After less than 60 seconds of this, she stops and goes, ‘I’m ringing Ronan’
I haven’t seen Honor look this angry since the time she spear-tackled a woman who tried to cheat her out of first place in the sack race at the Castle Pork Dalkey Open Sports Day.
She’s like, “What ... the ... fock?”
I’m there, “This is your punishment, Honor – for slashing all those people’s cor tyres?”
She’s goes, “Manual focking labour?”
‘When they see the copper, the triplets think it’s about them gobbing on the cauliflower and turmeric latte crowd - which I’m not even sure is a crime’
‘We’ve no idea what caused the fire. And we’re sticking to that story’
‘People in the crowd are staring at Honor like she’s a cold sore on debs night’
‘The thought of booking a table for one at Shanahan’s on the Green got me through my prison sentence’
Yeah, no, it’s, like, Saturday morning and she’s standing outside what was once Kielys of Donnybrook, in a chorcoal grey – literally – boilersuit with an orange, high-viz gilet over it.
I’m there, “Honor, what exactly did you think community service was going to involve?”
She goes, “I honestly thought you’d pay someone to do it for me – which is what you would do if you were any kind of father.”
“I’d hire a whole team of people to do it for you, Honor – except, bear in mind, you have a supervisor?”
Yeah, no, we’re on our way to see him now.
There’s, like, three pieces of graffiti on the outside of the stadium. Instinctively, Honor goes for the smallest one – yeah, no, someone has spray-painted, “Fock off Michaels” in letters three-feet high
Honor has been told to report for duty to the little cor pork opposite Energia Pork. When we arrive, there’s a gaggle of people of various ages standing next to this, like, white van and they’re being given their instructions. A dude – presumably the supervisor – is handing out litter pickers to some and dog poop bags to others and he’s going, “You do Eglinton Road to Belmont Avenue – both sides of the street. You, Marlborough Road to Appian Way – again, both sides.”
Honor’s like, “If you think I’m picking up other people’s shit, you’re dreaming.”
She knows how to make a first impression.
The dude goes, “Name?”
And she’s like, “Er, Honor? O’Carroll-Kelly? And I mean it – I’d rather go to prison than collect litter or pick up after a dog.”
That’s when he hands her a packet of what look very much to me like Flash Wipes and goes, “There you are.”
“The fock am I supposed to do with these?” she goes.
He’s like, “Clean the graffiti off the outside of the stadium there.”
Of course, I’m the proud dad all of a sudden. I’m there, “Oh my God, Honor! That’s the stadium where your old man became a schools rugby legend!”
She goes, “This is so unfair!” as we’re crossing the road.
I’m there, “Life is unfair, Honor.”
“What, even for people like us?”
“Occasionally, yes.”
“Well, I don’t remember getting that memo.”
You’re technically working for Leinster Rugby here. If we win the European Cup this year, you can say you played your port
— Ross
There’s, like, three pieces of graffiti on the outside of the stadium. Instinctively, Honor goes for the smallest one – yeah, no, someone has spray-painted, “Fock off Michaels” in letters three-feet high.
I have a little chuckle to myself. I’m there, “That’ll have been someone who’s Rock or ex-Rock – that’d be typical of their sense of humour. Or Gonzaga, who hate them just as much. Or Terenure, who hate everyone.”
Honor is just staring at the wall with a single Flash Wipe in her hand.
I’m there, “Are you honestly waiting for me to show you how to use that thing?”
She sighs, then gets to work, rubbing at the letters with a dainty, circular motion, like she’s applying foundation to the face of an elderly loved one.
She goes, “It’s not coming off.”
I’m there, “You’ve only been doing it for, like, five seconds.”
“How long are you supposed to do it for?”
“Honor, the world of cleaning is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”
So she keeps going. But then after what feels like 60 seconds, but is probably less, the graffiti still isn’t budging, so she stops and whips out her phone.
She goes, “I’m ringing Ronan.”
All I end up hearing of the conversation is obviously her side? She’s like, “Ro, do you know how to clean graffiti off a wall? ... Energia Pork ... It’s some, like, rugby stadium in Donnybrook ... Okay, see you then.”
She hangs up and goes, “He’s on his way,” and half an hour later he arrives on the scene with a piece of – let’s just say – equipment, which he introduces to us as a sandblaster.
He goes, “Me mate Buckets of Blood invested in it arthur the rumour went round that it was him what ratted out Scrote Kerby and Larry the Lifer. Thee writ all sorts of slanderous allegations in the fruddent of he’s ma’s gaff.”
Honor’s like, “How does it work, Ro?”
“It’s veddy like a power-washer – except instead of wather, it directs a high-vedocity blast of saddend at the wall to loosen the bond between the paint and the concrete soorface.”
“Cool,” Honor goes. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in Caffè Nero if you need me.”
Ronan’s there, “You widdle in your boddicks leave me to it. This is your pudishment, Hodor. Mon, I’ll show you how to use it.”
What if someone from school sees me? It’ll be all over Mount Anville in, like, five minutes
— Honor
Which is what he ends up doing? He directs a blast of sand at the wall and – yeah, no – the paint storts to magically disappear. Then he hands the contraption to Honor and she copies him.
I can’t help but smile to myself. I’m there, “I’m proud of you, Honor. I mean, you’re technically working for Leinster Rugby here. If we win the European Cup this year, you can say you played your port.”
Ronan’s there, “She cubbing off like a thream, Hodor. Cubbing off like a thream.”
Honor goes, “What if someone from school sees me? It’ll be all over Mount Anville in, like, five minutes.”
I’m there, “You worry too much about what other people – ” and I suddenly stop because – Jesus, no – I spot Leo Cullen walking towards us from the direction of Anglesea Bridge.
Fock, I think, because I’m still hoping to play some future role in the Leinster coaching set-up, having recently applied for two jobs. What would Leo think if he saw my daughter being forced under the terms of a court order to clean graffiti off the stadium wall? Worse, what if Leo’s was one of SUVs whose tyres she slashed?
Honor stops blasting.
“The fock are you doing?” she goes.
I’m there, “What do you mean?”
“You’ve just put on your sunglasses.”
“Yeah, no, I’m worried about getting sand in my eyes.”
“And now you’re standing with your back to me.”
She looks over her shoulder. She knows Leo Cullen well. She grew up watching the 2011 Heineken Cup final with me.
“Oh my God,” she goes, “you’re actually ashamed of me!”
But by that time – I have to admit it – I’ve already crossed to the other side of the road.
