A lot of things have been said – and possibly written, for all I know – about the influence of television on the minds of, like, impressionable children? Yet no one ever talks about the effect it can have on impressionable adults. My old man is a classic example. For the past three weeks, he's been talking in a sort of, like, low growl, like Aidan Gillen in Charlie, while Hennessy, I've noticed, has storted holding his cigors with his wrist all limp, and also quipping a lot, like Haughey's Tom Vaughan Lawlor sidekick.
“Helllooo, Kiiicker,” the old man goes when I open the door. “I’d like to ssspeeeak with Sssorcha, if I maaay.”
And Hennessy goes, “As the good book says, he who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command!”
I’m like, “They should have stuck a warning on that programme for people like you two.”
They step past me into the hallway.
The other thing I notice, by the way, is that Kennet – as in, Shadden’s old man? – is out of prison and has apparently found permanent employment as my old man’s driver.
He’s there, “Awreet, Rosser?” as he’s porking the Jag. “Stordee, Bud?”
I just roll my eyes and follow the old man and Hennessy down to the kitchen.
Sorcha's been up since, like, five o'clock this morning, waiting for the latest opinion poll results, which put New Republic at just under one percent of the national vote. Now, I'm not a numbers person, but that doesn't sound good and now Sorcha is terrified that she's going to be – this is possibly not even a word – but deselected?
“You’ve ssseeen it thennn?” the old man goes to her. “Naturally, we’re aaallll disappointed. I’m not goooing to – quooote-unquooote – sugar-coooat it for you, Sssorcha. You. In particular are faaailing to get our messaaage acrossssss.”
“That’s because we don’t have a message,” she tries to go. “Just like we don’t have any policies. Or views on anything.”
“Well, then, you’re faaailing to get our laaack of message acrossssss. Eeeither waaay, the common people of Iiireland aaaren’t connecting with you. Heeennessy, give her the daaata.”
Hennessy goes, "We've done our own private polling research. And, like Charlie said, you don't come out of it well. From the soundings we've taken, the voters of Dublin Bay South are 14 times more likely to vote for Lucinda Creighton than for you."
This comes as a genuine shock to Sorcha. She lets loose more than one Oh! My God! and then goes, “But I can turn it around! I was actually bottom of the poll two weeks before the vote for Head Girl in Mount Anville.”
“And that,” Hennessy goes, flicking his wrist and sending cigor ash everywhere, “is the problem.”
"Excuse me?"
“Why do you feel the need to keeping telling people you went to that school?”
“There’s nothing wrong with going to an amazing, amazing school, Hennessy.”
“The feedback we’re getting is that you come across as a snob. People think you’re elitist and they think you’re smug.”
"There's nothing elitist or smug about Mount Anville! Oh my God, Mary Robinson went there!"
There’s, like, 10 seconds of total silence. It’s a real ‘So – do you like hobbies?’ moment.
“The poooint that Heeennessy is trying to maaake,” the old man goes, “is that impreeesions are impooortant. The peeeople out there, they don’t knooow you like Iii knooow you – briiight, haaard-wooorking, aaable – but unfooortunately we live in a democracy and theeese peeeople get to pass judgment on you at the ballot box.”
Sorcha's there, "All I'm being is, like, myself? "
“Well, what my Special Adviiiser with Reponsibility for Public Enliiightenment and Iii are suggesting is that you try to beee someone else.”
“Someone else?”
"Sssorcha, have you ever ssseen the picture, Myyy Faaair Laaady?"
"Oh my God, loads of times. I actually did Pygmalion with the Rathmines and Rathgor Musical Society when I was in, like, college?"
“Okay,” Hennessy goes, “you are never, ever to say that sentence again. If that gets out, politically, you are dead in the water.”
The old man goes, “Aaas you knooow, Sssorcha, it’s the ssstooory of a dooown-at-heeel flower giiirl who is taaaught to speeeak and aaact like a member of the aristooocracy. Well, what weee want to dooo with yooou … is the exact reveeerse of thaaat.”
"Except you're not Eliza Doolittle, " Hennessy goes. "You're Eliza Saylittle. In fact, you're Eliza Sayfockall. And we want you to say fock-all in an accent that appeals to more than just the female members of tennis clubs in the Ballsbridge and Clonskeagh areas."
Sorcha looks at me, then back at Hennessy. She’s like, “You’re asking me to change the way I speak?”
“I’m asking you to turn it up a few postcodes, yes.”
“You, seeeeee, we’ve done our nuuumbers,” the old man goes. “And we’re ready to conceeede areas like Dooonybrook and Rathgooor to the Admirable Creighton. There are mooore than enough voootes for you to beeeat her if you can take Haaarold’s Cross, Iiirishtown and the Kimmage Roooad …”
I’ve never heard of any of those places. I suspect Sorcha hasn’t either, judging from her reaction. Her face turns literally white.
The old man’s there, “To say nothing of Terenuuure, of course.”
“Terenure?” Sorcha goes, genuine fear in her face. “What would I have to say to someone from Terenure? I know nothing of their struggles.”
“It’s not what you saaay, remember – it’s the way that you saaay it.”
"I don't know about this, Chorles. I'm just trying to imagine what Miss Borker, my old speech and deportment teacher, would say if she heard me speaking to be understood in Terenure."
“Indulge us,” Hennessy goes. “Never was anything great achieved … without danger.”
Sorcha puts her hand to her forehead. It’s difficult for her. There’s no question about that.
“So if I agree to be your Eliza Doolittle,” she goes, “who is my Henry Higgins?”
And it’s at that point that the famous Kennet, having porked the cor, suddenly sticks his head around the kitchen door and goes, “Howiya, Sudeka? How’s the fordum? You’re lookin well!”