

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I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is actually happening? Yeah, no, you always try to think about worst case scenarios in your head – just so you have a plan in case something goes wrong – but this is beyond my, literally, worst nightmares.

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This is me in my – yeah, no – absolute happy place. Castlerock College jersey with the collar popped. Rugby Tactics Book under my orm. The match against Blackrock College is just four days away and I have a plan to beat them. 

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So it’s, like, 11 o’clock on Sunday morning and I’m hord at work – albeit still in bed – making notes in my famous Rugby Tactics Book. Sorcha walks into the room and goes, “Get dressed, Ross. We’re going out for lunch.”

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“Kicker!” the old man has the actual nerve to go. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

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Sorcha says this is the worst thing I’ve ever done. And it’s far from it. I could give her a list of 50 things, except I doubt if it would help my cause.

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There’s no sugar-coating this one. We’ve been taken to the literally cleaners today. Yeah, no, beaten 45-10 by – and there’s easy way of saying this – Wesley College, the same Wesley College who haven’t won a Leinster Schools Senior Cup since the world was in pretty much black and white.

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I’m like, “A what?” And Honor goes, “A double date. It’s cute.” I’m there, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Claire from Bray of all places–”

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Joy Felton – yeah, no, one of our neighbours – is standing at the front gates as I swing the cor into the driveway and she nearly ends up with the BMW logo imprinted backwards across her, I want to say, midriff?

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A Prius pulls up at the next pump, just as I’m imagining what topics my pep talk would touch on, and suddenly I hear the driver say my name. She’s like, “Ross!”

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So – yeah, no – I’m in the staffroom and I’m chatting to one or two teachers about the Leinster match against La Rochelle: Miss Casey, who teaches something-or-other, and Miss Nealon, who teaches, I don’t know, something else.

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I’m packing away the last of the Christmas bits and – yeah, no – I’m throwing out the Advent calendar that someone sent me obviously as a joke. It’s a Blackrock College Advent calendar – which is the same as a regular Advent calendar, except that your daddy opens all of the doors for you!

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“Okay,” I go, “today we’re going to work on one or two moves from this sacred text,” and I show the players my famous Rugby Tactics Book.

There are no gasps from the kids, even though there are a lot of rugby coaches out there who would kill to get their hands on it.

Yeah, no, they all just roll their eyes, probably pissed off at being asked to train in Herbert Pork on New Year’s Day....

irishtimes.com

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Sorcha’s old dear has a scream on her like Wayne Bornes’s whistle. Sorcha’s old man is like, “What in the name of God?” and we all rush into the living room – we’re talking me, Sorcha and, like I said, her old man – to see her standing there with the famous Elf on the Shelf in her hand.

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“Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo,” Sorcha goes – and not for the first time since we left Dublin. “Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo.” And I’m there, “Don’t worry – I’ll, em, let you know when that gets annoying.” She goes, “I’m doing my vocal exercises, Ross. This is a huge night for us.”

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The old man says he doesn’t think he’ll bother with Christmas this year – “what with everything”. By which he means, what with it being the first one since the old dear – yeah, no – pegged it. Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Chorles, Fionnuala was such a Christmas person. She’d want you to celebrate it.”

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Sorcha is in her – literally? – element. She goes, “This is gorgeous, isn’t it?” This being the humungous Christmas morket in – believe it or not – Belfast. Honor’s there, “I still don’t understand what we’re even doing here?” And Sorcha’s like, “Honor, we may end up living in a united Ireland one day. And what do we know about our brothers and sisters from the North?” “They’re very angry,” Johnny goes.

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Ronan shows up at the front door wearing a Santa hat and a big smile. I’m there, “What are you, drunk?” because I’m aware that the Ireland soccer team had some kind of result at the weekend.

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Things have been a bit – yeah, no – strained between Christian and me ever since he got back with his ex-wife, Lauren. I told him straight out that he was Hertz Car Rental even thinking about going there again. But he asked her to marry him irregordless and then, in the first flush of their rediscovered love, she asked him – “tell me honestly, I won’t be angry” – what his friends thought of them getting hitched again and the dude snitched on me like a parrot with a megaphone.

