Alice says that was a very interesting reading by me the other morning. She says she’s never heard the story of the Prodigal Son told in that way before.
I’m there, “You mean all the different voices?”
She goes, “The voices, yes – but also the sound effects.”
I’m there, “I wanted to, you know, put a bit of welly into it for the audience. I was a bit of a showman in my rugby days. I think what we’re finding out is that it’s a quality that never really leaves you,” and I give her a big, leathery wink.
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
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?’
She goes, “Maybe next time–”
I’m there, “You want me to just read it straight?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“None taken, Alice. None taken.”
“I think the noise you made when the fatted calf had its throat cut frightened a lot of the children.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I mean, you must have heard them crying.”
“Hey, if they’re not feeling it, they’re not feeling it.”
“I’m just not sure it’s what people want to hear as part of their Sunday service.”
“Hey, you’re the vicar slash reverend slash whatever we’re agreeing to call you.”
She smiles at me. I think our Alice has a bit of a crush on the Rossmeister.
I’m there, “Let’s just be grateful it wasn’t the story of Noah’s Orc – because I can do a very realistic lion. I used to use it to frighten the boys out of the pantry when they were, like, four or five and eating us out of house and home.”
People have this theory about me that I’ve always been, like, a Protestant trapped in a Catholic’s body – if that makes any sense?
— Ross
This is us sitting in the Lemon Tree Bistro in Mount Merrion, by the way, having one of our world-famous chats. I’ve decided that this is the morning when I ask her to sign the form to get the boys into St Adomnán’s, although I’m trying to come up with a subtle way to broach the subject.
I’m there, “Alice, will you have a sconn?” and I say it that exact way as well.
She goes, “A sconn?”
“Er, yeah – something wrong?”
“It’s just your pronunciation of the word sconn. I thought most Irish people said scoan.”
I knocked around with enough Alexandra College girls back in the day to already know this?
I’m there, “I’ve always said sconn. From day one. People have this theory about me that I’ve always been, like, a Protestant trapped in a Catholic’s body – if that makes any sense?”
She laughs. I’m an incredible conversationalist just to give me my due.
She goes, “No, I’m fine for sconns, thank you.”
And I’m there, “So, em, would you mind if we sort of, like, cut to the chase here? If I wanted to get the boys into St Adomnán’s – and this is purely, purely hyperthetical? – would you be prepared to do the necessary for us?” and I make a signing motion with my hand.
“You mean sign a form to say that you and your children are of the Church of Ireland faith?”
“Again, hyperthetical.”
She sips her cappuccino and goes, “If I ask you a question, Ross, will you give me an honest answer?”
I’m there, “You’re a woman of the cloth, Alice. If I can’t be honest with you, then what kind of a person am I?”
“If I sign those forms, will I ever see you or your boys again?”
Highly unlikely, I think to myself.
I’m there, “Of course you will!”
South Dublin is a small place. We can’t hide from her forever – try as we might.
She goes, “So where are they?”
I’m there, “The boys? They’re outside in the cor. And before you say anything, I’ve left the window open a crack like they tell you to do.”
She’s like, “I’m talking about the forms.”
“Oh,” I go, tapping my pockets and making a big show of pretending to have forgotten where I put them, “there they are!”
I whip them out and I put them on the table between us.
She goes, “Do you have a pen?”
I’m there, “Randomly, I do,” and I hand her the pen that I just so happened to put in my pocket before I left the gaff.
She goes, “Okay, let me look at this,” and she storts giving the form the old left to right.
I’m there, “There’s no need to read it, Alice. I wouldn’t put you to the trouble.”
She puts the tip of the pen to the bottom of one of the pages but then she suddenly pauses.
I’m like, “Is something wrong?”
She goes, “How would you feel about making it formal?”
“Formal? Formal in terms of – ?”
“Formal in terms of being baptised.”
“Baptised? As Protestants?”
“Yes, as Protestants.”
“What, all four of us?”
“Yes, all four of you.”
“Is that not a bit, I don’t know, heavy?”
“Not if you and your children believe in the faith.”
“We do – 100 per cent.”
“Then it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“What I mean is, well, is it strictly necessary?”
“For you to attend service every Sunday, no, it’s not necessary at all. People of all faiths can receive Communion in our church. But I just think it would be a nice thing to do – as an expression of your belief.”
I try to say it like it’s not a major deal – like we’re all about to get our teeth polished
I’m there, “So, like, what does being baptised as a Protestant actually involve?”
She goes, “You have to drink the blood of a Sussex chicken on Dalkey Island under a gibbous moon.”
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
“Ross,” she goes, “I’m joking.”
I’m there, “About us being baptised?”
She goes, “No, I’m serious about that,” and she pushes the forms back across the table at me, unsigned.
I’m there, “So, like, when? As in, when could you fit us in?”
She goes, “I can do it now if you like?”
I’m like, “Now?” and I can hear the concern in my voice.
“You said the boys were outside.”
“Er, they are?”
“So I’ll see you in the church in, what, 20 minutes?”
I tip outside and I get into the cor. The boys ask me if we can hit Herbert Pork now to fling the old Gilbert around.
I’m there, “Sure – right after we all get baptised as Protestants,” and I try to say it like it’s not a major deal – like we’re all about to get our teeth polished. “Obviously, don’t tell your old dear.”
Then Leo makes this, like, noise with his mouth.
I’m there, “What was that?”
And he goes, “That was the sound of mom cutting your throat.”
