I don’t want to go. I one-hundred-per-cent do not want to go. But Sorcha’s there, “Ross, we’re going – and that’s that.”
We pull up at a red light near Oatlands College and I go to open the door. But she’s too quick for me and she centrally locks the cor.
She goes, “Ross, he’s your godson.”
Yeah, no, she’s talking about Ross Junior.
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I make no apologies for saying it, Honor. You are a danger to democracy’
I’m there, “But his old dear hates my guts,” which is true – she blames me for breaking up her and Christian. “She’ll already be in a fouler at the thought of me coming. And I am not – repeat, not – eating her mince pies.”
“You have to eat her mince pies,” she goes. “She only makes them for us.”
“Yeah, because you told her you loved them.”
“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“Seriously, who doesn’t know the difference between mincemeat and minced meat?”
“It’s because she doesn’t eat them herself?”
“I know why. I can’t believe nobody has ever said to her.”
“Please don’t tell her, Ross. I don’t want her to know that I’ve been lying to her for all these years.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve arrived in Booterstown. Lauren opens the door. Like I said, she’s already pissed off with me – she just hasn’t figured out why yet?
Lauren takes a tray out of the oven. There’s, like, twenty of the things on it, all piping hot, shepherd’s pie filling spilling out from underneath the tops of two or three of them
She goes, “The boys aren’t here. Their dad has taken them ice-skating.”
I’m there, “Oh, well. Will you give this to Ross Junior?” and I hand her my present and turn to go.
She goes, “What are you, Amazon Prime? Come in. Sorcha, how are you? Merry Christmas.”
Sorcha’s there, “Merry Christmas, Lauren! Oh my God, you look amazing!”
Into the house, then down into the kitchen, we trot.
“What is it?” Lauren goes – giving the present a shake.
I’m there, “You’ll have to wait until the big day,” because I literally haven’t a clue what’s in the box. It was Sorcha who chose it, because whatever I buy the dude, Lauren always has an issue with it. It’s either too plastic, or too violent, or too gender-binary. One year, she accused me of trying to embarrass Santa Claus because my present was too generous. The next year, I was the Grinch because I threw him a five yo-yo gift card for the trampolining centre in Sandyford.
Sorcha goes, “I think he’s got it just right this year, Lauren.”
I’m there, “Right, so – we’ll be off now.”
Lauren goes, “Sit down. I made mince pies.”
Jesus, I can smell them.
I’m there, “I’m not sure how hungry I am, in fairness to me, Lauren.”
She’s like, “I only made them because you were coming.”
Sorcha’s there, “We’ll split one, will we, Ross?”
Lauren takes a tray out of the oven. There’s, like, twenty of the things on it, all piping hot, shepherd’s pie filling spilling out from underneath the tops of two or three of them.
She goes, “You’ll be eating all of these. No one in this house likes them.”
I focking wonder why.
She’s there, “I’ve never tasted mince pies. It’s just the thought of them. Eugh! But I made them that time from a Donal Skehan recipe and it was you, Sorcha, who said you loved them.”
She puts a bowl down in front of each of us with two pies in them, then – I s**t you not – she pours cold custard from a carton all over them. Sorcha stares at hers in horror and I know she can’t do this. For a moment, I think she’s about to throw up.
“Oh my God,” she suddenly goes, hand over her mouth, “I’ve just remembered, I’m a vegetarian.”
Lauren’s there, “Since when? You weren’t a vegetarian in August because I was at your barbecue.”
And Lauren goes, “Yeah, thanks for that, Paul Hollywood. Anyway, I’m glad you’re both here because I wanted to ask you something”
Sorcha goes, “I went veggie just after that. Ross, you can eat mine as well,” and she tips her two pies into my bowl.
Seriously – you think you know someone.
The two of them stare at me while I break the crust with tip of my dessert spoon and shovel a mouthful into me. She’s used fatty mince and I spend, like, 60 seconds chewing this disgusting mixture of hot beef gristle, shortcrust pastry and cold custard.
Lauren’s like, “Well?”
I’m there, “Er, yeah, no, all good,” trying to swallow a stringy bit of meat. “Nice.”
And Lauren goes, “Yeah, thanks for that, Paul Hollywood. Anyway, I’m glad you’re both here because I wanted to ask you something.”
Sorcha’s there, “Ask away, Lauren.”
“Well, as you know,” Lauren goes, “Ross and Oliver have developed this TikTok dance and it’s got thousands of views.”
Sorcha’s like, “Wow!”
“In 2024,” Lauren goes, “they want to do it in all 27 of the EU capitals. So we’re asking people – friends and family mostly – to cover the cost of their flights and hotels. And mine – because obviously they can’t travel on their own.”
She hands Sorcha a piece of paper and goes, “We thought about setting up a crowd-funding page, but then we figured, no, we’d just ask people we know who have money to pick a city each.”
Sorcha gives it the old left to right. She’s like, “Paris... Copenhagen… Rome…” and she’s not happy.
I’m chewing on what feels like a bit of bone and I’m thinking, “This is some bullshit.”
Lauren cops my face. She’s like, “What?”
I’m there, “It’s a lot of moo. You were the one who flipped when I gave him that cheque for Christmas that time.”
She goes, “What was a seven-year-old boy supposed to do with five grand? You totally destroyed his sense of the value of money.”
Sorcha goes, “What Ross means is that it’s a bit much asking us to pay for the three of you to go to Paris for the weekend – just to do a dance.”
That’s when Lauren ends up totally losing her shit. She goes, “I’ll tell you what’s a bit much – being invited to a barbecue and then, as you’re leaving, being presented with a bill for the meat.”
Sorcha’s there, “I just suggested that everyone Revolut me €30 so that I could plant trees to offset our carbon deficit,” but there’s no talking to the girl.
She goes, “Get out – both of you. Some godfather you’ve turned out to be.”
And I decide to just say it so that we never have to go through this charade again. I’m there, “Your pies are absolutely vile.”
She’s like, “Excuse me?”
And I go, “You need to look up the difference between mincemeat and minced meat. Merry focking Christmas.”