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The front door slams and the entire orangerie – built without planning permission at the height of the Celtic Tiger – shakes to its foundations. Sorcha’s eyes meet mine. Ten seconds later we hear Honor’s bedroom door slam too and we both silently wonder whether the structure will stay standing for what’s left of our daughter’s teenage years.

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The room is absolutely rammers and I’m listening outside the door as various randomers talk s, h, one, t, about me and my famous coaching methods.

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There’s a meeting. That’s the big news of the day. I’m like, “What kind of a meeting?” And Fionn goes, “Ross, you’re not invited.”

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“Here, Rosser,” Ronan goes, pouring me a lorge glass of red, “get yisser laughing gear around that.”

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So – yeah, no – the kids are all standing around me in a semi-circle and they’re, like, hanging on my every word. And I’m in my absolute element, of course, going, “Today, I’m going to teach you guys a thing or two about passing this beautiful object,” showing them a rugby ball. “Now, can anyone here name some types of passes that we might use in rugby?”

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Sorcha is up to pretty much 90. It’s the night of Honor’s debs and we’re all waiting for her date, Iarlaith – yeah, no, a girl – to arrive. Sorcha’s old pair are here, as well as my old man, then 10 or 11 of Sorcha’s friends and half the Vico Road. 

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The street in front of the restaurant is absolutely rammers and I spot quite a few familiar faces – we’re talking former government ministers, we’re talking former High Court judges, we’re talking two or three former rugby internationals and one or two heads from RTÉ.

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Sorcha lets out a scream when she sees me. It reminds me of the time during the recession when her BT loyalty cord was downgraded from Platinum to Electrum. It’s, like, high-pitched and – yeah, no – blood-curdling?

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This is me in my absolute element. I’m there, “Rugby is a sport in which you travel forwards by going backwards, in which to succeed is to ‘try’ and in which the ball is shaped with the actual intention of breaking your hort.”

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Sorcha says she’s delighted for my old man. Yeah, no, as you may or may not have read in the pages of this paper, he and Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara have bought Shanahan’s on the Green and are planning to reopen it in, like, two weeks’ time.

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It’s finally here. A day I’ve dreamt about for, like, 12 years. Brian, Johnny and Leo are storting school in Castlerock College, where their old man famously went and his old man before him.

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“I remember when you got your Leaving Cert results,” Sorcha’s old man goes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of you, Dorling.”

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So – yeah, no – we’re in the cor, on the way to the airport, to collect Honor, who’s coming home from her Leaving Cert holiday in, believe it or not, Magaluf.

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So I’m walking around town with Ronan and – yeah, no – we’re playing a game we used to play when he was, like, eight years old: when we pass a shop or restaurant, he tells me whether it’s a real business or a money-laundering front.

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Sorcha tells Honor that she’s leaving it very late.

Honor’s like, “What are you talking about?”

And Sorcha goes, “I’m talking about the debs, Honor.”

Honor’s there, “Not this again,” and she’s right because her old is like a dog with a chew toy. 

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Sorcha says I can’t wear those.

And I’m like, “My Dubes? What’s wrong with my Dubes?”

She goes, “You can’t wear Dubes to a funeral, Ross. Put a pair of actual shoes on.”

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“Okay,” the old man goes, “here’s another one you, Kicker!” because – yeah, no – he’s written a book of his Fifty Years of Letters to The Irish Times, which Honor has helped pull together for him. “Listen to this one! Dear Madam. Whilst sorting through the vegetable tower in the kitchen the other morning, I discovered an oval-shaped tuber with a pale yellow flesh. Is this a record?”

No one laughs – except him, of course?

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The room is absolutely rammers and through the door I spot so many faces from the past. We’re talking Angela and Dermot from the campaign to move Funderland to the northside. We’re talking Ida and Clem from the campaign to stop the Luas from coming to Foxrock. We’re talking Lucy and Aednat from the campaign to stop poor people being allowed into the National Gallery.

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“What the fock?” Oisinn goes. “Are you serious?”

I’m there, “Oh, I’m serious all right. I’m as serious as – well, you know what.”

He goes, “A living funeral? Where did this idea even come from?"

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“He must have been in a fight last night,” Sorcha goes.

