“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, Bray of all places?
I’m there, “Yeah, no, I don’t need permission to walk into my childhood home – thanks all the same.”
Sorcha shoots me a sideways look to remind me to be nice – which I never said I would be, can I just point out?
I have zero interest in her in that way – is it weird that I want to spend time with this girl?
‘There’s nothing wrong with Bray, Ross,’ the old man says. Literally. Word for word
‘Sorcha, I don’t need ChatGPT to tell me how to talk to my daughter and the girl she’s seeing’
‘Potatoes au gratin? My old dear used to say they’re for people with money but no class’
“Let me take your coats,” the woman goes. “Yours as well, Honor. Don’t worry, I can take all three. Oh! As the actress said to the bishop!” and then that honking laugh of hers, like a donkey trying to pass a laundry ball through its urinary tract.
She hangs up our coats and we follow her down to the diningroom. I can smell my old dear’s scent. Sexual Frustration by Christian Dior.
I’m there, “I see you’ve been at the old dear’s perfume.”
And she goes, “Your father said I could have a squirt or two. Oh! As the actress said–”
I end up cutting her off. I’m like, “That’s not even one. And, by the way, there are children present,” meaning Brian, Johnny and Leo, even though they swear like the 3am bus to Clongriffin.
Into the diningroom we go and my Easter Sunday is straight away ruined. Claire from Bray of all places and her so-called husband Garret are already seated at the table. My old man is at one end and – yeah, no – he’s at the other, in my spot, telling my old man that you can visit a hundred countries but you haven’t actually travelled unless you’ve immersed yourself, truly immersed yourself, in the local culture.
He’s the kind of knob-end that other knob-ends call their guru.
“Still dining out on that three-month trip you did around Southeast Asia in 2003?” I go.
He has no answer to that, so instead he looks at the crest on my Leinster jersey and sort of, like, smirks to himself.
Sorcha does the whole air-kissing thing for both of us. I sit down at the table and the old man asks me how I’m feeling about the game today.
I’m there, “I’ve analysed it and I honestly think we’ll have too much in the tank for Edinburgh.”
The old man goes, ‘Bernie thought it would be a good idea to get rid of the sports channels. Well, we hordly get time to watch them – what with all her famous soap operas!’
And the old man goes, “Straight from the horse’s mouth, ladies and gentlemen! Quote-unquote!”
I’m like, “What’s for dinner?” because I could eat the legs off a low-flying seagull.
The old man goes, “Olenka,” meaning the new housemaid, “has done a leg of lamb with all the – inverted commas – trimmings!”
Claire is like, “Will there be potatoes au gratin?” because that’s what passes for fine dining on that side of the Dorgle.
I’m there, “Not in this house. My old dear used to say they’re for people with money but no class.”
The old man goes, “I, em, said we might allow it this year, Ross, on account of it being, well, Bernie’s favourite thing to eat.”
And then Olenka walks in with a humungous dish of – like she said – potatoes au gratin. I make a big point of not touching it, mainly out of respect to my old dear’s memory, the drunken trout. But Sorcha lets me down in a big-time way, horsing into it after Bernie, Claire and Garret have all filled their boots.
Honor doesn’t go near it – she’s a real daddy’s girl – and then just as we’re all picking up our knives and forks, she raises her glass and goes, “Can I propose a toast – to Fionnuala?”
And I’m like, “Yes! Well said, Honor!” and I make sure to give Bernie the full eye-contact.
Honor goes, “This was always her favourite time of the year. To Fionnuala.”
We’re all like, “To Fionnuala,” except for Garret, who doesn’t bother, and I am this close to shoving his face into his cheesy potatoes when I suddenly spot something that makes me spit my Heineken across the table, all over Claire.
[ Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: We’re driving through Donnybrook and Sorcha shouts ‘Stop!’Opens in new window ]
There are – quite literally – net curtains on the diningroom window.
I’m like, “What the fock?”
The old man’s there, “Oh, do you like them, Kicker? Bernie hung them.”
“They add character to a house,” the woman tries to go.
I’m there, “Maybe in Ordmore focking Pork they do,” and I look at my old man, wondering why do I have to be the one to say it? “Can I just remind you what my old dear said about net curtains?”
The old man’s like, “Your mother’s not here any more, Ross,” and this, like, silence – I’m guessing it’s a word – descends on the table?
I’m like, “What the fock has happened to you?”
He’s there, “I’m not quite sure I follow you, Ross.”
I’m like, “Gratin potatoes? Net curtains? The old dear will be turning in her grave.”
He goes, “She was cremated, Ross. Her ashes are in the sideboard there.”
I’m like, “I was talking, I don’t know, metaphor –? Whoa, back up the hord drive there – what do you mean her ashes are in the sideboard? They were on the mantelpiece.”
The old man goes, “Yes, Bernie thought it was rather morbid having them out on public display like that.”
I give Bernie a serious filthy and then I’m like, “Who the fock are you to decide that? You met the dude on Tinder, what, six months ago?”
[ ‘The woman is as C as M – as my old dear used to say. Common as muck’Opens in new window ]
The old man goes, “Bernie has moved in, Ross!”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
And he’s there, “That’s why I invited you all here today – to share the news! Bernie and I are now vivre en concubinage!”
“Oh!” Bernie goes. “As the actress said to the bishop!”
Sorcha’s like, “Oh my God, I’m so pleased for you both,” because she’s always been a crawler where my old man is concerned.
I’m there, “Okay, I’m going to watch the pre-match chat,” and I throw my napkin on the table and stand up.
The old man goes, “Not here, you won’t, Kicker. You see, Bernie thought it would be a good idea to get rid of the sports channels. Well, we hordly get time to watch them – what with all her famous soap operas!”
Soap operas end up being the final insult.
I’m there, “I’m going to The Bridge. Actually, correction, we’re going to The Bridge,” and I throw open the sideboard and grab the urn containing my old dear’s ashes. Jamie will put them behind the bor for me.
I’m like, “Anyone with me?”
And Honor – the only other person at this table with any sense – goes, “Yeah. Me.”
