I walk into the kitchen to find the old man sitting at the island, reading The Irish Times in his famous brown dressing gown with the split up the front. It’s a sight that leaves nothing to the imagination, especially when he uncrosses his legs Sharon Stone-style – it’s like three baby potatoes resting on the good, brushed velvet.
"Jesus Christ, " I go, "will you put some underpants on?"
He’s like, “Sorry, Ross, I’m just out of the shower.”
"Well, you're not in the locker-room in Riverview now. You're a guest in our home. And as long as you're living under my roof, you'll wear underpants."
He laughs to himself.
He’s like, “Righty-ho, Ross!”
“Speaking of which,” I go, “when are you ringing the old dear?”
“Your mother?”
“Yeah, it’s been nearly two weeks. You’ve proved your point. Why don’t you two just get back together again?”
"Because I need time and space to decide whether I want to spend the rest of my life with Fionnuala."
“The rest of your life? You’re 72!”
“Seventy-two isn’t old, Kicker.”
“It’s too old for this kind of carry-on. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I actually feel sorry for the woman. I mean, you’re nobody’s borgain – either of you – but I’m imagining her crying herself to sleep every night.”
My phone suddenly rings. I answer it. It ends up being JP.
“Dude,” he goes, his voice sounding all, like, solemn, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
I’m like, “What is it?”
“Your mother is on Tinder.”
“She’s what?”
“Seriously. I was fluting around on it and her profile popped up as a potential match. Believe it or not, I nearly swiped right.”
"Do not swipe right!"
"I said I nearly did? It's a very good picture, in fairness to her – and she has her age down as 58."
I’m there, “Thanks for letting me know, dude.”
I hang up on him.
The old man looks up from his Irish Times. He goes, “Is everything okay, Ross?”
I'm like, "The old dear is on Tinder. It's a dating slash casual sex app?"
He takes this news surprisingly well.
He goes, “There’s nothing wrong with that, Ross. Like I said, 72 isn’t old.”
I’m like, “Why is she pretending to be 58 then?”
Your grandmother's on Tinder, Honor. I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you
“The point I’m trying to make is that your mother is still a very sexual person. She has needs that must be satisfied on a biweekly basis.”
“I’m going to have to leave this conversation before I vomit on the floor.”
I walk out of the kitchen and I end up running into Honor in the hallway.
I’m there, “Your granddad’s just had a shower. Don’t look at him front-on.”
She goes, "I won't. What the fock is wrong with you, by the way? And, bear in mind, I'm only pretending to care?"
“Your grandmother’s on Tinder, Honor. I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you.”
“I know she’s on Tinder. I helped her set up her account.”
“You did what?”
Honor just shrugs like it’s no big deal.
She goes, "She said she wanted to go back dating again. She had this picture of herself from, like, the olden days? She got me to make it her profile pic. It was kind of hillair!"
I just shake my head. I must be the only person in the world who watches Succession and thinks, 'Why can't we be a normal family like them?'
“Where are you going?” Honor goes, as I step past her in the direction of the front door.
I’m there, “I’m going to see your grandmother. And remember, only look at your granddad from the side, okay?”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the old dear’s driveway, then letting myself into her gaff. I don’t even bother closing the front door. Down to the kitchen I storm. She’s standing over the hob, making one of her red onion, pesto and goat’s cheese breakfast frittatas. Angry as I am, I’ll probably eat some, just so as not to hurt her feelings.
I’m there, “You’re a disgrace.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. She’s like, “Oh, good morning, Ross – we were just about to eat.”
I’m there, “Fifty-eight?”
“I beg your pordon?”
"That's what you have your age down as – on, like, Tinder. I don't mind you shaving a decade or two off your life. What I do object to is you dragging my daughter into your. . . Hang on, what do you mean when you say we were about to eat?"
And that's when it happens. A dude walks into the kitchen. I swear to God, he's, like, my age?
Futures are a way of profiting from the short-term price movements and trends of securities without actually owning the underlying asset
He’s there, “Oh, hi,” obviously surprised to find another man in the house. Then he looks at the old dear and goes, “Sorry, who’s this dude?”
The old dear goes, “Oh, this is my son – Ross.”
He’s like, “You never mentioned that you had a son.”
You can imagine how much that ends up hurting.
She goes, “Well, I don’t remember us doing a lot of talking! Ross, this is, em – I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“It’s Ben,” the dude goes, sticking out his hand to me.
I’m like, “No thanks. I don’t know where that’s been.”
The old dear goes, “Ben is in futures, Ross. Explain to him what it is you do, Ben.”
“Well,” the dude goes – and he clearly fancies himself, “futures are a way of profiting from the short-term price movements and trends of securities without actually owning the underlying asset. Hey, do I know you?”
“No.”
“I think we might have played Senior Cup the same year. I was in Mary’s. Were you, by any chance, in Castlerock?”
I don’t even answer him. I turn to the old dear and I go, “Yeah, he’s in futures alright. And he’s banking on you not having one.”
She’s like, “I beg your pordon?”
“He’s a gold digger, you idiot!”
Poor Ben doesn’t even get to say a word in his own defence. I tackle him around the waist – as in, I lift him up and I literally carry him up the hallway, then out through the open front door and I dump him on to his back on the gravel driveway.
It takes no effort at all. And I’m delighted with my porting line to him.
“Mary’s?” I go. “Yeah, I can see that, alright.”