And – yeah, no – she’s talking about my brother slash half-brother, Brett.

I’m there, “Why do you say he was in a fight?”

And she goes, “Oh my God, didn’t you see the bruises on his neck when he came home this morning?”

Seriously, sometimes it’s like she was never young at all. 

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I’m like, “Bray?”

And Sorcha’s there, “Yes, Ross – Bray!”

I’m like, “But why do we have to go to Bray?” sounding like a spoiled child – in other words, one of ours.

irishtimes.com

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So it’s, like, ridiculous o’clock on a Saturday morning – we’re talking nine, ten, something like that – and I hear a ring on the front doorbell, followed, a short time later, by the sound of a woman’s voice going, “Is this the home of Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?”

irishtimes.com

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Sorcha thinks we should maybe check on Honor and there’s an air of definite excitement in her voice when she says it? Yeah, no, it’s the night before the stort of the Leaving Cert and my wife is absolutely determined that this should be one of those mother-daughter moments...

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Sorcha tells me that I need to do something and obviously, I’m like, “Er – as in?”

Yeah, no, Angela – the wife of my brother slash half-brother – has been on the phone from the States and Sorcha is running out of excuses....

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“So this dude here,” Oisinn goes – and he means me, “he tucks the ball under his orm, beats five players and crosses the try-line under the posts. But he doesn’t ground the ball there. No, he puts it down in the corner to make the conversion horder for himself"...

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My daughter is giving the valedictory at the Mount Anville graduation, and there’s a little something in it for everyone

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So – yeah, no – the old dear is in the swimming pool when we rock up to the nursing home, doing her – I don’t know – hydrotherapy exercises? She’s dancing to Shania Twain’s Man! I Feel Like a Woman! while holding a beach ball and she has singlehandedly cured me of my fetish for women in wet swimwear. 

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Brett asks me what she was like when she was younger. I’m like, “Who?” He goes, “Our mother.” And it’s random because I’ve never thought of the old dear ever being – like he said – young.

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So – yeah, no – I grab a stick of Heinemite from the fridge and I ask Sorcha, “Who’s the kid in the bow tie?” The reason I ask is because I don’t trust kids in bow ties. I’m on the record as saying that putting a bow tie on any human being turns him straight away into an insufferable dickhead. We’re talking nightclub bouncers. We’re talking wine waiters. We’re talking clowns.

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Honor is sitting at her computer doing fock knows what? Although I’d be shocked if it was homework. I’m there, “Honor, I need you to brace yourself – for some news.”

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She’s sitting in the window of the, whatever you want to call it, nursing home, playing the piano – badly, I might add – and I get a sudden flashback to my childhood. This is what she did whenever we had, like, visitors coming to the gaff. 

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For, like, 30 seconds, I’m as quiet as Thomond Pork since 2019 and the dude ends up having to repeat himself.

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So it’s, like, Paddy’s Day and me and the goys have arranged to go for our usual walk on Killiney Hill with the kids. They’re already waiting for us in the cor pork – we’re talking JP with little Isa, we’re talking Fionn with Hillary, we’re talking Christian with Ross Junior and Oliver and we’re talking Oisinn with little Paavo.

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Honor says she’s not worried. She says she couldn’t give two focks. But Sorcha’s like, “Well, you’d better give two focks. This is a serious matter. A head girl has never been expelled, Honor – not in the 170-year history of this school.”

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“The fock is this?” I go. Yeah, no, I’m doing the morning school run, crawling up Trees Road in a procession of all-terrain vehicles, like an invading ormy, when Honor hands me a piece of paper. She goes, “It’s, like, my results – from, like, my mocks?

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Conor Hession sits on the terrace, nursing a vodka lorge enough to put a grizzly bear to sleep. He’s like, “She was quite the most conniving, the most calculating, the most manipulative person I’ve ever met. And completely devoid of human feeling, of course.”

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Sorcha rings me and there’s an air of, like, panic in her voice? She goes, “Ross, where are you?” Yeah, no, we’re in Portugal for midterm – along with the rest of south Dublin – and I’m on the road from Quinta do Lago to Vilamoura. Although I don’t tell her that.

