Sorcha asks me if I’m ready and I tell her – yeah, no – I think so? I’ve got my Rugby Tactics Book on the coffee table, twenty-four sticks of Heinemite in the fridge and I’ve aired out my Cantos with the loose elastic in which I do all of my best thinking.
Sorcha’s there, “I’m not talking about the rugby, Ross. I’m talking about Noah’s graduation.”
I’m like, “Noah? Who the fock is Noah?”
“Er, my godchild? As in, like, Amie with an ie’s son?”
Cutting off family members: ‘It had never occurred to me that you could grieve somebody who was still alive’
The bird-shaped obsession that drives James Crombie, one of Ireland’s best sports photographers
The Dublin riots, one year on: ‘I know what happened doesn’t represent Irish people’
The week in US politics: Gaetz fiasco shows Trump he won’t get everything his way
“What, he’s graduating? God, it only seems like five years ago that he was born.”
“It was five years ago that he was born. He’s graduating from creche.”
“What, that’s, like, a thing now?”
“Yes, Ross, it’s a thing now – and I’ve been asked to make the keynote speech. So go and put a pair of trousers on.”
I’m there, “Sorcha, I haven’t even picked my fantasy XV for the first Test against–”
But I don’t get a chance to even finish my sentence because she lets a roar at me. She’s like, “Oh my God, can you just do what you’re told for once in your life without there having to be a debate about it?” and then off out the door she focks.
I throw on a pair of chinos and follow her outside. She’s already sitting behind the wheel of her Nissan Leaf with the engine ticking over. It’s only as we’re about to drive through the gates that I happen to look to my left and I notice the source of Sorcha’s – I’m just going to come out and say the word – tension?
There’s a wooden post that’s been hammered into our front lawn and there’s, like, a sign on it, announcing that Sorcha Lalor and Ross O’Carroll-Kelly are seeking planning permission to demolish their gaff and build in its place a block of 32 aportments.
I’m there, “I totally forgot – today’s the day the sign went up. The word will be all over Killiney and Dalkey by now.”
She goes, “Ross, I don’t care what the people of Killiney and Dalkey think,” but she says it with the same conviction as me when I say that I’m delighted for Ronan O’Gara’s success at La Rochelle.
I’m like, “Sure, Sorcha – sure!”
Two minutes later, we pull up outside Little Princeton. Sorcha adjusts the rear-view mirror to check her lippy, then she throws open the door.
Into the creche we go. There’s, like, 40 or 50 proud moms and dads there, along with maybe 30 boys and girls wearing – I shit you not – long, black gowns and mortarboards. When we walk in, there’s a sudden change in the atmos – as in, every conversation in the place stops and everyone is suddenly looking our way.
Oh, they know about the sign all right. Sorcha looks around nervously.
“I wonder is there a green room?” Sorcha goes.
A focking green room. She thinks she’s playing Glastonbury.
All of a sudden, Amie with an ie tips over, with little Noah, and a woman who introduces herself as Penny, the principal of Little Princeton.
She goes, “Thank you for agreeing to do this, Senator Lalor.”
And Sorcha’s like, “Oh my God, thank end for asking me.”
“Right,” the woman goes, “I’ll get the graduates and their parents seated and then I’ll introduce you.”
Graduates. Look, I’m not saying that south Dublin parents overpraise their kids, but if we’re dishing out degrees to kids at this age, it’s no wonder some of us never stopped wetting the toilet seat.
“Graduates of the class of 2022,” this Penny one goes, “and ladies and gentlemen, we are very honoured to have as our keynote speaker today one of our most successful alumnae. She is a member of Seanad Éireann as well as a highly successful former businesswoman. Sorcha Lalor!”
There’s, like, a polite smattering of applause. You can see the parents saying shit to each other out of the corner of their mouths.
Sorcha walks up to the top of the room and clears her throat. She goes, “When I see you all sitting before me here today, it’s like, Oh! My God!”
It’s a strong stort. No one can say she doesn’t know her audience.
“It seems like no time since I was sitting where you’re sitting,” she goes. “Today is a landmork day in your young lives. After years of hordship, struggle and perseverance, today is the day when you can truly say that you have met the challenges laid down for you and now you can feel fully justified in savouring the fruits of your labours.”
The parents are all, like, looking at each other – it’s heavy shit.
Then she goes, “You are about to embork on the next phase of your education. But education isn’t something that ends when our schooling ends. We are, all of us, always, always learning. Which is why it’s important to always keep an open mind. It’s important to see things from different perspectives, to think outside the box and to challenge old ways of thinking.”
Holy shit, she’s not even talking to the kids any more.
She goes, “As a species, humans are facing a unique set of challenges in the world today. The overpopulation of this planet that we call Earth has placed enormous pressure on humankind in terms of, like, resources – and it’s our responsibility to come up with practical solutions to make less do more. One of the biggest problems in our society is obviously homelessness. Some of us may have to consider giving up our big houses so that we can accommodate more people on the land.”
Yeah, no, she carries on talking like this for a good 15 minutes. At the end, literally no one claps and there’s more than a few mutters of, “The focking nerve of her – to use our children’s graduation like that.”
Half an hour later, we’re in the cor on the way home and Sorcha goes, “Ross, do you think the adults present got the subtle message for them in my speech?”
And I’m like, “If I got it, Sorcha, there’s a good chance they did.”
She goes, “You know what, Ross? I’m not worried any more. I actually think the people around here will come to understand why we’re doing what we’re doing.”
But then, as we turn into the driveway, we’re greeted by a sight that chills us both to the bone. The sign on our front lawn… is on fire.
