So it’s, like, Paddy’s Day and me and the goys have arranged to go for our usual walk on Killiney Hill with the kids.
They’re already waiting for us in the cor pork – we’re talking JP with little Isa, we’re talking Fionn with Hillary, we’re talking Christian with Ross Junior and Oliver and we’re talking Oisinn with little Paavo.
I open the back door of the X5 and Brian, Johnny and Leo spill out of it like lava. Brian runs straight for Ross Junior and grabs him in a headlock – his way of saying hello – while Leo trips up Oliver and Johnny pins Isa to the ground and tries to spit in his mouth.
“No offence, Ross,” Christian goes, “but I despise your children.”
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘I hate my children too. Like, how could three kids of mine turn out to be such dicks?’
Most schools fear Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara like they would a typhoid outbreak
I’m there to Honor, ‘You’ve never been good at school. I always thought you took after me’
‘I haven’t come here today to listen to you badmouth my mother – the axe-faced old trout’
I’m there, “Yeah, no, none taken. I hate them too. Makes you wonder about the whole genetics thing, doesn’t it? Like, how could three kids of mine turn out to be such dicks? I’m still convinced that it’s a lottery.”
No one says anything. It’s probably too deep for eleven o’clock on a bank holiday Monday. I can’t control how my mind works.
Oisinn goes, “Twenty-six years ago today, goys!” and none of us needs to even ask him what he’s talking about.
Yeah, no, it’s 26 years to the day since I lifted the famous soup tureen at Lansdowne Road, on a day when great things were predicted for me, even though the people who predicted them turned out to be full of shit.
Christian’s there, “Where did you goys watch the Italy match?” because he never goes out with us since him and Lauren got back together again.
I’m like, “The usual Bridge.”
JP goes, “You should have seen Ross. He was still taking notes in his tactics book half an hour after the final whistle.”
I’m there, “I filled eight pages. I photographed them and WhatsApped them to Simon Easterby. Nothing back. Not even a thank-you.”
Fionn goes, “What a loss to Irish rugby your mind was, Ross.”
I don’t know whether he’s serious or ripping the piss, so I just go, “I’m going to take that as a compliment. So, Oisinn, how are things down in Brittas?”
What? It was the Lord’s will that you sold thousands of young couples into a life of mortgage slavery for a three-hour daily commute to Portlaoise?
Yeah, no, him and Magnus have bought Gerald Kean’s old gaff and they’re operating an in-patient facility to help redundant fintech employees struggling to transition back to a world without ergonomic think spaces and daylong town halls to discuss lunch options for workers with a soy intolerance.
“They’re coming at us from every angle,” he goes. “Facebook. Dell. Twitter. Accenture. We’re turning away a hundred people a week. God knows what the demand is going to be like if Trump has his way and storts bringing jobs back to America.”
I’m there, “I’m tempted to say fair focks.”
Fionn looks over his shoulder and goes, “Er, Ross, where are your children?” because – yeah, no – all of the kids are following behind us except Brian, Johnny and Leo.
I’m there, “Who cares? I’m probably better off not knowing?”
Christian goes, “And what about you, JP? How are the studies going?” because the dude has gone back to finish studying for the priesthood after giving it up, like, 20 years ago to manage Hook, Lyon and Sinker.
JP’s like, “It’s going well. Although I don’t regret the years in between. It was the Lord’s will.”
“What,” I go, “that you sold thousands of young couples into a life of mortgage slavery for a three-hour daily commute to Portlaoise?”
He decides to let this go. I suppose forgiveness is the game he’s in now?
You’re getting married again? To Lauren? Then you’re a focking idiot. An absolute mug. And don’t ask me to be your best man this time
“Well,” Christian goes, “I hope when you’re finally ordained, I can ask you for a favour.”
JP’s like, “Yeah, no, sure – what?”
And Christian’s there, “I was going to ask you would you celebrate Mass – when Lauren and I get married again?”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
JP’s there, “Well, the Catholic church doesn’t actually recognise divorce, so in our eyes you’re still married. But I’d be happy to bless your marriage. Or if you wanted to renew your vows–”
I’m like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You’re getting married again? To Lauren?”
Christian’s there, “Yes, Ross, to Lauren.”
I go, “Then you’re a focking idiot,” totally forgetting that their two kids are standing there. “An absolute mug. And don’t ask me to be your best man this time.”
He’s like, “I had no intention of it.”
I’m there, “You’re making a major, major mistake.”
I turn to go back to the cor and I hear him go, “As if you’re in a position to lecture anyone on marriage – or fatherhood. Doesn’t even know where his kids are.”
I walk back to the cor pork and – two fingers to Christian here – I end up finding them straight away. They basically haven’t moved from where I saw them last. The three of them are rolling around on the ground, absolutely killing each other.
I get into the cor and I stort her up. They can make their own way home. I’m just about to put it into drive when all of a sudden my phone rings? It’s a call from, like, an unknown number.
[ Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘Why do you want to go disinterring the past, Ross?’Opens in new window ]
I answer it. Naturally enough, I’m like, “Who the fock is this? Who rings anyone in this day and age?”
A voice on the end of the line goes, “Is that Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?”
It’s a dude with, like, an American accent.
I’m there, “Is that you, Zebo?” because – friend or no friend – he’s an absolute focker when it comes to practical jokes.
He goes, “Zebo? Who’s Zebo?” and I suddenly realise that it’s not him? “Ross, my name is Brett Tucker.”
I’m like, “Brett Tucker? I don’t know anyone called Brett Tucker. Is this Conor Murray?” because the dude does a very good American accent. He’s caught me out three or four times pretending that he works for the US Eagles and he wants me to go and work in the States. I actually booked a flight once.
Right at that moment, Brian and Johnny pick Leo up and body-slam him down on to the bonnet of the X5.
I’m like, “Watch his focking glasses! I’m not Sellotaping them together again!”
And that’s when the dude on the other end of the line goes, “I was talking to Conor. My father. Ross, I’m your brother.”