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Sorcha goes, “This is exciting, isn’t it, Ross?” because – yeah, no – we’re having dinner in Iguazu, a new hipster restaurant on Camden Street, where there’s no actual menu and an algorithm chooses what you’re going to eat based on the answers you provide to 10 questions when you’re booking.

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Dalisay says she’s in the pool. I’m like, “The pool?” “Yes,” she goes. “Your mother likes to swim every morning. Would you like to see her?” I’m there, “In a way, no? But I suppose that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? So I suppose – yeah, no – lead the way.” I walk with her from the old dear’s private ward to the actual gym.

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The Broken Orms is absolutely packed to the rafters for the engagement porty of Tina, the mother of my firstborn, to Tom, her fireman boyfriend, who famously played 300 matches in the All Ireland League, albeit for Bornhall.

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So – yeah, no – I’m in Dunnes Stores in, like, the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre, grabbing a few bits for Sorcha, who’s making a special dinner tonight. I dump my items on the checkout belt and make a mental note to find out if it’s her birthday, or our wedding anniversary, when all of a sudden I hear an old woman’s voice go, “Mind if I just go ahead of you there, son?”

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Honor walks through the arrivals gate with a face as long as a wet weekend in Knock and I take it as read that the week in St Moritz was a bit of a let-down?

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It would be an understatement to say that Honor was never the most popular girl growing up. As a matter of fact, on the very rare occasions when she was invited to a porty, Sorcha used to sew cubes of pancetta into the hem of her dress so that at least the family’s dog would play with her.

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The old man and Hennessy look a total state in their chef’s uniforms. Yeah, no, they’ve invited us all around to the old pair’s gaff for a New Year’s Eve dinner, a dry run – theirwords – for when the two of them supposedly buy and then reopen Shanahan’s on the Green.

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So I’m, like, standing out on the balcony and – yeah, no – I’m vaping like a crazy person and I’m going, “Remember, goys, your old dear is going to be under a lot of pressure today.”

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The old dear smiles and I end up having to look away. I’m there, “Can you at least put your teeth in?”

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Sorcha says she knows me. She knows me inside-out. But I tell her that the Rossmeister General still has one or two surprises in his locker.

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So – yeah, no – it’s that magical night of the year again when we all sit down as a family and write our letter to Santa Claus. We’ve the Bublé CD on and we’re all wearing our Christmas jumpers.

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Honor is in an absolute fouler when she gets into the cor.

I’m there, “Tough day at school?”

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There’s a Gorda cor bent around a lamppost and people are standing around looking shocked. Who could be responsible for this cornage?

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Sorcha is flirting with the fireman while the focking house is on fire, but there’ll be focking war if she finds out about the fireworks

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So I’m standing with Honor at the junction of Foster Avenue and the N11 and we’re watching people pass us by with agony, I don’t know, etched all over their faces? Yeah, no, JP is running the Dublin City Marathon and I’ve turned up to cheer him on, as well as – obviously – the rest of the field.

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Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara rings me. Which is a rare enough occurrence. On the four, maybe five, occasions it’s happened, it’s been to ask me to retrieve the Go Bag that he insists on storing in our attic and to drive him to Dublin Airport.

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JP says Chloe is writing a novel based on her college days. He’s like, “She’s hoping to do for DBS what Sally Rooney did for Trinity.”

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Sorcha asks if the beef is from a regenerative form and I end up having to look away. Seriously, you can’t bring her anywhere.

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Hennessy, the old man and Honor are sitting around the island, looking as thick as thieves. Which is exactly what they are.

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Driving through the gates of University College Dublin (UCD) brings back one or two memories. Not that I spent much time in the place when I did the Sports Man Dip course back in the day.

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So we’re in Morton’s of Ranelagh, doing the big shop, when we run into Rebecca Leahy, the old dear of Honor’s classmate Diva Leahy. Actually, she and Sorcha both reach for the last punnet of kumquats in the shop and I watch Sorcha’s body shape change to fight mode until Rebecca goes, “Sorcha! How are you? Oh my God, look at you! You must weigh nothing!”

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I‘ve always worried about Honor – from the time she emerged from her mother’s womb and gave a “fock you” look to the midwife who slapped her orse.

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